Wednesday, December 12, 2007
More load shedding
The first blackout was kind of funny and cute. The second one wasn't. Seven years of this??? No thanks.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Load shedding
Today I had my first experience with what South Africans call "load shedding." The electricity system in South Africa was only designed to support 10% of the population (i.e. the whites). As a result of this and extreme weather conditions, the country experiences intermittent blackouts.
At 10am this morning, all the power went out in our office. Most people expected it, because the state's energy company, Eskom, had issued warnings over the past few days. But no one knew exactly when it would come.
This was a "planned" blackout. Others are unplanned. The other day I was watching SABC news, and a little message ran across the bottom of the screen that said everyone should cut down on their energy use for the next few hours to avoid a blackout. Luckily I got the message in time, and I turned off one of the two lights in my bedroom. Crisis averted!
Eskom said that load shedding will be around for at least the next five to seven years.
Today's blackout only lasted about three hours. It gave me an opportunity to leave work and go grocery shopping in the dark!
At 10am this morning, all the power went out in our office. Most people expected it, because the state's energy company, Eskom, had issued warnings over the past few days. But no one knew exactly when it would come.
This was a "planned" blackout. Others are unplanned. The other day I was watching SABC news, and a little message ran across the bottom of the screen that said everyone should cut down on their energy use for the next few hours to avoid a blackout. Luckily I got the message in time, and I turned off one of the two lights in my bedroom. Crisis averted!
Eskom said that load shedding will be around for at least the next five to seven years.
Today's blackout only lasted about three hours. It gave me an opportunity to leave work and go grocery shopping in the dark!
Cullinan diamond mine
I went on a tour of it Sunday. It is big.
They gave me a hardhat, so I was under the impression that we were going underground. After about 2 hours, they told me the tour does not go underground on Sundays. I was angry for having worn my hardhat for so long.
Monday, December 3, 2007
More ugliness in a beautiful country
A lot of things about my guest house make me uncomfortable: They wash my towels every day. They put little stickers on my toilet paper before I come home. They offer to have the black maids bring things to my room, as if my arms and legs are broken. They constantly ask me if I'm "doing ok," while old women hunch over next to me scrubbing the floors.
There is a new Afrikaans girl working here. She is majoring in tourism, so she is doing a sort of intership. She grew up on a small farm outside Pretoria. She has never traveled outside the country.
I asked her where I should visit in my last two weeks here. "I heard Durban is nice," I said.
"Ya, well, I don't know. Are you a racist?" she asked me, in the same manner in which someone might ask, "are you a vegetarian?"
"Because a lot of black people go there, and they can't swim. They get really excited when they see the waves, too. It's really irritating."
The guy whom I'm renting a car from also runs a car recovery service, meaning that he goes to recover stolen cars. I dropped my car with him before leaving for Cape Town, and as he drove me back to my office, he started telling me about the business.
"You can think I'm a racist after I tell you this. You can take your business away from me. I don't care. But I have recovered thousands upon thousands of cars in the past 10 years. Not one of them has been from a white person."
"Don't tell me it's because they're poor. They do it because they want to get rich. I see these guys every day. None of them are on their last meal."
I didn't ask (because I was too busy listening) but as he was talking I wondered whether he thinks it's something genetic in black men that makes them steal cars. Like an extra chromosome or something. Because from his perspective, I can see how he could conclude that all black people are greedy criminals. That is what he knows. Twenty-five percent of his VW Citi Golfs get stolen. He has been shot at numerous times. One of his friends was recently killed.
Last week and yesterday there were shootings in my neighborhood. One was a carjacking down the street from me. A young woman was killed. Her car locks and house gates may have brought down her insurance costs, but they did not save her life. Someone wanted to kill her, and he did it. Simple as that.
What I wonder is why he wanted to kill her in the first place.
There is a new Afrikaans girl working here. She is majoring in tourism, so she is doing a sort of intership. She grew up on a small farm outside Pretoria. She has never traveled outside the country.
I asked her where I should visit in my last two weeks here. "I heard Durban is nice," I said.
"Ya, well, I don't know. Are you a racist?" she asked me, in the same manner in which someone might ask, "are you a vegetarian?"
"Because a lot of black people go there, and they can't swim. They get really excited when they see the waves, too. It's really irritating."
The guy whom I'm renting a car from also runs a car recovery service, meaning that he goes to recover stolen cars. I dropped my car with him before leaving for Cape Town, and as he drove me back to my office, he started telling me about the business.
"You can think I'm a racist after I tell you this. You can take your business away from me. I don't care. But I have recovered thousands upon thousands of cars in the past 10 years. Not one of them has been from a white person."
"Don't tell me it's because they're poor. They do it because they want to get rich. I see these guys every day. None of them are on their last meal."
I didn't ask (because I was too busy listening) but as he was talking I wondered whether he thinks it's something genetic in black men that makes them steal cars. Like an extra chromosome or something. Because from his perspective, I can see how he could conclude that all black people are greedy criminals. That is what he knows. Twenty-five percent of his VW Citi Golfs get stolen. He has been shot at numerous times. One of his friends was recently killed.
Last week and yesterday there were shootings in my neighborhood. One was a carjacking down the street from me. A young woman was killed. Her car locks and house gates may have brought down her insurance costs, but they did not save her life. Someone wanted to kill her, and he did it. Simple as that.
What I wonder is why he wanted to kill her in the first place.
Cape Town
Cape Town. Cape Town. Cape Town. Who knew you could be so magical?
I suppose plenty of people knew. But now I can count myself among them.
I arrived Friday. Bright and early Saturday morning I went mountain biking down table mountain. This is it:
The omnipresent cloud on top is commonly called the "table cloth." I hope my dad can tell me why it's there.
Mountain biking was a little more difficult than I thought it would be, especially because we went down the mountain, rather than up. And by the end my hands were killing me from gripping the brake.
There are more species of flora on table mountain than in all of Europe combined. And you can drink the spring water that runs down the mountain. Delicious.
The couple I biked with was on holiday from Israel. They were both America. One worked at the U.S. consulate in Jerusalem. The other worked fro UNOPS in Gaza. Needless to say, they were interesting to talk to. So in addition to the workout and beautiful scenery, I had great conversation. They were also very young and gave me good advice about working in international development.
On day two I went to Robben Island. The guides there are all former inmates or exiles. So they add an extra dimension to the experience. Our guide was chums with Mandela and Robert Sobukwe - the man who first told blacks to abandon their identification booklets and turn themselves in to be arrested. He had some pretty amazing anecdotes; many of then funny; many of them very sad.
He wove the nationalities and appearances of the people on the tour into his story of Apartheid and the liberation. He told me that under the standards of the Dutch army, I would have probably been sent to the leper camp; because I had two earrings in one ear and one in the other. The island was used as a leper colony before it housed political prisoners. This was at a time when leprosy was not well understood.
