This baby expires in 2023. Wow. The very concept of 2023 is difficult to fathom if you're a person like me, who generally can't even manage to think as far ahead as next year!
Sunday, January 27, 2013
The Conclusion to My Tale of Adventures in Americaland
New passport! So pretty. And, of course, so full of creepy electronically embedded information. What can you do.
This baby expires in 2023. Wow. The very concept of 2023 is difficult to fathom if you're a person like me, who generally can't even manage to think as far ahead as next year!
This baby expires in 2023. Wow. The very concept of 2023 is difficult to fathom if you're a person like me, who generally can't even manage to think as far ahead as next year!
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Adventures in Americaland (a.k.a. Day of Drama in Dahlem)
It was time (after 10 good years of traveling – and even the addition of extra passport pages – which incidentally I was so excited about, needing extra passport pages – though that was mostly just because of the endless parade of double-page German residency permits...) to renew my passport.
To do so, I made an appointment at the American Consulate.
Now, the consulate is not the same as the embassy, that bastion of high-security conveniently located smack dab next to the Brandenburg Gate but inaccessible to the normal public. No, no, the consulate is where mere mortals go, whether American or otherwise, and it's located way, way, way down in southwestern Berlin. Specifically, in an area called Dahlem that, at least from my current-day, Berliner-by-choice perspective is... let's just say, really far from where anything else interesting is going on.
(In German, they're not quite so polite, and would say it's "am Arsch der Welt." Translate it if you like. Ha – I just typed that into Google Translate to see what would come up, and it actually rendered the phrase quite idiomatically as "the back of beyond." Not what it literally means, though.)
To be fair, yes, there are solid historical reasons why all the American stuff in Berlin is down in Dahlem. That was part of the American Sector when the city was divided, so it became home to the Free University (Berlin's historical Humboldt University having ended up in the East part of the city) and to this day is still home to institutions like the John F. Kennedy bilingual school. Americans living in my neighborhood (Prenzlauer Berg, which is full of babies and toddlers) often move down to Dahlem (expensive houses, American school) when their kids reach school age.
This fascinates me in general, actually: All the middle-aged-or-older Americans and (former) West Germans I know in Berlin initially moved to West Berlin (logically enough) but even now, 23+ years later, they still have little or no connection to the parts that are the former East. Literally just no reason to ever be here.
For a young international person moving to Berlin now, though, it's a no-brainer that the eastern parts of the city (Mitte, Prenzlauer Berg, Friedrichshain – and Kreuzberg and Neukölln, which were politically West, but geographically more or less east, if that makes sense) are the interesting places to be nowadays, and to us, the former West seems dozy in comparison.
Anyway, digression aside, renewing my passport required a trip (over an hour by a combination of trams and subways) down to Dahlem. When I arrived at the consulate (heavily gated, with policemen keeping watch from a little police box out front), even though I had an appointment I first had to wait on a line, outside the building, before being allowed into the security checkpoint building that would then allow me to enter the actual building.
Did I mention it was raining?
Yes, I do understand why institutions of the American government are paranoid about security. (Though let's be honest here, there's quite a long list of geopolitical things they could stop doing out in the world that just incidentally might also reduce the need for uptight security.)
Still, I'd like to complain here briefly, on a personal and superficial level: I have all these friends who are journalists from Britain, Canada, whatever, and it seems like they're forever being invited to cool, classy events at their respective embassies. What does my embassy invite me to do? Wait outside in the rain.
Anyway, I didn't have to wait overly long – especially because Americans and non-Americans were asked to form separate lines, with some preference given to the American line each time a group of five was called into the security checkpoint.
Then the whole security process: ID check, metal detector, buzzer you have to ring before the door to the main building will unlock, airlock-type door system where one door never opens until the previous door closes. Finally into the main part of the main building, where another guard was on hand to admonish us to close the door behind us, because of course the next door wouldn't open until we did.
Once inside, though, I was able to approach the window right away, and hand over my current passport and paperwork. When it came time to pay the fee, though – that's when things got dicey, because it was 80-ish euros (I forget now exactly how much), and I hadn't brought that much in cash.
