The above has become my mantra for the past couple of days as I navigate the intricacies of living, getting a job, getting a bank account, and getting a cellphone, and dealing with various bureaucracies- all in German, if possible. Not to mention the German keyboard is all different and confusing, with the Z where the Y ought to be... but now I'm just whining. Actually, things are going pretty well for me here. I have so far managed to register my address with the local authorities, so that I can get a bank account (tomorrow, hopefully), look into cellphone plans and generally understand what is going on, and find a few job opportunities.
My absolutely WONDERFUL hosts, Johanna and Theresa, have helped me correct my CV and letter of introduction to Inlingua, a language school... so that hopefully I can get at least an interview for a job as an English teacher. I have also had some success with inquiries into jobs at a couple of restaurants, but I'm planning on telling one I'm not interested- in general, I just get a kind of bad feeling about the place- like I would really hate working there. The other is a Vegan restaurant, and I will hopefully go for an interview sometime in the next couple of days.
So... for two full days in town, I'd say that's not so bad. It's a strange feeling- I keep having to remind myself that that I actually live here. I think once I put down a few more roots, it will feel less strange. I REALLY need a place to practice. On Sunday, I am planning to go play in a pick-up Frisbee game in the English Gardens.
Altogether, I'm happy to be here, and my German is actually better than I thought it was. I just really want to feel settled. I don't miss my life in America much, but I do miss good friends, practice rooms, the irresponsibility of University life, and Home Grown Cafe.
Thursday, 26 July 2007
Wednesday, 11 July 2007
Current Music: Benjamin Britten's "Winter Words" / Current Mood: not quite awake.
At the proddings of some good friends (Ashley: "update your blog, asshat...." Evan: "We need to know what your current mood is and what album you are currently listening to."), I am resolved to stay home from an Outing Into Town and give you, my faithful readers, something of an account of my adventures in Italy and Skye.
The day after my last post, Adam, Johanna and I flew to Italy, where we spent a week getting to know our cousins a bit better, meeting new family, eating and drinking beautiful food and wine, overloading our brain with gorgeous scenery. I will not give a day-by-day account of what happened, but I will try to give you some of the highlights. The ultimate for me was attending the opera in Verona. We saw Nabucco at the arena- a collusseum-era building in the center of town. The voices were good- particularly that of Nabucco, himself- and the sets were a bit too sparse/modernist for my liking, but what really made the experience rich was the audience. They knew the opera and loved it. (We even heard voices singing along during the chorus of the Hebrew slaves. Afterwards, there were calls for them to sing it again, which they did!) For them, opera wasn't something pretentious and strange- it's part of their life, and where they come from. It left the realm of the obscure, and was no longer, as opera singers across the world today fear, a dying art, but one which is relevant and beloved.
We also spent a day walking around the back streets of Venice, of course, which were beautiful, but incredibly hot, and inspired much eating of ice cream. A great deal more happened on the trip- walking in the Alps, attending a fabulous Italian family gathering, swimming in pristine lakes... To make up for the lack of further writing about this trip, I shall post a fabulous picture of all the cousins:
Last weekend, Johanna and I set out for Skye, a large island off the west coast of Scotland. Friday, we took a lovely walk along the coast of a western peninsula, on beaches made entirely of crushed shells, surrounded by clear and cold water. Johanna took many a picture of the local geology, and I took many a picture of her in her native habitat. That evening, as we sat at the harbor of Portree with fish and chips, the seagulls squawked persistently. As my attention was focused on one walking near us, another swooped down and snatched a chip (and my chip fork) out of my hand, hitting me on the head with his wing. I hope he choked on it. Anyway, these seagulls looks pretty well-fed, and not because of their own fishing efforts, I am sure. That evening, we visited a pub, where some local music was to be played, only to find a septuagenarian and his grandson playing a cover of Pink Floyd's "Wish you were here." When they moved on to "Freebird," we moved on to other entertainment. We had also heard tell of a ceilidh in town that night, and managed to get there about an hour before it ended. For those who do not know, a Ceilidh is like a Scottish dance party. People of all ages get together and do various highland dances, accompanied by fabulous music, and sometimes singing. The kids usually know the dances better than anyone else, but the forms are always explained at the beginning. At this particular ceilidh, the band was a group of high school students who seemed to be on a tour of Skye. The level at which they played was a testament to the emphasis which is placed on musical education- particularly on traditional music. These kids were accomplished musicians. While everyone caught their breath between the dances, young girls sang solos a cappella in Gaelic. Their ages ranged from about 8 to 12 years of age. Some voices were better than others, but they all sang on key, and, for the most part, with admirable poise. Altogether, it was wonderful to see.