I cried when our guide told the story of how the prisoners worked in blinding quarry pits without sunglasses, many of them losing their vision from the harsh glare. To this day, no one is allowed to take flash photos of Mandela, because of the damage this did to his eyes.
The prisoners later learned that the stones they hauled day and night were not put to any use; they were just carted around the island and back to their original locations. The prisoners were overseen by 16-year-old-white boys. They knew that the boys were not evil work locking them up, they were just manipulated by an evil system. Mandela and some of the other well-educated prisoners tried to teach the guards what they learned at university on their breaks.
Like everything under apartheid, the prisoners food and clothing allotments were determined along racial lines. This former terrorist showed us the meal rations, and talked about how the Coloreds and Indians would share their food with the blacks, and they went on multi-day hunger strikes together.
Here are all my pictures.
And for those of you not in my family, here are the picture I took from my safari the weekend prior: My claim to fame on the trip was spotting a hyena. My guide told me that was very rare.
I suppose plenty of people knew. But now I can count myself among them.
I arrived Friday. Bright and early Saturday morning I went mountain biking down table mountain. This is it:
The omnipresent cloud on top is commonly called the "table cloth." I hope my dad can tell me why it's there.
Mountain biking was a little more difficult than I thought it would be, especially because we went down the mountain, rather than up. And by the end my hands were killing me from gripping the brake.
There are more species of flora on table mountain than in all of Europe combined. And you can drink the spring water that runs down the mountain. Delicious.
The couple I biked with was on holiday from Israel. They were both America. One worked at the U.S. consulate in Jerusalem. The other worked fro UNOPS in Gaza. Needless to say, they were interesting to talk to. So in addition to the workout and beautiful scenery, I had great conversation. They were also very young and gave me good advice about working in international development.
On day two I went to Robben Island. The guides there are all former inmates or exiles. So they add an extra dimension to the experience. Our guide was chums with Mandela and Robert Sobukwe - the man who first told blacks to abandon their identification booklets and turn themselves in to be arrested. He had some pretty amazing anecdotes; many of then funny; many of them very sad.
He wove the nationalities and appearances of the people on the tour into his story of Apartheid and the liberation. He told me that under the standards of the Dutch army, I would have probably been sent to the leper camp; because I had two earrings in one ear and one in the other. The island was used as a leper colony before it housed political prisoners. This was at a time when leprosy was not well understood.
I cried when our guide told the story of how the prisoners worked in blinding quarry pits without sunglasses, many of them losing their vision from the harsh glare. To this day, no one is allowed to take flash photos of Mandela, because of the damage this did to his eyes.
The prisoners later learned that the stones they hauled day and night were not put to any use; they were just carted around the island and back to their original locations. The prisoners were overseen by 16-year-old-white boys. They knew that the boys were not evil work locking them up, they were just manipulated by an evil system. Mandela and some of the other well-educated prisoners tried to teach the guards what they learned at university on their breaks.
Like everything under apartheid, the prisoners food and clothing allotments were determined along racial lines. This former terrorist showed us the meal rations, and talked about how the Coloreds and Indians would share their food with the blacks, and they went on multi-day hunger strikes together.
Here are all my pictures.
And for those of you not in my family, here are the picture I took from my safari the weekend prior: My claim to fame on the trip was spotting a hyena. My guide told me that was very rare.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Pumpkin pie
South Africans cook with pumpkin a lot. But to my great surprise, none of my coworkers had ever tried a pumpkin pie!
I had to rectify this.
I went to two different grocery stores. Neither of them had pumpkin puree or pie crust. Nor did any of the employees know what either of these things were.
"A pie..." (extended pause) "crust???"
"Yeah, you know, like the shell of a pie."
In both grocery stores they led me to the premade pies section. I said, "no no, a just the crust" in the second store.
The man acted like he finally understood, walked me around the store and then back to the same pie section.
Nice try, Themba!
In store number three they had both pie crusts (apparently they're called "puff pastry" here) and canned pumpkin puree with both sugar and cinnimon already mixed in.
There must be other pumpkin pie makers in this country.
Viola! I made two pies and celebrated the only day white people were nice to the Native Americans with my friends.
I promise to blog more about racial inequality soon.
I had to rectify this.
I went to two different grocery stores. Neither of them had pumpkin puree or pie crust. Nor did any of the employees know what either of these things were.
"A pie..." (extended pause) "crust???"
"Yeah, you know, like the shell of a pie."
In both grocery stores they led me to the premade pies section. I said, "no no, a just the crust" in the second store.
The man acted like he finally understood, walked me around the store and then back to the same pie section.
Nice try, Themba!
In store number three they had both pie crusts (apparently they're called "puff pastry" here) and canned pumpkin puree with both sugar and cinnimon already mixed in.
There must be other pumpkin pie makers in this country.
Viola! I made two pies and celebrated the only day white people were nice to the Native Americans with my friends.
I promise to blog more about racial inequality soon.
My best friend
Bacardi is my best friend.
She loooooves being photographed!
I am definitely bringing her back to America with me. (At least, I THINK she's a she!)
I will have to negotiate with her a bit. This is the yard she currently romps around in. I won't have this to offer her in New York.
I don't think she will mind though. She and I are really good friends. I just don't know how to tell her owners. Woe is me.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
My car
After being forbidden to do almost anything on foot (will blog about this soon) I finally broke down and rented a car.
It is a luxiourios '91 Volkswagen Golf. I say "luxiourious" because it has a manual transmission. However, it costs $15 USD/day, has no computer inside it and requires quite a bit of muscle on my part to turn the steering wheel. As the car most likely to be broken into in South Africa, it also a has huge lock over the gear shift.
Driving on the wrong side of the street is not as hard as I thought it would be. I can't wait to try it back in America.
Soweto
Last Sunday I visited the Soweto townships. Townships are the areas to which black people were relegated under Apartheid. I was told never to go into Soweto, or for that matter, any of the townships on my own. So I found I a tour group that drives through. (Nevermind the irony of paying $120 USD to go see the poorest areas of South Africa).
Soweto is just a few minutes drive outside Johannesburg. (Hence the name, SOuth WEstern TOwnships). Under Apartheid, all the blacks who flocked to Johannesburg in search of employment were forcibly removed to make room for whites. This was often done against their will, and all their homes and belonging were often bulldozed in the process.
The transfer of minorities to peripheral areas was made possible by legislation that meticulously categorized people by race and allowed them to be limited to certain housing areas on that basis.
The conditions in Soweto have improved dramatically, so I was told, especially in the past five years. My black tour guide went to great lengths to point out this out at every turn.
“You can tell by the children,” he said, slowing down the van and pointing flagrantly. “Look at that one! He is not going to church or to a party. That is just the way he dress.”