Please allow me to back up and explain:
I always bring cash for these sorts of things. Even though it's never necessary, because you can always pay by EC-card (German bank/debit card). But I'm a compulsively organized sort of person, so I always bring the cash too. In fact, I'd had "get cash" written on that morning's compulsively organized to-do list, but then I looked at it, told myself to stop being so ridiculous and crossed it back off list. And let myself enjoy ten relaxed minutes of breakfast, instead of rushing off to the bank before catching the tram.
...Only to arrive at the consulate to find they didn't accept EC-cards – only credit cards. Fair enough, I guess, since the American consulate is after all American, but still quietly ironic, since anywhere else in Germany would accept an EC-card but probably not a credit card.
Okay, fine, I thought. I can use my credit card and just pay directly in dollars, instead of euros. Convenient enough. (And indeed, the woman said they accept only American credit cards, not even German ones!)
I opened up my wallet, only to find... I wasn't carrying a credit card.
The Americans out there are boggling at the very idea of this, I know, but you have to understand: I never use a credit card in Germany. Like, never never. Pretty much the only time I even need one is once a year when I buy a plane ticket home to the U.S. from an American website. Germans just don't use them. They're a famously cash-carrying society, and if they do pay anything by card, it's with an EC-card that's debited directly from their bank accounts. And I like that; it's a smart way to live, and pretty much guaranteed not to let you get into the debt that plagues so many lives in the U.S.
But now here I was in Americaland, i.e. the American consulate, and I hadn't even brought a credit card. I guess I just took it out of my wallet at some point, because it seemed pointless to even carry it around.
So: In "America" without a credit card or cash.
Was there an ATM in the building (as you might expect in a place that regularly asks people to pay large sums in cash)? No, there wasn't. Nearby? No. Maybe down at the gas station by the next big intersection, the woman said.
There was nothing else for it: I went back out of the building and through the security checkpoint, where I asked the security guys (not American, but they determinedly spoke only English, and with a funny sort of accent as if they were trying to be Texan) for directions.
They said the nearest (though still not very near) ATM wasn't from my particular bank, so it would charge me a fee to withdraw money... But with the clock ticking and a full day's worth of work to get started on after I'd finally wrapped up the passport thing, I opted to save time over money.
So I walked a ways down the road (in the rain) to the gas station, and waited at the ATM while the man in front of me withdrew money. When it was my turn, I went to insert my card – and the ATM wouldn't take it.
After several tries, I went up to the gas station counter to ask – the machine isn't taking my card, but I just saw it work for the person before me – and the women there said to wait a few minutes: Sometimes the machine acts up, and you just have to wait a bit.
So I waited a few minutes and tried again...waited a few minutes and tried again...waited a few minutes and tried again... Finally, shrugging apologetically, the women behind the counter told me I'd be better off trying somewhere else.
Back outside (it was now raining harder) to try my luck further down the road in the other direction, where supposedly my bank had an ATM near the next S-Bahn station. Even by hopping on the bus, it was a ten or fifteen-minute trip over to the station...where there were branches of practically every bank you can find in Berlin, but not mine.
By this point, the whole adventure had tipped over from patently ridiculous to comically absurd, so I didn't even care. Got money from another bank, walked through the now pouring rain to get back on the bus, dashed up to the consulate and back to the security checkpoint.
But the guard, instead of sending me on through (because surely he recognized me by now!) reached for his phone. And when he got through to someone in the office inside, the first thing he said was, "I know it's already 12:10, but...."
Seriously? Seriously? After all this, was I going to end up being turned away because it was now the (German-style, strictly-enforced) lunch hour??
Barely breathing, I waited until the security guard said "Thanks" and hung up...and mercifully waved me on to go through the metal detector.
Back through the endless security doors, the buzzer, the guard, the stairs... And when I finally arrived back at the passport window with cash in hand, the whole process of turning in my passport, application and fee took about 30 seconds.
Lesson learned from this experience? I don't even know. Always carry cash? Always carry three different forms of payment? Never trust Americans? No idea.
