I had my ninth grade Spanish class work on an assignment about new year's resolutions (propositos del año nuevo).
It's a funny word we use in English - resolution. It's so serious, so formal, so not a word we use in everyday conversation. Maybe using that word helps us tell ourselves that this is something really important, something to be serious about. Maybe the timing is arbitrary; it would make more sense to do so on your birthday . There is something, though, about taking down the Christmas tree and looking out at the cold gray skies that makes you want to do something newer, better, more hopeful. Maybe January resolutions give us the kick start that we need after the full-bellied lull of Christmas time.
The Spanish assignment was a little pessimistic... or realistic I guess. I had the students look at an infographic whose point was that something like 15% of our intentions to become better people are fulfilled. 85% of us quit.
The word I prefer is intention, aspiration, plans, commitments... This year I have a lot of them. They are scribbled in the little notebooks that I tend to leave lying around my apartment. What are they? you ask. I want to make Play Global grow and make my role in it more of a real job. I want to save money and sew more and organize my email inbox, organize my desk and cook new recipes and practice speaking more German, more fearlessly. I also decided to finally be a grown up and join (gasp) LinkedIn.
Will I be in the 85% or the 15%? I'd say having so many resolutions reduces my chances - at completing all of them. It also increases my chances - I'll probably do at least one. So maybe I'm hedging my bets. Would it sound better if I were ensuring my various options remain available? Then that's what I'm doing... at least until early February.
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Ode to the Döner, a multicultural delicacy
What comes from a big cone of meat, costs pocket change, and is the most authentically German food out there?
Forget sausages. The correct answer is the Döner, of course.
I have mentioned it a few times in this blog. But from my early Döner discovery to the present day, I have never actually dedicated a full post to this delicious treat.
You can buy a kebab anywhere in northern Europe. The Dutch have them, the Brits have them, the Finns, even the Belgians are in on it. But the Döner kebab has a unique German history, which is also Turkish. While Germany's integration of it 3 millionTurks is nothing to be proud of, the Döner is a perfect example of multiculturalism.
And the thanks all goes to one man. In the 1950s and 60s, Turkish guest workers came to Germany to work in post-war construction projects. A man named Kadir Nurman came to Berlin and worked as fitter for printing machines. A natural salesman, Nurman came up with the idea to make a Turkish food that could be enjoyed on the go. While most kebab came on a plate with rice and salad, Nurman invented the Döner Tasche. The perfect marriage of the bread that Germans love and the meat and toppings that come from Turkey, the Tasche was an ideal food to go. And so Nurman became 'der Döner Vater', the godfather of Döner.
So what is that huge cone of meat? It's a mix of veal and lamb, seasoned with spices and bathed in a yogurt marinade. It slowly rotates on a vertical rotisserie so that, as it cooks, the juices drip down into the meat rather than into the fire (hungry yet?). The inner layers remain uncooked. The whole thing can weigh up to 200 lbs.
Here's how you order a Döner:
The most popular version is the Tasche, or pocket. So you ask the friendly Turkish man for a Tasche, and asks you what kind of meat you want: chicken or lamb. You want lamb. He shaves it off the big cone of rotating meat with an electric knife, and scoops it into the homemade pita bread that he's just warmed up for you. Then he asks if you want everything. You do. He piles on cucumbers and tomatoes, white cabbage, red cabbage, lettuce. Do you want tzaziki sauce? and hot sauce? Yes and yes. The seasoned grease from the meat soaks a little into the fresh, spongy bread. And then you understand what integration tastes like.**
While the Döner kebab may have been invented in Berlin, you can go to almost any town in Germany and find a kebab shop. That means that there's probably a Turkish family in town. Maybe they've been there for decades, but there's no way to know how well they fit in with their German neighbors. At least we know they all come together when those neighbors are chowing down on some Döner Tasches.
** I am only an occasional meat-eater. But I am happy for those occasions to happen at the Döner shop.
Forget sausages. The correct answer is the Döner, of course.
