Something funny happened to me on Friday. I was walking down the street toward our apartment when a woman nearby looked at me, smiled, and started to speak. This doesn't happen very often. I had an old man make a joke about how many empty bottles I was carrying back to the liquor store once (at least I think that's what he was doing), but generally strangers won't talk to you here unless they want... directions.
This scares me on multiple levels. First, I'm not sure I will understand what the people are asking. Second, I probably won't be able direct them to where they want to go. Most importantly, I won't be able to say in German that I don't know how to direct them where they want to go and the whole thing is just awkward for them and embarrassing for me.
So this lady, who had a husband and two daughters walking with her, stope to ask me for directions.
I can just imagine the discussion the husband and wife had moments before,
"Why don't we ask for directions?"
"We can find it. It's around here somewhere."
"If we just ask someone so we don't have to keep wandering around lost."
"Go ahead then, ask for directions if you want to."
Some gender roles are universal.
But this time, it was a little different. First, I understood what she was asking. Second, I knew which street she wanted and where it's located. It helps that the street is about a block from our apartment. Most importantly, I was able to tell her how to get there.
Don't get too excited - it's not like I had a full on conversation with her. I was able to say something like, 'it's the next street, that one where the stoplight is.' It was neither awkward nor embarrassing.
Score a point for me and my rudimentary communication skills. This does not mean I am going to walk around and seek out strangers to talk to, or offer directions to people who don't ask for them. If I did that, the Germans would think I'm insane. But maybe the next time an old man makes fun of me as I walk around with empty crates of beer, I will at least know what he's saying.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Australian-Mexican-German fun this weekend
I've been an absentee blogger this week. I am not sure whether I should apologize for my lack of postings or not. What's my obligation to you as my readers, anyway? Do I need to check in three times a week so you know I'm ok? Or does irregular blogging make me seem more spontaneous and intriguing? I'd love to say that I left you hanging in order to build up my creative aura, but actually I was writing a paper for my ethics class about illegal immigration as a social justice issue. The paper is now submitted and grad school class is done until September. It's a little anti-climactic to just hit 'send' in order to finish your course, so I had to do a little singing and dancing to compensate.
It was good that I finished the paper yesterday morning, because it was way too warm and sunny to be stuck indoors doing homework. It was break-out-your-shorts-and-tank-tops warm. Except in Germany, it's shorts, tank tops, and a scarf. And if you're a girl you might wear tights under your shorts too. You wouldn't want to catch cold.
The warmth made me think of summer, and summer makes me miss the backyard and the hammock and home. Brian and I agreed, as we were sweating out on the balcony, that we aren't homesick but we are also really excited about going back to the U.S. this summer.
Last night we went to a German bar with some teacher friends from England, Australia, Germany, Canada, and the U.S., to hear an Australian band play quasi-Mexican music. Life here is like that.
The band is called Puta Madre Brothers. If you don't know what that means in Spanish, I won't tell you. Just know that it's a bad word (or bad phrase to be exact) - not the brothers part, but the rest of it. The band is a group of three Australian guys, who play music that is part electric-guitar mariachi, part 60's surfer music, part soundtrack from a cheesy western movie. They have crazy swirly hair, wear old-style Mexican military uniforms, and their faces are smudged with dark face paint that makes it look like they rolled in mud on the way to the bar. Each one has a guitar and a bass drum that he plays simultaneously. One was also playing the cymbal with his other foot.
They even had some lyrics in Spanish, though it sounded more like they came from a Spanish 2 textbook. Some of the memorable choruses were "I am a fruit," "my dog is ugly," and "everything's bad nothing is good." I wish that my creative aura was clever enough to make all this up, but it's not. If you want to see for yourself, check out their website.
Since I have no more homework to do today, I'm baking cookies and going on a bike ride. I will try to think of new ways to surprise and engage my readers. But if the weather is warm and sunny this week, you may not hear from me too much. I'll be out enjoying it, and I'm definitely not putting on a scarf.
It was good that I finished the paper yesterday morning, because it was way too warm and sunny to be stuck indoors doing homework. It was break-out-your-shorts-and-tank-tops warm. Except in Germany, it's shorts, tank tops, and a scarf. And if you're a girl you might wear tights under your shorts too. You wouldn't want to catch cold.
The warmth made me think of summer, and summer makes me miss the backyard and the hammock and home. Brian and I agreed, as we were sweating out on the balcony, that we aren't homesick but we are also really excited about going back to the U.S. this summer.
Last night we went to a German bar with some teacher friends from England, Australia, Germany, Canada, and the U.S., to hear an Australian band play quasi-Mexican music. Life here is like that.