But at least I came away with this story, of my Day of Drama in Dahlem.
To do so, I made an appointment at the American Consulate.
Now, the consulate is not the same as the embassy, that bastion of high-security conveniently located smack dab next to the Brandenburg Gate but inaccessible to the normal public. No, no, the consulate is where mere mortals go, whether American or otherwise, and it's located way, way, way down in southwestern Berlin. Specifically, in an area called Dahlem that, at least from my current-day, Berliner-by-choice perspective is... let's just say, really far from where anything else interesting is going on.
(In German, they're not quite so polite, and would say it's "am Arsch der Welt." Translate it if you like. Ha – I just typed that into Google Translate to see what would come up, and it actually rendered the phrase quite idiomatically as "the back of beyond." Not what it literally means, though.)
To be fair, yes, there are solid historical reasons why all the American stuff in Berlin is down in Dahlem. That was part of the American Sector when the city was divided, so it became home to the Free University (Berlin's historical Humboldt University having ended up in the East part of the city) and to this day is still home to institutions like the John F. Kennedy bilingual school. Americans living in my neighborhood (Prenzlauer Berg, which is full of babies and toddlers) often move down to Dahlem (expensive houses, American school) when their kids reach school age.
This fascinates me in general, actually: All the middle-aged-or-older Americans and (former) West Germans I know in Berlin initially moved to West Berlin (logically enough) but even now, 23+ years later, they still have little or no connection to the parts that are the former East. Literally just no reason to ever be here.
For a young international person moving to Berlin now, though, it's a no-brainer that the eastern parts of the city (Mitte, Prenzlauer Berg, Friedrichshain – and Kreuzberg and Neukölln, which were politically West, but geographically more or less east, if that makes sense) are the interesting places to be nowadays, and to us, the former West seems dozy in comparison.
Anyway, digression aside, renewing my passport required a trip (over an hour by a combination of trams and subways) down to Dahlem. When I arrived at the consulate (heavily gated, with policemen keeping watch from a little police box out front), even though I had an appointment I first had to wait on a line, outside the building, before being allowed into the security checkpoint building that would then allow me to enter the actual building.
Did I mention it was raining?
Yes, I do understand why institutions of the American government are paranoid about security. (Though let's be honest here, there's quite a long list of geopolitical things they could stop doing out in the world that just incidentally might also reduce the need for uptight security.)
Still, I'd like to complain here briefly, on a personal and superficial level: I have all these friends who are journalists from Britain, Canada, whatever, and it seems like they're forever being invited to cool, classy events at their respective embassies. What does my embassy invite me to do? Wait outside in the rain.
Anyway, I didn't have to wait overly long – especially because Americans and non-Americans were asked to form separate lines, with some preference given to the American line each time a group of five was called into the security checkpoint.
Then the whole security process: ID check, metal detector, buzzer you have to ring before the door to the main building will unlock, airlock-type door system where one door never opens until the previous door closes. Finally into the main part of the main building, where another guard was on hand to admonish us to close the door behind us, because of course the next door wouldn't open until we did.
Once inside, though, I was able to approach the window right away, and hand over my current passport and paperwork. When it came time to pay the fee, though – that's when things got dicey, because it was 80-ish euros (I forget now exactly how much), and I hadn't brought that much in cash.
Please allow me to back up and explain:
I always bring cash for these sorts of things. Even though it's never necessary, because you can always pay by EC-card (German bank/debit card). But I'm a compulsively organized sort of person, so I always bring the cash too. In fact, I'd had "get cash" written on that morning's compulsively organized to-do list, but then I looked at it, told myself to stop being so ridiculous and crossed it back off list. And let myself enjoy ten relaxed minutes of breakfast, instead of rushing off to the bank before catching the tram.
...Only to arrive at the consulate to find they didn't accept EC-cards – only credit cards. Fair enough, I guess, since the American consulate is after all American, but still quietly ironic, since anywhere else in Germany would accept an EC-card but probably not a credit card.