Indeed the kids wore bright, clean, logo-smothered clothing. They still live in cramped, relatively uniform housing projects, many of which are the same homes their families lived in during Apartheid. The “improvements” manifest in the fact that people now paint their tiny homes; they decorate their tiny yards and cultivate tiny gardens. They drive beat-up, used cars and sell tires along the streets.
Soweto is currently home to about 60% of the population of Johannesburg. I did not see one white person the entire time I was there.
Along the road, there were hand-written advertisments for "HIV curing tea" and "painless abortions."
The white Afrikaners (former Dutch colonialists) staying in my guesthouse were amazed to hear I went to Soweto.
“I’m not a racist,” one of the women told me at dinner, “but I just don’t understand them. Don’t get me wrong, I know them. I have worked with my maids for more than 35 years. And they are so superstitious and gullible. They just don’t have any common sense. They will believe anything someone tells them.”
I could have sworn she had just ripped out a page of Huckleberry Finn and read it out loud.
“Could you give me an example?” I asked.
“A few weeks ago, a lightning bolt hit a tree in our yard,” she told me. “I asked one of our groundskeepers to go uproot it. He said he could not, because the gods laid an egg under that tree, and he could not touch it. You see, they just don’t make any sense.”
“Yes but in fairness, many people in Western culture believe God created the earth in seven days and that they can absolve their sins by drinking wine and eating bread. I bet your groundskeeper would think that’s ridiculous.”
After spending the day in Soweto, the Hector Peiterson memorial and the Apartheid museum, I must admit I felt little sympathy when the Afrikaaners in my guesthouse complained that their children had to move out of South Africa to find jobs, because the "biased" post-Apartheid government instituted racial quotas systems in most professions.
Of course, the people in my guesthouse probably had nothing to do with the evils of Apartheid. It was probably unfair for me to blame them. But then again, Apartheid did not spring entirely from the head of Jan Smuts; it was the product of an entire social system.
After a while it struck me that maybe some of my anger towards them stemmed from the fact that, at the end of the day, I am more like the Afrikaaners than I am like the people in Soweto. I am more of a passive facilitator than I am a victim.
When my tour guide took us to Soweto’s squatter camp, the “worst of the worst,” he invited us to get out of the van to take pictures. I was somewhat appalled at the suggestion of jumping out to snap pictures of humans in degenerate conditions, as if they were animals in a zoo. My first thought when he suggested this was that other tourists have probably done this.
As I peered out into the sea of tin roofs and shoebox lean-tos, two children began walking over to me. I knew they were going to beg me for money. I knew this because it happened every other time I had gotten out of the van. I turned for the door instinctively, like I was scared of these tiny, desperate, 6-year-old black boys. But I was scared; I was scared of having to say no to them; I was scared of dealing with my own feelings of guilt again.
The little boys didn't have a van to get back in. I could’ve at least said hi to them, so that they would know that they're not bad or damaged just because they are poor. Instead I did nothing. I got back into my air-conditioned van and went back to my gated community.
Soweto is just a few minutes drive outside Johannesburg. (Hence the name, SOuth WEstern TOwnships). Under Apartheid, all the blacks who flocked to Johannesburg in search of employment were forcibly removed to make room for whites. This was often done against their will, and all their homes and belonging were often bulldozed in the process.
The transfer of minorities to peripheral areas was made possible by legislation that meticulously categorized people by race and allowed them to be limited to certain housing areas on that basis.
The conditions in Soweto have improved dramatically, so I was told, especially in the past five years. My black tour guide went to great lengths to point out this out at every turn.
“You can tell by the children,” he said, slowing down the van and pointing flagrantly. “Look at that one! He is not going to church or to a party. That is just the way he dress.”
Indeed the kids wore bright, clean, logo-smothered clothing. They still live in cramped, relatively uniform housing projects, many of which are the same homes their families lived in during Apartheid. The “improvements” manifest in the fact that people now paint their tiny homes; they decorate their tiny yards and cultivate tiny gardens. They drive beat-up, used cars and sell tires along the streets.
Soweto is currently home to about 60% of the population of Johannesburg. I did not see one white person the entire time I was there.
Along the road, there were hand-written advertisments for "HIV curing tea" and "painless abortions."
The white Afrikaners (former Dutch colonialists) staying in my guesthouse were amazed to hear I went to Soweto.
“I’m not a racist,” one of the women told me at dinner, “but I just don’t understand them. Don’t get me wrong, I know them. I have worked with my maids for more than 35 years. And they are so superstitious and gullible. They just don’t have any common sense. They will believe anything someone tells them.”
I could have sworn she had just ripped out a page of Huckleberry Finn and read it out loud.
“Could you give me an example?” I asked.
“A few weeks ago, a lightning bolt hit a tree in our yard,” she told me. “I asked one of our groundskeepers to go uproot it. He said he could not, because the gods laid an egg under that tree, and he could not touch it. You see, they just don’t make any sense.”
“Yes but in fairness, many people in Western culture believe God created the earth in seven days and that they can absolve their sins by drinking wine and eating bread. I bet your groundskeeper would think that’s ridiculous.”
After spending the day in Soweto, the Hector Peiterson memorial and the Apartheid museum, I must admit I felt little sympathy when the Afrikaaners in my guesthouse complained that their children had to move out of South Africa to find jobs, because the "biased" post-Apartheid government instituted racial quotas systems in most professions.
Of course, the people in my guesthouse probably had nothing to do with the evils of Apartheid. It was probably unfair for me to blame them. But then again, Apartheid did not spring entirely from the head of Jan Smuts; it was the product of an entire social system.
After a while it struck me that maybe some of my anger towards them stemmed from the fact that, at the end of the day, I am more like the Afrikaaners than I am like the people in Soweto. I am more of a passive facilitator than I am a victim.
When my tour guide took us to Soweto’s squatter camp, the “worst of the worst,” he invited us to get out of the van to take pictures. I was somewhat appalled at the suggestion of jumping out to snap pictures of humans in degenerate conditions, as if they were animals in a zoo. My first thought when he suggested this was that other tourists have probably done this.
As I peered out into the sea of tin roofs and shoebox lean-tos, two children began walking over to me. I knew they were going to beg me for money. I knew this because it happened every other time I had gotten out of the van. I turned for the door instinctively, like I was scared of these tiny, desperate, 6-year-old black boys. But I was scared; I was scared of having to say no to them; I was scared of dealing with my own feelings of guilt again.
The little boys didn't have a van to get back in. I could’ve at least said hi to them, so that they would know that they're not bad or damaged just because they are poor. Instead I did nothing. I got back into my air-conditioned van and went back to my gated community.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Let me oversimplify South Africa
I am spending the next six weeks at my company's office in Pretoria. I suppose this blog name/logo is no longer fitting. I had originally planned to upload a nice photo of me with the South African flag. But unfortunately, Internet connections are not the same below the equator, so for the time being, my dear blog readers, you will be afforded additional time to bask in the garish colors of the German flag.