I have mentioned it a few times in this blog. But from my early Döner discovery to the present day, I have never actually dedicated a full post to this delicious treat.
You can buy a kebab anywhere in northern Europe. The Dutch have them, the Brits have them, the Finns, even the Belgians are in on it. But the Döner kebab has a unique German history, which is also Turkish. While Germany's integration of it 3 millionTurks is nothing to be proud of, the Döner is a perfect example of multiculturalism.
And the thanks all goes to one man. In the 1950s and 60s, Turkish guest workers came to Germany to work in post-war construction projects. A man named Kadir Nurman came to Berlin and worked as fitter for printing machines. A natural salesman, Nurman came up with the idea to make a Turkish food that could be enjoyed on the go. While most kebab came on a plate with rice and salad, Nurman invented the Döner Tasche. The perfect marriage of the bread that Germans love and the meat and toppings that come from Turkey, the Tasche was an ideal food to go. And so Nurman became 'der Döner Vater', the godfather of Döner.
So what is that huge cone of meat? It's a mix of veal and lamb, seasoned with spices and bathed in a yogurt marinade. It slowly rotates on a vertical rotisserie so that, as it cooks, the juices drip down into the meat rather than into the fire (hungry yet?). The inner layers remain uncooked. The whole thing can weigh up to 200 lbs.
 |
| Angela likes a good Döner |
Here's how you order a Döner:
The most popular version is the Tasche, or pocket. So you ask the friendly Turkish man for a Tasche, and asks you what kind of meat you want: chicken or lamb. You want lamb. He shaves it off the big cone of rotating meat with an electric knife, and scoops it into the homemade pita bread that he's just warmed up for you. Then he asks if you want everything. You do. He piles on cucumbers and tomatoes, white cabbage, red cabbage, lettuce. Do you want tzaziki sauce? and hot sauce? Yes and yes. The seasoned grease from the meat soaks a little into the fresh, spongy bread. And then you understand what integration tastes like.**
While the Döner kebab may have been invented in Berlin, you can go to almost any town in Germany and find a kebab shop. That means that there's probably a Turkish family in town. Maybe they've been there for decades, but there's no way to know how well they fit in with their German neighbors. At least we know they all come together when those neighbors are chowing down on some Döner Tasches.
** I am only an occasional meat-eater. But I am happy for those occasions to happen at the Döner shop.
Sunday, January 3, 2016
Minnesota recertification
Our days in Vuokatti mostly went like this:
Sleep until 9 or so, when the sun comes up. Eat breakfast.
Dress in about 5 layers of clothing, hats, boots and mittens. Go out skiing or hiking.
Eat lunch. Repeat skiing or hiking. Maybe go to the grocery store.
Sit in the sauna, take a shower at about sundown, which is at 3pm.
Make a fire and sit in the cabin - Brian watching bowl games and me reading. Make dinner at some point. Read. Go to bed.
That was about it. Our trip was almost honeymoon-like. Plus we got to eat reindeer hot dogs, which very few couples I know can do on their honeymoons.
The skiiers I saw on the course amazed me. Five years ago, I would have called myself an intermediate-level skiier. But once I got on the trails in Vuokatti, Nordic grandmas whooshed by me, followed by their three-year-old Nordic grandkids in snowsuits. I had to work to stay out of their way. After a couple of days, I lost some of my fear of going downhill and my legs were steadier. Then only the five-year-olds passed me by.
This Finland trip was our first real taste of winter since we moved to Germany, except for a week in Chicagoland 2 years ago. We had to remember how to dress, how it feels to have your hair freeze, how to walk down a hill in the snow, how to cross country ski. It was like a re-certification exam to make sure we are still qualified to call ourselves Minnesotans. Challenge accepted. We didn't get a perfect score, but I think we passed.
And we found the winter wonderland we'd all been singing about before Christmas.
Sleep until 9 or so, when the sun comes up. Eat breakfast.