Okay, fine, I thought. I can use my credit card and just pay directly in dollars, instead of euros. Convenient enough. (And indeed, the woman said they accept only American credit cards, not even German ones!)
I opened up my wallet, only to find... I wasn't carrying a credit card.
The Americans out there are boggling at the very idea of this, I know, but you have to understand: I never use a credit card in Germany. Like, never never. Pretty much the only time I even need one is once a year when I buy a plane ticket home to the U.S. from an American website. Germans just don't use them. They're a famously cash-carrying society, and if they do pay anything by card, it's with an EC-card that's debited directly from their bank accounts. And I like that; it's a smart way to live, and pretty much guaranteed not to let you get into the debt that plagues so many lives in the U.S.
But now here I was in Americaland, i.e. the American consulate, and I hadn't even brought a credit card. I guess I just took it out of my wallet at some point, because it seemed pointless to even carry it around.
So: In "America" without a credit card or cash.
Was there an ATM in the building (as you might expect in a place that regularly asks people to pay large sums in cash)? No, there wasn't. Nearby? No. Maybe down at the gas station by the next big intersection, the woman said.
There was nothing else for it: I went back out of the building and through the security checkpoint, where I asked the security guys (not American, but they determinedly spoke only English, and with a funny sort of accent as if they were trying to be Texan) for directions.
They said the nearest (though still not very near) ATM wasn't from my particular bank, so it would charge me a fee to withdraw money... But with the clock ticking and a full day's worth of work to get started on after I'd finally wrapped up the passport thing, I opted to save time over money.
So I walked a ways down the road (in the rain) to the gas station, and waited at the ATM while the man in front of me withdrew money. When it was my turn, I went to insert my card – and the ATM wouldn't take it.
After several tries, I went up to the gas station counter to ask – the machine isn't taking my card, but I just saw it work for the person before me – and the women there said to wait a few minutes: Sometimes the machine acts up, and you just have to wait a bit.
So I waited a few minutes and tried again...waited a few minutes and tried again...waited a few minutes and tried again... Finally, shrugging apologetically, the women behind the counter told me I'd be better off trying somewhere else.
Back outside (it was now raining harder) to try my luck further down the road in the other direction, where supposedly my bank had an ATM near the next S-Bahn station. Even by hopping on the bus, it was a ten or fifteen-minute trip over to the station...where there were branches of practically every bank you can find in Berlin, but not mine.
By this point, the whole adventure had tipped over from patently ridiculous to comically absurd, so I didn't even care. Got money from another bank, walked through the now pouring rain to get back on the bus, dashed up to the consulate and back to the security checkpoint.
But the guard, instead of sending me on through (because surely he recognized me by now!) reached for his phone. And when he got through to someone in the office inside, the first thing he said was, "I know it's already 12:10, but...."
Seriously? Seriously? After all this, was I going to end up being turned away because it was now the (German-style, strictly-enforced) lunch hour??
Barely breathing, I waited until the security guard said "Thanks" and hung up...and mercifully waved me on to go through the metal detector.
Back through the endless security doors, the buzzer, the guard, the stairs... And when I finally arrived back at the passport window with cash in hand, the whole process of turning in my passport, application and fee took about 30 seconds.
Lesson learned from this experience? I don't even know. Always carry cash? Always carry three different forms of payment? Never trust Americans? No idea.
But at least I came away with this story, of my Day of Drama in Dahlem.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Maximum Baby Carriages
It has finally occurred:
Maximum baby carriage capacity achieved!
(In the entryway of my apartment building, in famously baby-filled Prenzlauer Berg.)
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Running Charades, No Hands
When I was back home in Ithaca in November, not only did I get to attend the awesome "Wonderful World of Words" puzzle weekend, but also for once I was around when my friend Rebecca's family hosted one of their legendary Thanksgiving weekend games days.
(An aside: More accurately I'd like to say, "My friend Rebecca, and her family, with whom I am also friends," but that's far too wordy in English... German, though not usually known for being succinct, has an elegant solution here: the phrase "eine befreundete Familie," which expresses the whole sense of "a family I'm friends with." Sometimes I miss German words in English!)