I arrived in Pretoria Wednesday. On my first drive through the city, I was greeted by poshy, gated communities lined with fragrant Jacaranda Trees:
I went with my boss to an American-style mall. We ate at a place that resembled TGI Fridays.
South Africa wasn't quite what I expected.
It was not until I looked a little closer at the parks that intersperse Southern California-style office buildings that I realized all the public spaces were downing in emaciated, black African vagrants. On my radio, there was story after story about crime after crime, and discussions of how you could phone in to report what you see.
"You're not really South African until you've been held up at gunpoint," one of my co-workers told me in her thick Afrikaans accent, which sounds vaguely Austrailian.
I am staying in one of those poshy, gated houses. Inside, it is filled with beautiful gardens, Victorian style decor and lazy kitties. I am not allowed to leave on foot outside the hours of 11am and 4pm. I could rent a car, but I would have to learn stickshift and to navigate the Brit's backwards traffic system. I am caged in and pampered. I am allowed to go on pricey, organized tour groups and on a shuttle that goes to and fro that overpriced, Western mall. For all I know, I could be in suburban Ohio on a pleasant summer day.
The landscape is beautiful, and the sun is always shining. But it strikes me that no one can really enjoy it. The rich (white Afrikaans) spend their lives inside their cars and fancy buildings. They poor (blacks) spend theirs looking enviously from the street. They do not engage one another, unless it is violently.
I arrived in Pretoria Wednesday. On my first drive through the city, I was greeted by poshy, gated communities lined with fragrant Jacaranda Trees:
I went with my boss to an American-style mall. We ate at a place that resembled TGI Fridays.
South Africa wasn't quite what I expected.
It was not until I looked a little closer at the parks that intersperse Southern California-style office buildings that I realized all the public spaces were downing in emaciated, black African vagrants. On my radio, there was story after story about crime after crime, and discussions of how you could phone in to report what you see.
"You're not really South African until you've been held up at gunpoint," one of my co-workers told me in her thick Afrikaans accent, which sounds vaguely Austrailian.
I am staying in one of those poshy, gated houses. Inside, it is filled with beautiful gardens, Victorian style decor and lazy kitties. I am not allowed to leave on foot outside the hours of 11am and 4pm. I could rent a car, but I would have to learn stickshift and to navigate the Brit's backwards traffic system. I am caged in and pampered. I am allowed to go on pricey, organized tour groups and on a shuttle that goes to and fro that overpriced, Western mall. For all I know, I could be in suburban Ohio on a pleasant summer day.
The landscape is beautiful, and the sun is always shining. But it strikes me that no one can really enjoy it. The rich (white Afrikaans) spend their lives inside their cars and fancy buildings. They poor (blacks) spend theirs looking enviously from the street. They do not engage one another, unless it is violently.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
A remorseful blogger
Dear Friends,
I apologize for the extended absence. Will you forgive me?
I can't write much, because I will start to realize how much I am leaving out. But here are some highlights:
After Munich, I learned that Hitler's former favorite hangout is now an Apple store.
After Russia, I will defer to Madame Wei Wei and to Google photos to tell the story.
I will also add this piece of advice: if you try to take a photo of a poster of a half-man half-cat in the St. Petersburg Metro, you will be fined 100 Roubles by the police.
After Berlin, it feels good to return to planet earth. No more banana milk or reputation management for me.
Before Wednesday, I must learn Afrikaans.
Tot siens.
I apologize for the extended absence. Will you forgive me?
I can't write much, because I will start to realize how much I am leaving out. But here are some highlights:
After Munich, I learned that Hitler's former favorite hangout is now an Apple store.
After Russia, I will defer to Madame Wei Wei and to Google photos to tell the story.
I will also add this piece of advice: if you try to take a photo of a poster of a half-man half-cat in the St. Petersburg Metro, you will be fined 100 Roubles by the police.
After Berlin, it feels good to return to planet earth. No more banana milk or reputation management for me.
Before Wednesday, I must learn Afrikaans.
Tot siens.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Dear Wei Wei
In preparation for our trip to Russia, here are translations for the words you requested (spelled phonetically in the Latin alphabet). Mom, please flag any mistakes.
Hello---ZDRAA-stvee-tyea
Thank you---Spaa-SEE-ba
Excuse me---Eez-vee-NEET-yea menya
Sorry---Eez-vee-NEET-yea
You are pretty/cute---Thui do-VOL-no/seem-pat-EE-nuy
How much---Na-SKOL-ka?
How long---Kak DOL-go?
I am sick---Ya BO-lin.
The hospital---Bol-NEE-tsa
Soup---Soop
I can't speak Russian---Ya nee ga-va-ROO pah ROO-skee
Ladies' room---Twah-LYET
I love Russia---Ya LOO-bit Roo-SEE-ya
Airport---aai-roh-PORT
Taxi---Tak-SEE
Putin is cool---Pooteen (nye) ho-LOD-no!
Postcard---Poch-ta ot-KRUT-ka
China---Far-FOR (not sure about this one)
Hong Kong airport---Gon-kong ai-roh-PORT
E-mail---el-ek-TRO-ne-ya POCH-ta
We are tourists---Mee to-REE-stee
Two more I added:
I speak a little Russian - Ya ga-va-ROO nyem-NO-GO pah ROO-skee.
My family is from Russia - Mo-YA sem-YA ot Rossee
P.S. Your blog is so much better than mine is. "If I had to pick one word to describe Ms. Wei wei, I would say that she is very very enchanting."
Hello---ZDRAA-stvee-tyea
Thank you---Spaa-SEE-ba
Excuse me---Eez-vee-NEET-yea menya
Sorry---Eez-vee-NEET-yea
You are pretty/cute---Thui do-VOL-no/seem-pat-EE-nuy
How much---Na-SKOL-ka?
How long---Kak DOL-go?
I am sick---Ya BO-lin.
The hospital---Bol-NEE-tsa
Soup---Soop
I can't speak Russian---Ya nee ga-va-ROO pah ROO-skee
Ladies' room---Twah-LYET
I love Russia---Ya LOO-bit Roo-SEE-ya
Airport---aai-roh-PORT
Taxi---Tak-SEE
Putin is cool---Pooteen (nye) ho-LOD-no!
Postcard---Poch-ta ot-KRUT-ka
China---Far-FOR (not sure about this one)
Hong Kong airport---Gon-kong ai-roh-PORT
E-mail---el-ek-TRO-ne-ya POCH-ta
We are tourists---Mee to-REE-stee
Two more I added:
I speak a little Russian - Ya ga-va-ROO nyem-NO-GO pah ROO-skee.
My family is from Russia - Mo-YA sem-YA ot Rossee
P.S. Your blog is so much better than mine is. "If I had to pick one word to describe Ms. Wei wei, I would say that she is very very enchanting."
