Today is the day that the sixth Harry Potter book comes out and I can't read it. I even refrained from pre-purchasing said Harry Potter book on Amazon, at Borders, and yes, one more time at Amazon.de. I figured that even if I bought the German edition, I still wouldn't be able to read it and that would be torture.
I got hooked on the Harry Potter books when I was living in England. It felt nice to read light-hearted pseudo children's literature after a long day under the fluorescent lamps in the library, reading small print on original release album notes and trying to not piss off the media director by requesting too many items at once. There was a point when I was trying to finish my MA and couldn't put down Goblet of Fire. How ridiculous is that.
Going to see Gegen die Wand tonight. More later from your local German correspondant.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Friday, July 15, 2005
Freitag!
Every Friday, Herr Richter picks up the wireless mic and says in his very boomy Deutsch voice,
"Heute ist Freitag!"
and everyone cheers because we're just so darned glad that it's Friday and that means we get to sleep late tomorrow after going to the weekly Tanzparty and shaking our respective groove things until all the stress is gone.
I'm told that the four week mark is usually the breaking point for people in the Deutsche Schule. I happened to be a few days ahead of schedule, so I actually cracked today. After my disastrous grammar test this morning (okay, perhaps not disastrous if I remembered everything correctly) I sobbed into the shoulder of my German high school teacher suitemate about how I suck at German and I can't write and I can't speak and I'm a disappointment to my heritage because I'm a German girl who speaks French. Two hours later, I lost it again in my voice lesson. That always seems an opportune time to be emotionally vulnerable. You're reading incredibly beautiful poetry, listening to Schubert, trying hard to breathe normally and not get all clavicular and huffy so you won't cry, you take one breath to sing and it's all over. Yeah, that's pretty much standard. But the furry eyebrowed man is wonderful and has a daughter of his own, in addition to the countless female students who also cry in their voice lessons, and he's prepared with the kleenex and he pats my head like he's my grandfather and tells me that he's so proud of how much German I've learned in three weeks and not to freak out and that even though I'm crying I still sound wonderful. This is why I'm uprooting my life and going to Boston to continue studying with this man - not only is he a great teacher, he's a real human and that's something strangely lacking in many voice teachers.
And if anyone needs a suggestion for their weekend listening list, here it is:
Wanderers Nachtlied - Franz Schubert
Hope everyone has a good weekend, I'm going to drink my red wine and sit by the fan.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
another day of Deutsche Kultur
I apologize to those of you who visit my blog in hopes of interesting reading, thought-provoking cultural analysis or even the "seven vulgar things you need to know how to say in German" entry. You will be hopelessly bored and I suggest you go visit Pam Anderson's blog. Maybe she has pictures.
Today I took part in an interesting discussion on the changes in the German University system. As I'm sure you all know, German students do not pay to go to university. They go through a series of tests from about age 8 that place them in the appropriate middle school, the appropriate high school (university bound or workforce bound) and then IF there is a place open at the university of their choice in their field and they manage to beat out the other bright bulbs, they get to go for basically the cost of living in that city. This is a concept I can get behind.
Strangely enough, they want to move toward a more American system where people have to pay to go to University, it's less merit based and the average success quotient is lower, but you get to wear a t-shirt that says "my university is older than your university" and put a bumper sticker on your car.
I drive a Honda. I've been to four or five different universities over the last eight years and none of them have made it onto a bumper sticker on my car. I enjoyed my undergrad and living across the street from the football stadium so I could watch the games from my airconditioned dorm room. The food sucked, but I had a full scholarship so I didn't complain too much. But if someone told me that all I had to do was work hard enough and be smart enough and I could go to college and grad school and get my doctorate for free, you bet your sweet stick shift that I'd give away all of my college t-shirts and never sing a fight song again.
I admit that I am an educational snob. This should come as a shock to no one who knows me. I think it lowers the common denominator when yahoos get admitted into college because they can play football and I had to have a 31 on the ACT to even be considered for the honors college scholarships. Granted, I have met my fair share of intelligent, sentient and culturally savvy athletes. But it sticks in my craw (there's a good Mississippi phrase for you) that I had to pay an athletic fee to Indiana University and didn't even get to go to the games for free. There was no line item on my bill that said "opera fee." There is no reciprocal justification.