Pictured: A game in progress. (Actually, I think this was where a secret message was found hidden inside a kiwi...)
Anyway, Rebecca's family's games days are legendary by now, but I'm never in the US when they happen, so it was a treat to be there. There are many games played at games day, but this crowd's absolute standard is probably Running Charades.
You know Charades, where you're given a phrase to act out in mime? Well, this is the same, except that there are two teams in separate rooms. Each team gets the same clues, and when a player guesses one, they dash to a central point (in this case, the kitchen) where a neutral non-player hands them the next clue to act out. Whichever team gets through all the clues first wins!
This time, Rebecca's brother Tom came up with a devilish twist: clues that had to be acted out with no hands. Things like "Lean on Me" or "My Left Foot" that could be acted out with the whole body.
Both groups did an amazing job of creating a hand-less shorthand for the usual Charades gestures – things like hopping to indicate the number of words in the clue, or doing the typical gestures for "book" or "movie" but using their feet instead of hands.
Pictured: Charades (though earlier in the evening, when hands were still allowed).
Because they were doing so well, Tom kept adding clues – and they got harder.
I was in the kitchen, helping hand out the clues, so I got to hear all the best parts, like Rebecca dashing in to pick up her next clue and at the same time yelling to me, "Write this down: 'It's hard out there for an armless pimp!'" (Said by Ben, who'd been trying to mime "Big Pimpin'" by strutting around, but without being allowed to use his arms.)
Or to sum it up more succinctly: "This sucks." (Joseph, about trying to mime "Les Miserables" with no hands.)
Recently Rebecca wrote that at her family's Christmas games day, the Running Charades crowd (which always tended toward complex clues anyway – you know, things like "the military-industrial complex") tried out a new different twist: clues composed of two different titles that share a first and last word.
Like: "Mad Men Who Stare At Goats."
Awesome!
(An aside: More accurately I'd like to say, "My friend Rebecca, and her family, with whom I am also friends," but that's far too wordy in English... German, though not usually known for being succinct, has an elegant solution here: the phrase "eine befreundete Familie," which expresses the whole sense of "a family I'm friends with." Sometimes I miss German words in English!)
Pictured: A game in progress. (Actually, I think this was where a secret message was found hidden inside a kiwi...)
Anyway, Rebecca's family's games days are legendary by now, but I'm never in the US when they happen, so it was a treat to be there. There are many games played at games day, but this crowd's absolute standard is probably Running Charades.
You know Charades, where you're given a phrase to act out in mime? Well, this is the same, except that there are two teams in separate rooms. Each team gets the same clues, and when a player guesses one, they dash to a central point (in this case, the kitchen) where a neutral non-player hands them the next clue to act out. Whichever team gets through all the clues first wins!
This time, Rebecca's brother Tom came up with a devilish twist: clues that had to be acted out with no hands. Things like "Lean on Me" or "My Left Foot" that could be acted out with the whole body.
Both groups did an amazing job of creating a hand-less shorthand for the usual Charades gestures – things like hopping to indicate the number of words in the clue, or doing the typical gestures for "book" or "movie" but using their feet instead of hands.
Pictured: Charades (though earlier in the evening, when hands were still allowed).
Because they were doing so well, Tom kept adding clues – and they got harder.
I was in the kitchen, helping hand out the clues, so I got to hear all the best parts, like Rebecca dashing in to pick up her next clue and at the same time yelling to me, "Write this down: 'It's hard out there for an armless pimp!'" (Said by Ben, who'd been trying to mime "Big Pimpin'" by strutting around, but without being allowed to use his arms.)
Or to sum it up more succinctly: "This sucks." (Joseph, about trying to mime "Les Miserables" with no hands.)
Recently Rebecca wrote that at her family's Christmas games day, the Running Charades crowd (which always tended toward complex clues anyway – you know, things like "the military-industrial complex") tried out a new different twist: clues composed of two different titles that share a first and last word.
Like: "Mad Men Who Stare At Goats."
Awesome!