Munich and Uh-merica
I am going to Munich in 3 hours (at 5am). I took a lot of yes-drowsy cold medicine throughout the week. And now without it, I can't sleep.
German tissues are thick and durable. They are not particularly soft, but there is something about them that I find comforting.
I should have written more about the Russian embassy.
I am not sure what I will do in Munich tomorrow. Sunday I am going to the Dachau concentration camp.
I leave for Uh-merica Monday. I am going there for work. Originally I was going to four cities. Now only three - DC, New York and someplace in the Midwest called Cleveland. I wonder what it will be like.
German tissues are thick and durable. They are not particularly soft, but there is something about them that I find comforting.
I should have written more about the Russian embassy.
I am not sure what I will do in Munich tomorrow. Sunday I am going to the Dachau concentration camp.
I leave for Uh-merica Monday. I am going there for work. Originally I was going to four cities. Now only three - DC, New York and someplace in the Midwest called Cleveland. I wonder what it will be like.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Nice lights
One of the nice things about Germany is that the men do not catcall. You could walk down the street in a bathing suit, and no one would say anything to you.
The closest thing I have had to a catcall occured last Saturday night. I was stopped at a red light on my bike, and a middle-aged man pulled up next to me in his car. He started saying something in German.
"Ich verstehe nicht" (I don't understand), I told him.
"The lights on your bike are excellent," he said. "I could see you all the way from the end of the street."
Granted, there are a lot of bikers in my neighborhood. And it can be dangerous if you can't see them at night. But this man's comment was so innocent and so German. He genuinely just wanted to convey his admiration for the lights on my bike.
The closest thing I have had to a catcall occured last Saturday night. I was stopped at a red light on my bike, and a middle-aged man pulled up next to me in his car. He started saying something in German.
"Ich verstehe nicht" (I don't understand), I told him.
"The lights on your bike are excellent," he said. "I could see you all the way from the end of the street."
Granted, there are a lot of bikers in my neighborhood. And it can be dangerous if you can't see them at night. But this man's comment was so innocent and so German. He genuinely just wanted to convey his admiration for the lights on my bike.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Frankfurt is supposed to be the Manhattan of Germany
It has a few skyscrapers, but only about 660,000 inhabitants.
Writing hard. Posting pictures easier.
(Note: this picture was not actually taken in Frankfurt.)
Writing hard. Posting pictures easier.
(Note: this picture was not actually taken in Frankfurt.)
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Steps to laboriously obtain a Russian tourist visa
1. Google "Russian" and "visa." Click on first search result.
2. Pay $20 for a visa "invitation letter." Believe you are paying for an actual visa.
3. Book flight two months in advance. Be forced to change flight three times.
4. Be charged for each rebook, as well as ambiguous "upgrade fee." Nearly lose Chinese travel partner in the process of rebooking.
5. Follow misleading signs on mile-long, 75 degree incline hill to Russian embassy. End up at bizarre camping grounds.
6. Ask nearby man on bike wearing "Wisconsin" sweatshirt for directions to Embassy. Have him laugh at you for trying to follow the signs. Awkwardly say good-bye to him as you speed down a steep hill together on your bikes.
7. Arrive at deserted embassy at 1pm. Learn from seedy Russian man that it is closed after 12pm.
8. Do not learn any lessons from previous day. Return to embassy on German federal holiday.
9. Nearly pass out while riding up hill to embassy. Pant and be covered in sweat. Begin believing God is inhumane.
10. Approach embassy to see that it is flooded with angry, disoderly people. Ask nearby woman, " is this a line?"
11. Watch woman speak mysterious Russian to the embassy guard. Have him demand your cell phone.
12. Explain that you do not have cell phone. Be forced to leave iPod with woman standing outside embassy.
13. Be told you have the wrong dates on invitation letter. They are off by one week.
14. Attempt to return to Embassy. Repeat steps 2 and 8-12.
I am justifying all this by telling myself that this ordeal has helped prepare me for what Russia will be like. (Why then, you may ask, would I want to visit?)
To be continued...
2. Pay $20 for a visa "invitation letter." Believe you are paying for an actual visa.
3. Book flight two months in advance. Be forced to change flight three times.
4. Be charged for each rebook, as well as ambiguous "upgrade fee." Nearly lose Chinese travel partner in the process of rebooking.
5. Follow misleading signs on mile-long, 75 degree incline hill to Russian embassy. End up at bizarre camping grounds.
6. Ask nearby man on bike wearing "Wisconsin" sweatshirt for directions to Embassy. Have him laugh at you for trying to follow the signs. Awkwardly say good-bye to him as you speed down a steep hill together on your bikes.
7. Arrive at deserted embassy at 1pm. Learn from seedy Russian man that it is closed after 12pm.
8. Do not learn any lessons from previous day. Return to embassy on German federal holiday.
9. Nearly pass out while riding up hill to embassy. Pant and be covered in sweat. Begin believing God is inhumane.
10. Approach embassy to see that it is flooded with angry, disoderly people. Ask nearby woman, " is this a line?"
11. Watch woman speak mysterious Russian to the embassy guard. Have him demand your cell phone.
12. Explain that you do not have cell phone. Be forced to leave iPod with woman standing outside embassy.
13. Be told you have the wrong dates on invitation letter. They are off by one week.
14. Attempt to return to Embassy. Repeat steps 2 and 8-12.
I am justifying all this by telling myself that this ordeal has helped prepare me for what Russia will be like. (Why then, you may ask, would I want to visit?)
To be continued...
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Germany Unification Day
Today is Germany Unification Day. No parades or presents, but I did get the day off work.
I celebrated the birth of my dear, young Federal Republic by bulldozing all the walls in my apartment (heh) and visiting two very German museums.
The first was the Deutsches Museum, which documents advances in German science and technology. It had one of the world's two trautoniums, on which Oscar Sala composed the music for Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds." Creeeeee-py.
It also had an exhibit on new technologies that are allowing women to detect genetic defects in their unborn babies. The exhibit said that if a woman does not take advantage of these technologies, she may be accused of being irresponsible. And so the question becomes whether the "right to decide" is really a duty. Hmm.
I then went for my fourth visit to the German history museum. They had a special exhibit that detailed the expatriation of German Jews at the beginning of WWII. In all its exhibits, the Bonn history museum has excellent primary source materials. This was no exception. It had several of the Nazis' original manifestos and the board games that they created for their children, in which sending Jews to other countries was the object of the game.
I always have trouble believing that some of the things I've read about in history books really happened in Germany so recently. You walk down the street and everything feels so normal.
Most of the vestiges of divided Germany are invisible (they are either economic or in terms of cultural mentality). That is why when I visited Berlin I was so struck by some of the visible legacies - the remnants of the wall and the hats worn by crosswalk figures in East Germany.