Dress in about 5 layers of clothing, hats, boots and mittens. Go out skiing or hiking.
Eat lunch. Repeat skiing or hiking. Maybe go to the grocery store.
Sit in the sauna, take a shower at about sundown, which is at 3pm.
Make a fire and sit in the cabin - Brian watching bowl games and me reading. Make dinner at some point. Read. Go to bed.
That was about it. Our trip was almost honeymoon-like. Plus we got to eat reindeer hot dogs, which very few couples I know can do on their honeymoons.
The skiiers I saw on the course amazed me. Five years ago, I would have called myself an intermediate-level skiier. But once I got on the trails in Vuokatti, Nordic grandmas whooshed by me, followed by their three-year-old Nordic grandkids in snowsuits. I had to work to stay out of their way. After a couple of days, I lost some of my fear of going downhill and my legs were steadier. Then only the five-year-olds passed me by.
This Finland trip was our first real taste of winter since we moved to Germany, except for a week in Chicagoland 2 years ago. We had to remember how to dress, how it feels to have your hair freeze, how to walk down a hill in the snow, how to cross country ski. It was like a re-certification exam to make sure we are still qualified to call ourselves Minnesotans. Challenge accepted. We didn't get a perfect score, but I think we passed.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Finns of few words, and the beaten path
There's a joke about Finns that goes like this:
“An introverted Finn looks at his shoes when talking to you.
An extroverted Finn looks at your shoes”.
While stereotype jokes are not entirely reliable, I'd say this one is pretty right on. After our Star Wars conversation at the hotel, we didn't exchange more than a dozen words with anybody.
I am not saying that the Finns aren't nice people. I don't actually know. Finns are so reserved they make north Germans seem raucous. Even walking down a road in the forest in the middle of nowhere, the people we came across didn't make eye contact.
To help rank and label people (another fun use of stereotypes, which we know are always accurate), here is my continuum of friendliness to strangers by nationality, at least for the places I have visited:
Friendliness index
We arrived at our little ski resort, Vuokatti, with hopes of dusting off my cross country skis that were still in their wrapper since we moved to Hannover. Brian was going to rent skis too and learn how, and we would swish and swoosh out the door of our little cabin into a winter wonderland.
Except this has been basically the warmest December in history and we were lucky there was snow at all, even this far north (Vuokatti is on the same latitude as Reykjavik, Iceland). Our dreams of Nordic paradise had not been squashed - people were walking around in ski boots and carrying snow boards on their cars. There was skiing to do somewhere. So we went to the ski shop, where I was sure they guys at the rental desk could advise us on where to go.
Brian had taught himself to say "I don't speak Finnish" in Finnish. He tried that line out of the first ski bum, who pointed at the next ski bum and said "talk to him." Brian asked for Nordic skis and ski bum number 2 nodded. "What's your shoe size?" he asked. Those were half of the words he would utter in the whole interaction. A few minutes later, he grabbed skis and poles and shoved them in Brian's direction. When I asked about good places to ski and where to find trails, the girl at the counter just handed me a map. When I asked further, she said that people at Vuokattinhoviholli could tell me where to go. As if I knew where that place was, or even how to spell it. It just sounded like what the Swedish chef says as he's preparing to boil some rubber chickens. I could have pressed her for more information, but I was already painfully aware of making her say - in English - more than she was comfortable saying.
So Brian and I hiked it back to our cabin and decided to try out the skis there. Nordic paradise it was not. The snow was too thin, so the trails had not been groomed. Under a fluffy layer of snow lurked ice and rocks, ready to sabotage us. It was not a good place for Brian to learn to ski or for me to remember how to ski. We figured out, through some map-reading, a little internet searching and exploration on foot, that the groomed trails were a 40 minute walk from our cabin. They are actually just around the corner from the ski shop, where I had asked about finding a good place to ski.
After our first day at Vuokatti, I decided that the beaten path is well-beaten for a reason. When skiing in rural Finland you should just stay on it unless you want to scratch the hell out of your skis. Brian decided that learning to ski is still a good idea but that this was not the place to do it. On day two, I set out to ski the beaten path.