Europeans: They Are So Multilingual and European
I'm trying out a friend's office-share today. (If you're not familiar with this concept, basically a bunch of freelancers all take up an office space together, so they have somewhere to work other than cafés or their own kitchen tables.) This particular one will probably only be as a short-term sublet, while my friend is away, but in generally I think looking into this could be a good thing, because I too am getting pretty tired of working from cafés and my own kitchen table.
It's a motley crew here: an Argentinian journalist/translator, a couple of French translators, a couple of Germans – and a baker. Who the others say is rarely here, presumably because most of the time he's, you know, baking.
The French translators also speak German, of course, and English too; then all of a sudden my Argentinian friend was speaking Spanish with one of them – and he was answering in fluent, perfect-sounding Spanish.
When they switched back into English, I asked him, "Wait, how many languages do you speak, seriously? French, English, German, Spanish...?"
He shrugged and said, "And a couple more."
"Sometimes I really hate Europeans," I said.
(And hopefully he understood "hate" as synonymous with "am deeply envious of, for the opportunity to grow up surrounded by other languages and thus become almost effortlessly multilingual.")
It's a motley crew here: an Argentinian journalist/translator, a couple of French translators, a couple of Germans – and a baker. Who the others say is rarely here, presumably because most of the time he's, you know, baking.
The French translators also speak German, of course, and English too; then all of a sudden my Argentinian friend was speaking Spanish with one of them – and he was answering in fluent, perfect-sounding Spanish.
When they switched back into English, I asked him, "Wait, how many languages do you speak, seriously? French, English, German, Spanish...?"
He shrugged and said, "And a couple more."
"Sometimes I really hate Europeans," I said.
(And hopefully he understood "hate" as synonymous with "am deeply envious of, for the opportunity to grow up surrounded by other languages and thus become almost effortlessly multilingual.")
Monday, January 14, 2013
Explained: Both the United Kingdom and the Euro Zone Debt Crisis in One Fell Swoop!
For your listening pleasure, two delightful things:
1. John Finnemore (the creative comedic mind behind Cabin Pressure, and if you haven't listened to Cabin Pressure yet...why not?) explains the euro zone debt crisis via an extended restaurant analogy...and actually does a pretty good job of it:
2. Some guy who talks fast but definitely does his research explains a thing that no one, no one, can ever quite properly understand in all its nuances: What is the difference between "the United Kingdom," "Great Britain" and "England"? (Thanks to Kat for pointing this one out!)
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Cabin Pressure Is Back!
And speaking of things that are brilliant:
Cabin Pressure, the smart, funny BBC 4 radio comedy written by John Finnemore and performed by an all-star cast, is back on the air as of last Wednesday. It would not be an exaggeration to say I literally (actually literally) jumped for joy when I found out. Then, I may possibly have squeaked with excitement.
I recommend checking it out if you like things that are well-written, well-acted and just all-around awesome. You can listen here – each episode stays available online for a week (I think) after its initial radio air date, and right now the first episode of series 4 is still up.
Cabin Pressure, the smart, funny BBC 4 radio comedy written by John Finnemore and performed by an all-star cast, is back on the air as of last Wednesday. It would not be an exaggeration to say I literally (actually literally) jumped for joy when I found out. Then, I may possibly have squeaked with excitement.
I recommend checking it out if you like things that are well-written, well-acted and just all-around awesome. You can listen here – each episode stays available online for a week (I think) after its initial radio air date, and right now the first episode of series 4 is still up.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Sahel Calling: Documentary Teaser
And my friends just keep creating beautiful things.
I wrote recently about my friend Kap's brainchild, a documentary film about the situation in Mali and the musician there who are speaking out in defense of human rights, despite the risks. (Here's what I about the project last month, or go straight to the project's official site.)
Kap and some of the film team are already in Dakar, Senegal, hard at work on the project. They just released the teaser for the film – and it's beautiful. Really, I expected it to be interesting, and important, but I didn't realize it would be gorgeous as well.
You can check out the teaser here, and if it inspires you, spread the word. The project is currently in high-gear fundraising mode, in order to be able to get the rest of the crew to West Africa and working by February, and every bit of spreading the word helps.