Prior to coming to Germany that same sense of disbelief always characterized my understanding of the Nazis. But seeing this exhibit really helped me believe.
I celebrated the birth of my dear, young Federal Republic by bulldozing all the walls in my apartment (heh) and visiting two very German museums.
The first was the Deutsches Museum, which documents advances in German science and technology. It had one of the world's two trautoniums, on which Oscar Sala composed the music for Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds." Creeeeee-py.
It also had an exhibit on new technologies that are allowing women to detect genetic defects in their unborn babies. The exhibit said that if a woman does not take advantage of these technologies, she may be accused of being irresponsible. And so the question becomes whether the "right to decide" is really a duty. Hmm.
I then went for my fourth visit to the German history museum. They had a special exhibit that detailed the expatriation of German Jews at the beginning of WWII. In all its exhibits, the Bonn history museum has excellent primary source materials. This was no exception. It had several of the Nazis' original manifestos and the board games that they created for their children, in which sending Jews to other countries was the object of the game.
I always have trouble believing that some of the things I've read about in history books really happened in Germany so recently. You walk down the street and everything feels so normal.
Most of the vestiges of divided Germany are invisible (they are either economic or in terms of cultural mentality). That is why when I visited Berlin I was so struck by some of the visible legacies - the remnants of the wall and the hats worn by crosswalk figures in East Germany.
Prior to coming to Germany that same sense of disbelief always characterized my understanding of the Nazis. But seeing this exhibit really helped me believe.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Cordless phones
They seem to be more common in Germany. Everyone still has a cell phone. But in German offices and businesses the landlines are all these nice, durable, little tiny thangs.
In my flat we have four cordless phones. But maybe we are unsual. We also have eight toothbrushes in our bathroom. And we live next to this weird rooster farm. But I should probably save that for another blog entry.
I first noticed all the cordless phones from the ubiquity of their 3-note arpeggio and chromatic scale rings. I hear these rings everywhere. Even in my dreams.
In my flat we have four cordless phones. But maybe we are unsual. We also have eight toothbrushes in our bathroom. And we live next to this weird rooster farm. But I should probably save that for another blog entry.
I first noticed all the cordless phones from the ubiquity of their 3-note arpeggio and chromatic scale rings. I hear these rings everywhere. Even in my dreams.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
My hair is black
I went to one of the few hair salons in Bonn open past 1pm Saturday. It was a local chain called Unisex. I walked in and there was loud techno music playing. Every hairdresser had black and/or red spiked hair and lots of piercings. They danced and waved around their scissors as they cut people's hair. It looked like the floor had not been swept all day.
As soon as I sat down, a DJ got on the turntables next to me. I had to yell over him in broken German to let my hairdresser know what I wanted: "2" "zentimeter" (scissor motion). "Haar" "same" (point to 1-inch roots).
They showed me a hair sample that was really dark. I told them I thought that was not right. So then an "English speaking hairdresser" came over to translate.
He and I arrived at a conclusion that I found acceptable: "Hair according to my nature." I let him dye away.
When he took off the towel, my hair was jet black. "It's really dark," I said.
"Ja sure, that's just because it's wet." But then he dried it, and it was still black.
"This is not my natural color," I told him.
"Yes it is."
"I'm pretty sure it isn't," I said.
"Oh no, it is."
"I don't want it this dark," I told him.
"Oh don't worry. It is just temporary," he told me. "In a few weeks, it will be back to your natural hair."
As soon as I sat down, a DJ got on the turntables next to me. I had to yell over him in broken German to let my hairdresser know what I wanted: "2" "zentimeter" (scissor motion). "Haar" "same" (point to 1-inch roots).
They showed me a hair sample that was really dark. I told them I thought that was not right. So then an "English speaking hairdresser" came over to translate.
He and I arrived at a conclusion that I found acceptable: "Hair according to my nature." I let him dye away.
When he took off the towel, my hair was jet black. "It's really dark," I said.
"Ja sure, that's just because it's wet." But then he dried it, and it was still black.
"This is not my natural color," I told him.
"Yes it is."
"I'm pretty sure it isn't," I said.
"Oh no, it is."
"I don't want it this dark," I told him.
"Oh don't worry. It is just temporary," he told me. "In a few weeks, it will be back to your natural hair."
Friday, September 21, 2007
Throwing a grenade
Zuzana consumed quite a bit of sugar and coffee in London. This was good because it helped her get through our 19-hour day. But it also made her very talkative. On our 10pm flight back she spoke at rapid pace about how much she loved sugar when she was a child growing up in Slovakia under communism, and how back then, even a banana was rare.
She then seamlessly segued into a description of how she was trained to fire a gun and throw a grenade when she was six years old in the communist era school. She didn't realize that this was atypical for Westerners until a German friend of hers marveled at how well she held a rifle from his gun collection.
Under communisim, school children fired actual guns, Zuzana said, but they did not throw actual grenades; they threw objects that were the size, shape and weight of grenades. If they did not throw the grenade-like objects more than 25 meters, they would get in trouble with their teachers.
She then seamlessly segued into a description of how she was trained to fire a gun and throw a grenade when she was six years old in the communist era school. She didn't realize that this was atypical for Westerners until a German friend of hers marveled at how well she held a rifle from his gun collection.
Under communisim, school children fired actual guns, Zuzana said, but they did not throw actual grenades; they threw objects that were the size, shape and weight of grenades. If they did not throw the grenade-like objects more than 25 meters, they would get in trouble with their teachers.
I went to Koblenz and Dusseldorf last weekend
The rivalry between Dusseldorf and Cologne is funny. My flatmate from Cologne genuinely got angry with me when I told him I was going to Dusseldorf. I spent most of the day walking along the Rhine.
At Koblenz there was a cute little street fair (with spectacularly awful Renaissance fair music and American cover bands), as well as lots of old castles and churches, and a nice view from where the Rhine and Mosel rivers connect called Deutsches Eck. Eck means corner.
On the train ride back from Koblenz, a group of about 15 elderly men sat next to me and Lenka. Soon into our journey they began uncorking numerous bottles of wine. Each of them had a little wine glass that they carried in a leather case around their necks. When we looked over to see what all the clinking and laughter was about, they quickly approached us and hung drink glass necklaces around our necks. They had just returned from a weeklong visit to the Mosel Valley, which is famous for its Riesling wines.
By the end of the trip, they laughed at how much more willing we had become to speak German after a few glasses of wine.
At Koblenz there was a cute little street fair (with spectacularly awful Renaissance fair music and American cover bands), as well as lots of old castles and churches, and a nice view from where the Rhine and Mosel rivers connect called Deutsches Eck. Eck means corner.