The band is called Puta Madre Brothers. If you don't know what that means in Spanish, I won't tell you. Just know that it's a bad word (or bad phrase to be exact) - not the brothers part, but the rest of it. The band is a group of three Australian guys, who play music that is part electric-guitar mariachi, part 60's surfer music, part soundtrack from a cheesy western movie. They have crazy swirly hair, wear old-style Mexican military uniforms, and their faces are smudged with dark face paint that makes it look like they rolled in mud on the way to the bar. Each one has a guitar and a bass drum that he plays simultaneously. One was also playing the cymbal with his other foot.
They even had some lyrics in Spanish, though it sounded more like they came from a Spanish 2 textbook. Some of the memorable choruses were "I am a fruit," "my dog is ugly," and "everything's bad nothing is good." I wish that my creative aura was clever enough to make all this up, but it's not. If you want to see for yourself, check out their website.
Since I have no more homework to do today, I'm baking cookies and going on a bike ride. I will try to think of new ways to surprise and engage my readers. But if the weather is warm and sunny this week, you may not hear from me too much. I'll be out enjoying it, and I'm definitely not putting on a scarf.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
cover teaching
Here in Hannover I have started my career as a cover teacher at the International School of Hannover Region. I like the word "cover", it sounds a lot better than "substitute". Here is how cover teaching works:
I check my email before bed to see if there are any messages about cover teaching for the next day. Usually that's not the case, but I am optimistic. Then about 7:30, or sometimes 7:45, the phone might ring. And sometimes the question is "can you come in to cover first lesson?" First lesson starts at 8:35. Then there is a mad dash to finish breakfast, shower, decide what to wear, pack up my German homework or my book to read, throw a lunch together and get on the bike. Deciding what to wear has a lot to do with riding to school - I learned the hard way (rrrrip) that most skirts don't work unless they are loose enough for me to swing a leg over the top of the bike.
When I get there I pick up my schedule and the teacher's instructions on what the kids should do in class. This requires entering the staff lounge. The staff lounge has pink leather couches and smells like old coffee. It's usually warm and cozy, but I try not to spend too much time in there because that would mean listening to all the teacher gossip.
Inevitably I will end up covering for 10th grade chemistry, or 9th grade algebra, or some other subject that I know very little about. When the kids ask me questions as they do their work I have clever phrases to say, like, "does the chapter in your textbook help you figure it out?" or "have you had to do a problem like that before?". That way I can pretend for a while that I actually know more than the kids do. But once they start asking me questions about square roots and periodic tables, I say things like, "are the answers in the back of the book?" and "did anyone find the answer for number 4?", or if all else fails, "why don't you circle that one and move on to the next question. You can ask the teacher when he/she is back". There was one day last week when I had Spanish and English classes. It was the best cover teaching day ever - I actually knew the answers didn't have to fake it.
If I substitute taught in the U.S., there would probably be some fighting, some swearing, some kids trying to make me cry.... but here the worst that happens is the kids talk too much or say whiny things like "he's touching me". That's good. I can handle whining but I don't think I'd be any good at breaking up a fight.
There is a limit to how much cover teaching I can do. In Germany, an employer can pay an employee 400 euros per month without having to pay any taxes. 400 euro jobs are pretty common in stores and bakeries and restaurants, and also at the International School apparently. It's great not to pay taxes but it also means that I can only cover about 22 lessons every month. So calling it a "career" might be an exaggeration.
Soon there will be more work to do, because in May the 12th graders will take their IB (international baccalaureate) exams. That's when they are tested on everything they have ever learned in certain subjects. What it means for me is invigilation. When I first heard that word I thought it has something to do with a bodily function, or maybe a medical procedure. What it actually mean s in British English is supervising the exam, passing out paper if needed, and making sure no one cheats. . In the U.S. we would call it proctoring an exam, which also sounds like something gross that might happen at a doctor's office. Invigilation will give me plenty of time to come up with new blog ideas.
Until then, I will listen for the phone to ring around 7:30, and think up some outfits that involve wearing pants.
I check my email before bed to see if there are any messages about cover teaching for the next day. Usually that's not the case, but I am optimistic. Then about 7:30, or sometimes 7:45, the phone might ring. And sometimes the question is "can you come in to cover first lesson?" First lesson starts at 8:35. Then there is a mad dash to finish breakfast, shower, decide what to wear, pack up my German homework or my book to read, throw a lunch together and get on the bike. Deciding what to wear has a lot to do with riding to school - I learned the hard way (rrrrip) that most skirts don't work unless they are loose enough for me to swing a leg over the top of the bike.
When I get there I pick up my schedule and the teacher's instructions on what the kids should do in class. This requires entering the staff lounge. The staff lounge has pink leather couches and smells like old coffee. It's usually warm and cozy, but I try not to spend too much time in there because that would mean listening to all the teacher gossip.