But don't feel obligated to do any of that – you can also just watch the teaser because it's a lovely thing:
I wrote recently about my friend Kap's brainchild, a documentary film about the situation in Mali and the musician there who are speaking out in defense of human rights, despite the risks. (Here's what I about the project last month, or go straight to the project's official site.)
Kap and some of the film team are already in Dakar, Senegal, hard at work on the project. They just released the teaser for the film – and it's beautiful. Really, I expected it to be interesting, and important, but I didn't realize it would be gorgeous as well.
You can check out the teaser here, and if it inspires you, spread the word. The project is currently in high-gear fundraising mode, in order to be able to get the rest of the crew to West Africa and working by February, and every bit of spreading the word helps.
But don't feel obligated to do any of that – you can also just watch the teaser because it's a lovely thing:
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Song for Syria
My friend Milo wrote a song about the situation in Syria (he's from Syria himself) and recorded it together with another musician friend here in Berlin, Roland. It's beautiful and from the heart, and now has an equally beautiful music video to go with it. You can check it out here:
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
A Working Afternoon of Whiskey-Flavored Coffee
On my way to an appointment today, I had a couple minutes to kill before the S-Bahn came, so I wandered over to one of those coffee vending machines they sometimes have on the train platforms. (And yes, you can tell me I'm a coffee philistine for even touching that stuff. It's okay, because I am a coffee philistine.)
This time, when I surveyed the options, there was one I hadn't seen before: A button that read, "Cappucino Irish Coffee."
Irish Coffee? But that's coffee with whiskey in it. Surely they don't have whiskey inside the vending machine?? I pressed the button once just to check the price, and it was only 1 euro. Definitely no whiskey in it, then.
I had to buy it, just for curiosity's sake. And I was not terribly surprised, though still intrigued, when what came out of the machine was a sweetened coffee with milk foam – and what seemed to be artificial whiskey flavoring.
Yes, vending machine coffee with whiskey flavoring. What will they think of next?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
In an unrelated note, somehow today I found myself teaching my 11-year-old tutoring student (who's at a pretty basic English level, still acquiring fundamental vocabulary and grammar) the word "rune." I dunno, it seemed relevant at the time... We were playing Boggle (well, a simplified version of it, just trying to find any English words with the letter cubes) and he made the word "run," so I showed him that "run" + "e" became "rune."
In my defense, I knew the German word for "rune" was basically the same (spelled exactly the same, actually, just pronounced differently), so it wasn't like I was cluttering his language-learning with something completely unfamiliar. And I happen to know this kid is a big Lord of the Rings fan, and probably had already seen the new Hobbit movie, so I was able to explain the word by saying that when Gandalf comes to Bilbo Baggins' door and draws something on it, that's a rune.
Still, now when I walk past the Hobbit movie posters that show that rune glowing on Bilbo Baggins' door, I have to laugh at myself for the fact that apparently I thought it was necessary to teach an 11-year-old German how to say "rune"!
This time, when I surveyed the options, there was one I hadn't seen before: A button that read, "Cappucino Irish Coffee."
Irish Coffee? But that's coffee with whiskey in it. Surely they don't have whiskey inside the vending machine?? I pressed the button once just to check the price, and it was only 1 euro. Definitely no whiskey in it, then.
I had to buy it, just for curiosity's sake. And I was not terribly surprised, though still intrigued, when what came out of the machine was a sweetened coffee with milk foam – and what seemed to be artificial whiskey flavoring.
Yes, vending machine coffee with whiskey flavoring. What will they think of next?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
In an unrelated note, somehow today I found myself teaching my 11-year-old tutoring student (who's at a pretty basic English level, still acquiring fundamental vocabulary and grammar) the word "rune." I dunno, it seemed relevant at the time... We were playing Boggle (well, a simplified version of it, just trying to find any English words with the letter cubes) and he made the word "run," so I showed him that "run" + "e" became "rune."