On the train ride back from Koblenz, a group of about 15 elderly men sat next to me and Lenka. Soon into our journey they began uncorking numerous bottles of wine. Each of them had a little wine glass that they carried in a leather case around their necks. When we looked over to see what all the clinking and laughter was about, they quickly approached us and hung drink glass necklaces around our necks. They had just returned from a weeklong visit to the Mosel Valley, which is famous for its Riesling wines.
By the end of the trip, they laughed at how much more willing we had become to speak German after a few glasses of wine.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Knock knock jokes
Today I told my Polish co-worker Piotrek the "Impatient Cow" knock knock joke. He laughed uproriously. It was great. I had never seen that kind of response to a Knock Knock joke.
Then he told me the "Mary Christmas" knock knock joke, but he could barely get through it without laughing.
Lenka couldn't quite grasp the format of the Knock Knock joke. But that is not her fault. The only ones I could think of were "Impatient Cow" and "Orange you glad I didn't say "banana?", both of which are more advanced. She kept saying "WHO banana???" And answering my "banana" by with "banana."
I can't wait to try more jokes on Piotrek. If you find any good ones, please send them my way.
Then he told me the "Mary Christmas" knock knock joke, but he could barely get through it without laughing.
Lenka couldn't quite grasp the format of the Knock Knock joke. But that is not her fault. The only ones I could think of were "Impatient Cow" and "Orange you glad I didn't say "banana?", both of which are more advanced. She kept saying "WHO banana???" And answering my "banana" by with "banana."
I can't wait to try more jokes on Piotrek. If you find any good ones, please send them my way.
Cabbage
Zee Germaans really do put sauerkraut on a lot of things - sandwiches, salads, pizza, etc. I love it. It is not like the cabbage in the States. The cabbage in the states tastes like diapers.
I am going to London Tuesday
I did not know this until my boss emailed me my flight itinerary. It is just for one day. I will be meeting representatives from a Jordanian real estate company.
Say WHAAAAAT?????
Say WHAAAAAT?????
Sunday, September 9, 2007
The Rhine is very quiet
It is very calming but a little strange. Even when you stand right by it, and there are big cargo barges passing by, you hear virtually nothing.
You have to walk right up to the water's edge to hear the river lapping at the outer banks.
On Saturday I rode my bike through Rheinaue - the park that runs along the Rhine from Bad Godesberg to nearby Beule. It is hands-down, without a doubt the most beautiful park I have ever been in. It is huge and filled with outdoor sculptures and descriptions of Germany's post World War II history (the "Path of Democracy.")
In Bonn it typically rains (or at least sprinkles) a little bit every day. While this is irritating when you are trying to ride your bike to work, it keeps the vegitation looking great. The grass and flowers in Rheinaue were practically glowing:
This splash of color is especially welcome because, with all the rain, the sky in Bonn is typically a darkish grey. When I took my parents to the Rhine the other week, it was raining. But then just before we got to the river, it stopped, and there was a full-sky, double rainbow, which I could not capture entirely in one picture:
You have to walk right up to the water's edge to hear the river lapping at the outer banks.
On Saturday I rode my bike through Rheinaue - the park that runs along the Rhine from Bad Godesberg to nearby Beule. It is hands-down, without a doubt the most beautiful park I have ever been in. It is huge and filled with outdoor sculptures and descriptions of Germany's post World War II history (the "Path of Democracy.")
In Bonn it typically rains (or at least sprinkles) a little bit every day. While this is irritating when you are trying to ride your bike to work, it keeps the vegitation looking great. The grass and flowers in Rheinaue were practically glowing:
This splash of color is especially welcome because, with all the rain, the sky in Bonn is typically a darkish grey. When I took my parents to the Rhine the other week, it was raining. But then just before we got to the river, it stopped, and there was a full-sky, double rainbow, which I could not capture entirely in one picture:
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Music and ornithology
As the birthplace of Ludwig van Beethoven, Bonn hosts frequent concerts. Right now is BeethovenFest.
I have attended two concerts related to BeethovenFest. The first was the Deutsche Kammerphilharmonie Breme at Beethovenhalle. It was excellent. The piano soloist in the Concerto for Violin and Orchestra was one of the most agile I had ever heard. The piece was very exciting. After it was finished, several males in the audience belted out a series of hearty "BRAVOs!"
This is the statue outside Beethovenhalle:
Tonight I saw the Choir of King's College Cambridge perform at St. Martin's Basilica, right in the center of Bonn. I couldn't see very well from my seat, and at first I thought the soprano section sounded a little funny. But then I realized that it was composed of 5 to 8 year-old boys. They were good, but yikes!
After the concert I stopped by the Bonn town hall, where a free outdoor concert was about to begin.
I had never heard of the band "Tri Yann." But a crowd of eager fans was camped out in front of the stage waving flags and chanting. So I figured they had to be pretty good.
Promptly at 8pm a pirate, elf, powdered-wig-clad man and stork-like bird emerged with instruments. The stork outstreached his arms and basked in cheers from the adoring audience. I don't know how he balanced his absurdly large headdress.
They began singing something like a sea chantey. The audience (composed of seemingly sober adults) lit up, grabbing one another's hands and forming circles of "ring around the rosey."
Friday, September 7, 2007
My new flat
I have moved from Bad Godesberg to Bonn Poppelsdorf:
When describing the period during which Bonn was the capitol of West Germany, people often call Bonn a "sleepy university town."
If that's still true, then Bonn Popplesdorf is the sleepy university town within the sleepy university town. It is quiet, beautiful and filled with young people and bikes.
I found my place on the webstie WG-Gesucht, which seems to me like a more design-heavy, localized Craig's List. (Needless to say I don't understand most of the German writing on the website).
The room I am renting belongs to a University of Bonn graduate student who is doing a 3-month fellowship in La Jolla, California. He studies molecular biology and has a lot of big textbooks in his bedroom.
I have three other roommates - they are all blonde German grad students. They all speak English, are very nice, and one is even a part-time journalist!
When describing the period during which Bonn was the capitol of West Germany, people often call Bonn a "sleepy university town."
If that's still true, then Bonn Popplesdorf is the sleepy university town within the sleepy university town. It is quiet, beautiful and filled with young people and bikes.
I found my place on the webstie WG-Gesucht, which seems to me like a more design-heavy, localized Craig's List. (Needless to say I don't understand most of the German writing on the website).
The room I am renting belongs to a University of Bonn graduate student who is doing a 3-month fellowship in La Jolla, California. He studies molecular biology and has a lot of big textbooks in his bedroom.
I have three other roommates - they are all blonde German grad students. They all speak English, are very nice, and one is even a part-time journalist!
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Brussels
Things I did not like about Brussels:
1. The people who were there from some bizzare festival walking around on stilts and squirted tourists with a life-sized replica of the Mannequin Pis
2. The fact that animals (and people!) frequently "do their business" on the sidewalks, despite the 152 Euro fine for public (human) urination. No one cleans it up, so you have to look everywhere you walk and hold your nose.