Saturday, we climbed Sgurr Dearg, a mountain in the Black Cuillens mountain range. It was a foggy day, and had we actually seen the mountain we were setting out to climb, we probably would never have attempted it- certainly not with me only wearing my running shoes. Having misread the map, we believed it to be 900 vertical feet, whereas it was actually 900 vertical meters. Anyway, the going was fairly easy, until the trail deteriorated, and we had to pick our way among fallen rocks, searching in the fog for cairns- piles of rocks left by previous hikers, to show the way. Visibility was no more than 20 or so feet in any direction. Eventually, we found ourselves climbing over often wet boulders, as I wondered which would give out first-the tread on my shoes, or my unsupported ankles. When we finally reached the top of the ridge, the wind was incredible, but we couldn't see anything of the supposedly wonderful view. We took shelter behind a large rock, and devoured our bagels, before heading back down (picture of us on top of the mountain posted below). On the way down, we decided that instead of trying to descend the boulders backwards, to try and shimmy down a pebbly rockslide, hugging the edges, and trying (in vain) not to fall on our butts. Anyway, about six hours after we set out, we reached the car again, with shaking legs and reproachful feet. After the exhaustion died down, I'd be lying if I said I didn't look wistfully at the mountains we drove past. Although I'm a far cry from understanding those mountaineers who keep going after losing their friends and their fingers, having Sgurr Dearg wear me out somehow left me wanting more.
So that about brings us up to date... on Friday, Johanna and I go to Perthshire, on Saturday/Sunday, we will be in Edinburgh, and then it's on to London Towne.
The day after my last post, Adam, Johanna and I flew to Italy, where we spent a week getting to know our cousins a bit better, meeting new family, eating and drinking beautiful food and wine, overloading our brain with gorgeous scenery. I will not give a day-by-day account of what happened, but I will try to give you some of the highlights. The ultimate for me was attending the opera in Verona. We saw Nabucco at the arena- a collusseum-era building in the center of town. The voices were good- particularly that of Nabucco, himself- and the sets were a bit too sparse/modernist for my liking, but what really made the experience rich was the audience. They knew the opera and loved it. (We even heard voices singing along during the chorus of the Hebrew slaves. Afterwards, there were calls for them to sing it again, which they did!) For them, opera wasn't something pretentious and strange- it's part of their life, and where they come from. It left the realm of the obscure, and was no longer, as opera singers across the world today fear, a dying art, but one which is relevant and beloved.
We also spent a day walking around the back streets of Venice, of course, which were beautiful, but incredibly hot, and inspired much eating of ice cream. A great deal more happened on the trip- walking in the Alps, attending a fabulous Italian family gathering, swimming in pristine lakes... To make up for the lack of further writing about this trip, I shall post a fabulous picture of all the cousins:
Last weekend, Johanna and I set out for Skye, a large island off the west coast of Scotland. Friday, we took a lovely walk along the coast of a western peninsula, on beaches made entirely of crushed shells, surrounded by clear and cold water. Johanna took many a picture of the local geology, and I took many a picture of her in her native habitat. That evening, as we sat at the harbor of Portree with fish and chips, the seagulls squawked persistently. As my attention was focused on one walking near us, another swooped down and snatched a chip (and my chip fork) out of my hand, hitting me on the head with his wing. I hope he choked on it. Anyway, these seagulls looks pretty well-fed, and not because of their own fishing efforts, I am sure. That evening, we visited a pub, where some local music was to be played, only to find a septuagenarian and his grandson playing a cover of Pink Floyd's "Wish you were here." When they moved on to "Freebird," we moved on to other entertainment. We had also heard tell of a ceilidh in town that night, and managed to get there about an hour before it ended. For those who do not know, a Ceilidh is like a Scottish dance party. People of all ages get together and do various highland dances, accompanied by fabulous music, and sometimes singing. The kids usually know the dances better than anyone else, but the forms are always explained at the beginning. At this particular ceilidh, the band was a group of high school students who seemed to be on a tour of Skye. The level at which they played was a testament to the emphasis which is placed on musical education- particularly on traditional music. These kids were accomplished musicians. While everyone caught their breath between the dances, young girls sang solos a cappella in Gaelic. Their ages ranged from about 8 to 12 years of age. Some voices were better than others, but they all sang on key, and, for the most part, with admirable poise. Altogether, it was wonderful to see.
Saturday, we climbed Sgurr Dearg, a mountain in the Black Cuillens mountain range. It was a foggy day, and had we actually seen the mountain we were setting out to climb, we probably would never have attempted it- certainly not with me only wearing my running shoes. Having misread the map, we believed it to be 900 vertical feet, whereas it was actually 900 vertical meters. Anyway, the going was fairly easy, until the trail deteriorated, and we had to pick our way among fallen rocks, searching in the fog for cairns- piles of rocks left by previous hikers, to show the way. Visibility was no more than 20 or so feet in any direction. Eventually, we found ourselves climbing over often wet boulders, as I wondered which would give out first-the tread on my shoes, or my unsupported ankles. When we finally reached the top of the ridge, the wind was incredible, but we couldn't see anything of the supposedly wonderful view. We took shelter behind a large rock, and devoured our bagels, before heading back down (picture of us on top of the mountain posted below). On the way down, we decided that instead of trying to descend the boulders backwards, to try and shimmy down a pebbly rockslide, hugging the edges, and trying (in vain) not to fall on our butts. Anyway, about six hours after we set out, we reached the car again, with shaking legs and reproachful feet. After the exhaustion died down, I'd be lying if I said I didn't look wistfully at the mountains we drove past. Although I'm a far cry from understanding those mountaineers who keep going after losing their friends and their fingers, having Sgurr Dearg wear me out somehow left me wanting more.
So that about brings us up to date... on Friday, Johanna and I go to Perthshire, on Saturday/Sunday, we will be in Edinburgh, and then it's on to London Towne.
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