In my defense, I knew the German word for "rune" was basically the same (spelled exactly the same, actually, just pronounced differently), so it wasn't like I was cluttering his language-learning with something completely unfamiliar. And I happen to know this kid is a big Lord of the Rings fan, and probably had already seen the new Hobbit movie, so I was able to explain the word by saying that when Gandalf comes to Bilbo Baggins' door and draws something on it, that's a rune.
Still, now when I walk past the Hobbit movie posters that show that rune glowing on Bilbo Baggins' door, I have to laugh at myself for the fact that apparently I thought it was necessary to teach an 11-year-old German how to say "rune"!
Friday, January 4, 2013
The New Year
Favorite text message I've sent so far this year:
From me to my friend Naomi, who hosted the New Year's Eve party: "L. left her rockets in your bedroom...can we come pick them up?"
(You know, because in Berlin you buy so many fireworks and bottle rockets for New Year's that you just can't keep track of them all!)
Favorite conversational exchange so far:
Con, one half of a touring musical duo at a lovely New Year's Day concert organized by Sam, who also does the Sofa Salons: "So, what do you do in Berlin?"
Me: "I'm a translator."
Con: "Oh! So you can read people's thoughts."
Me: "...?"
New Year's thoughts:
It was strange, really kind of shocking, how many of the people I talked to over New Year's – all the people I talked to over New Year's? – said what an awful year 2012 had been, and how glad they were to see it go.
That always starts me wondering, why do we make it like this? Life can't possibly actually be as hard as we make it for ourselves – can it?
Anyway, 2012 is over and 2013 is off to a very good start, a lot of friends and music and laughter. Yes, I said "a lot," and the year's only four days old.
New Year's Day was a perfect, slow-paced yet social day, afternoon coffee with a bunch of friends that sprawled its way into an afternoon-long meal, then in the evening a concert, a bunch of lovely local singer-songwriters trading songs. Just the right low-key way to spend the evening after a big partying night.
As we were making our way back to the tram after the concert, one of the friends-of-a-friend who'd come along mused, "Is there some saying that expresses the idea that the whole year should be like its first day is?"
He's onto something there; in this case it definitely should.
Favorite random small moment:
Out jogging with my friend Lisa on January 2, we passed an older man, also jogging, who greeted us with a cheerful "Frohes neues Jahr!" ("Happy new year!") – this in a city where strangers always, determinedly, ignore each other in public.
From me to my friend Naomi, who hosted the New Year's Eve party: "L. left her rockets in your bedroom...can we come pick them up?"
(You know, because in Berlin you buy so many fireworks and bottle rockets for New Year's that you just can't keep track of them all!)
Favorite conversational exchange so far:
Con, one half of a touring musical duo at a lovely New Year's Day concert organized by Sam, who also does the Sofa Salons: "So, what do you do in Berlin?"
Me: "I'm a translator."
Con: "Oh! So you can read people's thoughts."
Me: "...?"
New Year's thoughts:
It was strange, really kind of shocking, how many of the people I talked to over New Year's – all the people I talked to over New Year's? – said what an awful year 2012 had been, and how glad they were to see it go.
That always starts me wondering, why do we make it like this? Life can't possibly actually be as hard as we make it for ourselves – can it?
Anyway, 2012 is over and 2013 is off to a very good start, a lot of friends and music and laughter. Yes, I said "a lot," and the year's only four days old.
New Year's Day was a perfect, slow-paced yet social day, afternoon coffee with a bunch of friends that sprawled its way into an afternoon-long meal, then in the evening a concert, a bunch of lovely local singer-songwriters trading songs. Just the right low-key way to spend the evening after a big partying night.
As we were making our way back to the tram after the concert, one of the friends-of-a-friend who'd come along mused, "Is there some saying that expresses the idea that the whole year should be like its first day is?"
He's onto something there; in this case it definitely should.
Favorite random small moment:
Out jogging with my friend Lisa on January 2, we passed an older man, also jogging, who greeted us with a cheerful "Frohes neues Jahr!" ("Happy new year!") – this in a city where strangers always, determinedly, ignore each other in public.
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