“An introverted Finn looks at his shoes when talking to you.
An extroverted Finn looks at your shoes”.
While stereotype jokes are not entirely reliable, I'd say this one is pretty right on. After our Star Wars conversation at the hotel, we didn't exchange more than a dozen words with anybody.
I am not saying that the Finns aren't nice people. I don't actually know. Finns are so reserved they make north Germans seem raucous. Even walking down a road in the forest in the middle of nowhere, the people we came across didn't make eye contact.
To help rank and label people (another fun use of stereotypes, which we know are always accurate), here is my continuum of friendliness to strangers by nationality, at least for the places I have visited:
Friendliness index
We arrived at our little ski resort, Vuokatti, with hopes of dusting off my cross country skis that were still in their wrapper since we moved to Hannover. Brian was going to rent skis too and learn how, and we would swish and swoosh out the door of our little cabin into a winter wonderland.
Except this has been basically the warmest December in history and we were lucky there was snow at all, even this far north (Vuokatti is on the same latitude as Reykjavik, Iceland). Our dreams of Nordic paradise had not been squashed - people were walking around in ski boots and carrying snow boards on their cars. There was skiing to do somewhere. So we went to the ski shop, where I was sure they guys at the rental desk could advise us on where to go.
Brian had taught himself to say "I don't speak Finnish" in Finnish. He tried that line out of the first ski bum, who pointed at the next ski bum and said "talk to him." Brian asked for Nordic skis and ski bum number 2 nodded. "What's your shoe size?" he asked. Those were half of the words he would utter in the whole interaction. A few minutes later, he grabbed skis and poles and shoved them in Brian's direction. When I asked about good places to ski and where to find trails, the girl at the counter just handed me a map. When I asked further, she said that people at Vuokattinhoviholli could tell me where to go. As if I knew where that place was, or even how to spell it. It just sounded like what the Swedish chef says as he's preparing to boil some rubber chickens. I could have pressed her for more information, but I was already painfully aware of making her say - in English - more than she was comfortable saying.
So Brian and I hiked it back to our cabin and decided to try out the skis there. Nordic paradise it was not. The snow was too thin, so the trails had not been groomed. Under a fluffy layer of snow lurked ice and rocks, ready to sabotage us. It was not a good place for Brian to learn to ski or for me to remember how to ski. We figured out, through some map-reading, a little internet searching and exploration on foot, that the groomed trails were a 40 minute walk from our cabin. They are actually just around the corner from the ski shop, where I had asked about finding a good place to ski.
After our first day at Vuokatti, I decided that the beaten path is well-beaten for a reason. When skiing in rural Finland you should just stay on it unless you want to scratch the hell out of your skis. Brian decided that learning to ski is still a good idea but that this was not the place to do it. On day two, I set out to ski the beaten path.
Christmas in Helsinki
Brian and love to travel and fill our vacations with seeing sights, visiting restaurants and museums and historical places, learning what a new place is all about. Our trip to Finland was different.
In Helsinki on a warm(ish) Christmas, there wasn't much going on. Attractions were closed, rain was falling and the hotel was cozy. Once we got past the nagging feeling that we should be heading to a museum or trekking around town, it was delightfully lazy.
We did get out a little and saw some of Helsinki. Here are a few shots:
In Helsinki on a warm(ish) Christmas, there wasn't much going on. Attractions were closed, rain was falling and the hotel was cozy. Once we got past the nagging feeling that we should be heading to a museum or trekking around town, it was delightfully lazy.
We did get out a little and saw some of Helsinki. Here are a few shots:
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| Lutheran cathedral, senate square |
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| Post office - I love the lettering over the door |
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| Helsinki harbor |
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| Russian Orthodox cathedral |
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| Aleksi Street |
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| I think every tourist in Helsinki has a photo like this... |
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| Main train station |
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| Downtown Helsinki |
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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.