Inevitably I will end up covering for 10th grade chemistry, or 9th grade algebra, or some other subject that I know very little about. When the kids ask me questions as they do their work I have clever phrases to say, like, "does the chapter in your textbook help you figure it out?" or "have you had to do a problem like that before?". That way I can pretend for a while that I actually know more than the kids do. But once they start asking me questions about square roots and periodic tables, I say things like, "are the answers in the back of the book?" and "did anyone find the answer for number 4?", or if all else fails, "why don't you circle that one and move on to the next question. You can ask the teacher when he/she is back". There was one day last week when I had Spanish and English classes. It was the best cover teaching day ever - I actually knew the answers didn't have to fake it.
If I substitute taught in the U.S., there would probably be some fighting, some swearing, some kids trying to make me cry.... but here the worst that happens is the kids talk too much or say whiny things like "he's touching me". That's good. I can handle whining but I don't think I'd be any good at breaking up a fight.
There is a limit to how much cover teaching I can do. In Germany, an employer can pay an employee 400 euros per month without having to pay any taxes. 400 euro jobs are pretty common in stores and bakeries and restaurants, and also at the International School apparently. It's great not to pay taxes but it also means that I can only cover about 22 lessons every month. So calling it a "career" might be an exaggeration.
Soon there will be more work to do, because in May the 12th graders will take their IB (international baccalaureate) exams. That's when they are tested on everything they have ever learned in certain subjects. What it means for me is invigilation. When I first heard that word I thought it has something to do with a bodily function, or maybe a medical procedure. What it actually mean s in British English is supervising the exam, passing out paper if needed, and making sure no one cheats. . In the U.S. we would call it proctoring an exam, which also sounds like something gross that might happen at a doctor's office. Invigilation will give me plenty of time to come up with new blog ideas.
Until then, I will listen for the phone to ring around 7:30, and think up some outfits that involve wearing pants.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Customs/der Zoll
Last Friday I got a notice in the mail from Deutsche Post, the German postal service. I had received a package and had to go to the customs office (der Zoll) to pick it up. There was a letter that said something about how the proper receipt or invoice was not attached to the outside of the box, and a neon green paper in the envelope with an id number for my package (this will matter later in the story).
Deutsche Post is owned or at least operated by DHL. So here in the land of big government, the postal service has been privatized. Germany seems like a good place to be a mail carrier. You get to ride around all day on your yellow bike and deliver things. No dogs would bite you because a) you are not in a truck, and b) the dogs here are trained not to chase anything. They don't even sniff when you go by on the street. Plus, the mailmen here have cooler uniforms than the ones in the U.S.
So on Monday I looked up the address of the customs office and set out on my bike. Der Zoll way out near the airport in a part of Hannover I had never seen before. I was riding past car dealerships and office buildings and ended up in an industrial park. There was a big gate at the entrance with an empty guard booth, and soldiers were walking around in uniform. What sort of a place had I gone to? On the way there my biggest worries were having to pay a tax on the package and getting lost. Now I was wondering whether my box was involved in some sort of terror investigation. Maybe instead of a birthday gift, someone had sent me a bomb!
I walked into the huge warehouse building and headed down a long dark corridor. It opened up to ... not an interrogation room (I know that is what you were thinking. So was I), but a waiting room. And standing around a big folding table were various people holding their letters and neon green papers. At least I was in the right place.
As I sat and waited (every few minutes, someone peeped out of a door to call the next suspect in) I took a look at who else was picking up a package. Since I was possibly going to be detained with these people, I wanted to check out who would be sharing my cell. Possible cell-mates included:
After that, I thought I was done with der Zoll. Then yesterday I got another notice in the mail - I have to go back for another package. Maybe I'm becoming a usual suspect too.
Deutsche Post is owned or at least operated by DHL. So here in the land of big government, the postal service has been privatized. Germany seems like a good place to be a mail carrier. You get to ride around all day on your yellow bike and deliver things. No dogs would bite you because a) you are not in a truck, and b) the dogs here are trained not to chase anything. They don't even sniff when you go by on the street. Plus, the mailmen here have cooler uniforms than the ones in the U.S.
So on Monday I looked up the address of the customs office and set out on my bike. Der Zoll way out near the airport in a part of Hannover I had never seen before. I was riding past car dealerships and office buildings and ended up in an industrial park. There was a big gate at the entrance with an empty guard booth, and soldiers were walking around in uniform. What sort of a place had I gone to? On the way there my biggest worries were having to pay a tax on the package and getting lost. Now I was wondering whether my box was involved in some sort of terror investigation. Maybe instead of a birthday gift, someone had sent me a bomb!