3. The locals were less friendly than in Germany
4. The restauraunts were more expensive
Things I did like about Brussels:
1. My parents were there
2. The heart-shaped stop lights:
3. The famous architecture:
4. The boring, EU bureaucracy architecture:
5. The surprisingly interesting National Bank of Belgium Museum
6. The shoe store named after me:
(Sorry Greggles, that's the closest I can come to a picture of me right now!)
1. The people who were there from some bizzare festival walking around on stilts and squirted tourists with a life-sized replica of the Mannequin Pis
2. The fact that animals (and people!) frequently "do their business" on the sidewalks, despite the 152 Euro fine for public (human) urination. No one cleans it up, so you have to look everywhere you walk and hold your nose.
3. The locals were less friendly than in Germany
4. The restauraunts were more expensive
Things I did like about Brussels:
1. My parents were there
2. The heart-shaped stop lights:
3. The famous architecture:
4. The boring, EU bureaucracy architecture:
5. The surprisingly interesting National Bank of Belgium Museum
6. The shoe store named after me:
(Sorry Greggles, that's the closest I can come to a picture of me right now!)
My parents come to visit!
Temporarily abandoning their status as the best two people in America, Rick and Jeanette Evans came last week to Bonn to visit.
They navigated trains and taxis completley on their own to get from Frankfurt airport to Bad Godesberg. My mom also surprised me with her knowledge of the German languguage. I guess my grandmother had spoken a lot of German, because she lived in Berlin for four years during and after WWII.
During the day, my parent explored Bonn. The last day they were here was their 26th wedding anniversary!
Then over the weekend, we took the train together to Brussels:
They navigated trains and taxis completley on their own to get from Frankfurt airport to Bad Godesberg. My mom also surprised me with her knowledge of the German languguage. I guess my grandmother had spoken a lot of German, because she lived in Berlin for four years during and after WWII.
During the day, my parent explored Bonn. The last day they were here was their 26th wedding anniversary!
Then over the weekend, we took the train together to Brussels:
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Cologne
On Saturday, I went with that same American colleague to Cologne. It is just a 45 minute train ride from Bad Godesburg. As soon as you get off the train, you are greeted by the Kölner Dom. This immense, 13th Century cathedral amazingly survived Allied bombings during World War II. Though certain portions of the facade look like they are in the process of restoration, most of it looks bittersweetly beaten and weathered.
The amount of detail on building was breathtaking, as was the view from the top of the South tower, which visitor are allowed to climb.
Cologne's main square was more lively than Bonn's, with a mix of both locals and tourists. The Dom gives the square a sense of drama and history, and it is strikingly anachronistic couched within its modern, commercial setting. Unfortunately I am unable to upload a video I took where you can hear the Dom's chiming bells at 6:15 p.m.
In other news, Cologne also had several Beer gardens open Saturday, as well as this mobile bar, which served as a testament to the German love of teamwork, bicycling and beer:
The Godesberg
This is the Godesberg Schloss, which marks the center of my town, Bad Godesberg:
At lunch the other day, my American colleague and I climbed to the top of it.
At lunch the other day, my American colleague and I climbed to the top of it.
I don't mean to be morbid...
but there is this really beautiful cemetary in my neighborhood.
I have marveled at it several times passing by, but this was the first time I actually went in.
At first I felt like a trespasser, like my taking photographs was somehow dishonoring the deceased. But then I remembered how at the Rheinisch Landesmuseum, there were extensive exhibits on the burial rituals of ancient societies. This was my own anthropoligical study on how the Germans honor their dead.
The gravestones were all very different. Some were tall, others covered most of the legnth of the burial plot. All of the sites had not just flowers, but landscaping - bright, tropical flower beds, complex ornaments and shrubbery. Each site had somewhere on it a small, lit candle.
I have marveled at it several times passing by, but this was the first time I actually went in.
At first I felt like a trespasser, like my taking photographs was somehow dishonoring the deceased. But then I remembered how at the Rheinisch Landesmuseum, there were extensive exhibits on the burial rituals of ancient societies. This was my own anthropoligical study on how the Germans honor their dead.
The gravestones were all very different. Some were tall, others covered most of the legnth of the burial plot. All of the sites had not just flowers, but landscaping - bright, tropical flower beds, complex ornaments and shrubbery. Each site had somewhere on it a small, lit candle.
Friday, August 24, 2007
My Little Friend
On Tuesday evening I received a visitor at the back door of Zuzana’s flat:
I tried to feed her a piece of Brie cheese, but she would not eat it. Perhaps because she is a German cat, not French.
If she returns, I will try sauerkraut.
I tried to feed her a piece of Brie cheese, but she would not eat it. Perhaps because she is a German cat, not French.
If she returns, I will try sauerkraut.
German Kids
For years I’ve been reading news reports about declining populations in Western Europe. But you wouldn’t know it from a walk through my neighborhood. Everywhere, there are kids. And unfortunately, they are often loud and unruly, and their parents often smoke as they push them in their baby strollers.
On the bright side, these kids bring with them some excellent playgrounds. As I mentioned before, there is a park in Zuzana’s backyard. Just a few blocks down the street, there is another playground, and then another and another, repeat. They are all of similar quality, but unique. The Germans seem to delight in designing creative but sturdy jungle gyms.
At Bonn’s Rheinische Landesmuseum Bonn which I visited Sunday, part of the permanent exhibit focused on the region’s earliest civilizations.
Between ancient artifacts, they had areas where children could put on life-sized replicas of the clothes and shoes worn by the early inhabitants, and then enter model homes. Museum staff helped the kids prepare food from the era, gather wood and write on cave walls.
After seeing what the kids got to do, the audio tour suddenly didn’t seem so great.
A few days later, I took a new route home, and stumbled upon this elementary school:
I peeked inside and saw walls adorned with Piet Mondrian paintings and doors that looked like they had been painted by students:
The next time I become a child, I want to visit Germany.
On the bright side, these kids bring with them some excellent playgrounds. As I mentioned before, there is a park in Zuzana’s backyard. Just a few blocks down the street, there is another playground, and then another and another, repeat. They are all of similar quality, but unique. The Germans seem to delight in designing creative but sturdy jungle gyms.
At Bonn’s Rheinische Landesmuseum Bonn which I visited Sunday, part of the permanent exhibit focused on the region’s earliest civilizations.
Between ancient artifacts, they had areas where children could put on life-sized replicas of the clothes and shoes worn by the early inhabitants, and then enter model homes. Museum staff helped the kids prepare food from the era, gather wood and write on cave walls.
After seeing what the kids got to do, the audio tour suddenly didn’t seem so great.
A few days later, I took a new route home, and stumbled upon this elementary school:
I peeked inside and saw walls adorned with Piet Mondrian paintings and doors that looked like they had been painted by students:
The next time I become a child, I want to visit Germany.
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