I walked into the huge warehouse building and headed down a long dark corridor. It opened up to ... not an interrogation room (I know that is what you were thinking. So was I), but a waiting room. And standing around a big folding table were various people holding their letters and neon green papers. At least I was in the right place.
As I sat and waited (every few minutes, someone peeped out of a door to call the next suspect in) I took a look at who else was picking up a package. Since I was possibly going to be detained with these people, I wanted to check out who would be sharing my cell. Possible cell-mates included:
- An eastern European girl with long blond hair, tight red pants, and super high heels
- A couple in matching black rain jackets and hiking boots
- An old man in a tie and sportcoat, who looked like he knew what he was doing ( a usual suspect perhaps)
- 2 Asian girls
- 2 teenage boys (looked German, but who knows)
- A middle aged man with a beer belly and a mullet
After that, I thought I was done with der Zoll. Then yesterday I got another notice in the mail - I have to go back for another package. Maybe I'm becoming a usual suspect too.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Beds
So much for exciting travel stories. We are back to the mundane. This time I am writing about beds, probably because we've been sleeping in a lot of different ones over the last couple of weeks. On Friday, Brian and I even slept together in a single bed, but that's another story.
Beds in Europe are very different from beds in the U.S. Here's how:
Anatomy of an American bed:
frame
box spring
mattress, mattress pad
fitted sheet
top sheet
blankets
bedspread/quilt/comforter
Anatomy of a Euro bed:
frame
thin wooden slats connected with nylon or fabric strips. This is called a Lattenrost in German.Using a Lattenrost means that you can't jump on the bed because it doesn't bounce at all. It also means that the bed is firmer than what Americans are used to.
mattress, mattress pad
fitted sheet
comforter with duvet cover (2 comforters if it is a big bed)
The Europeans have an all or nothing take on bedding. Either you are cold and you have the comforter on, or you are hot and you take it off. They don't mess around with lighter blankets and top sheets.
The sizes of beds are also different. In the US you have twin, full, double, queen, king. European beds don't have cute names for different sizes, they just go with centimeters. The biggest mattress you can get is 140cm wide, then you have to start doubling up. Our bed is 180cm, which means it has two mattresses side by side with a funny crack in the middle. It's sort of a hybrid - Euro frame, Lattenrost, and mattress, American sheets and blankets, one set of pillows from each continent.
Could Brian and I have shipped our old bed here? Maybe, but it would have been the only furniture that we could have sent without paying tons of money, and we would have had to sleep on the aerobed for 3 months while waiting for our shipment to swim its way across the ocean. We will have to just be content with no jumping on the bed for now. It would bad to get your foot stuck in between the mattresses anyway.
Beds in Europe are very different from beds in the U.S. Here's how:
Anatomy of an American bed:
frame
box spring
mattress, mattress pad
fitted sheet
top sheet
blankets
bedspread/quilt/comforter
Anatomy of a Euro bed:frame
thin wooden slats connected with nylon or fabric strips. This is called a Lattenrost in German.Using a Lattenrost means that you can't jump on the bed because it doesn't bounce at all. It also means that the bed is firmer than what Americans are used to.
mattress, mattress pad
fitted sheet
comforter with duvet cover (2 comforters if it is a big bed)
The Europeans have an all or nothing take on bedding. Either you are cold and you have the comforter on, or you are hot and you take it off. They don't mess around with lighter blankets and top sheets.
The sizes of beds are also different. In the US you have twin, full, double, queen, king. European beds don't have cute names for different sizes, they just go with centimeters. The biggest mattress you can get is 140cm wide, then you have to start doubling up. Our bed is 180cm, which means it has two mattresses side by side with a funny crack in the middle. It's sort of a hybrid - Euro frame, Lattenrost, and mattress, American sheets and blankets, one set of pillows from each continent.
Could Brian and I have shipped our old bed here? Maybe, but it would have been the only furniture that we could have sent without paying tons of money, and we would have had to sleep on the aerobed for 3 months while waiting for our shipment to swim its way across the ocean. We will have to just be content with no jumping on the bed for now. It would bad to get your foot stuck in between the mattresses anyway.
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About Me
- Julia
- Thanks for coming to my blog. It started as a way to keep in touch with family and friends, and now has become an ongoing project. I'm an American living in Germany and trying to travel whenever I can. I write about my experiences as an expatriate (the interesting ones and the embarrassing ones), and about my travels. There are some recurring characters in this blog, particularly my husband Brian and several of our friends. The title comes from the idea that living in a foreign country means making a lot of mistakes. So the things you used to do easily you now have to try over and over again. Hopefully, like me, you can laugh at how idiotic it feels. If you have happened upon my blog, then welcome. Knowing that people are reading what I write makes me keep going. Feel free to write comments or suggestions for future posts.