And on a less inflammatory note, it's a beautiful day here in Vermont. Viel Spass.
Today I took part in an interesting discussion on the changes in the German University system. As I'm sure you all know, German students do not pay to go to university. They go through a series of tests from about age 8 that place them in the appropriate middle school, the appropriate high school (university bound or workforce bound) and then IF there is a place open at the university of their choice in their field and they manage to beat out the other bright bulbs, they get to go for basically the cost of living in that city. This is a concept I can get behind.
Strangely enough, they want to move toward a more American system where people have to pay to go to University, it's less merit based and the average success quotient is lower, but you get to wear a t-shirt that says "my university is older than your university" and put a bumper sticker on your car.
I drive a Honda. I've been to four or five different universities over the last eight years and none of them have made it onto a bumper sticker on my car. I enjoyed my undergrad and living across the street from the football stadium so I could watch the games from my airconditioned dorm room. The food sucked, but I had a full scholarship so I didn't complain too much. But if someone told me that all I had to do was work hard enough and be smart enough and I could go to college and grad school and get my doctorate for free, you bet your sweet stick shift that I'd give away all of my college t-shirts and never sing a fight song again.
I admit that I am an educational snob. This should come as a shock to no one who knows me. I think it lowers the common denominator when yahoos get admitted into college because they can play football and I had to have a 31 on the ACT to even be considered for the honors college scholarships. Granted, I have met my fair share of intelligent, sentient and culturally savvy athletes. But it sticks in my craw (there's a good Mississippi phrase for you) that I had to pay an athletic fee to Indiana University and didn't even get to go to the games for free. There was no line item on my bill that said "opera fee." There is no reciprocal justification.
And on a less inflammatory note, it's a beautiful day here in Vermont. Viel Spass.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
can't sleep
It's almost 2am, I have a test in nine hours and I can't sleep. Of all the times in the world for this to happen, now is not especially opportune.
I'm having a small world/big world moment. I'm moving, I'm leaving my new set of friends in my newly established community with my newly established work/school/life connections to pick up and do it again. Anyone who knows me would probably ask,
"Why does this bother you? You do this every year or two."
And perhaps that's why - I do this every year or two. I was explaining to my new landlord where I live and it took way longer than it should have. "Well you see, I'm in Vermont right now but my house is in Indiana but my family is in Louisiana but my piano is in Mississippi but my fiancee's family is in DC and I'm moving to Boston with my dog. Yeah."
There are so many people with whom I have inexplicably lost touch. For no good reason, our connection has merely vanished into the ether. Through the wonders of the internet (whether truly wondrous or not) I've managed to re-establish a few of those. Largely, the "calls made" list on my phone goes to four entries: the fiancee, the parents, the best friend in BR and the college friend in Tennessee. The latter two are more sporadic with work schedules and the part where I can't speak English out loud right now, but there are people in my past with whom I have had fantastic experiences, heated arguments, shared cross-country trips, held each other up when we were drunk, screamed violently at each other, gone to Waffle House at 3am, and yet years have gone by without speaking.
I surmise that as time goes by, the yawning gap yawns further. It becomes awkward how much time has passed and how little it matters. And yes, one makes new friends and lives in new places and times change and people change. But for crying out loud, does it have to change so fast? I told myself that when I began my DMA I would have a chance to be in one place for three solid years. That has not happened since high school. For the last ten years it's been two years here, one year there, nine months somewhere else, constant turnover and not always by my hand. When my folks picked up out of the old house it pretty much signified the final break between me and the 'dell. I don't even know the first names of their neighbors in the new neighborhood - they've been there three years now.
Is it wrong to feel homeless when you can't really call anywhere home? If home is where the heart is, mine is in Indiana. If home is where you were born, mine is Louisiana. If home is where you found your true self, mine is England. And if home is where your zip code is, mine will soon be Boston. But all of that rings partially true and partially not. Oh, to live happily out of my suitcase again. Oh, to have my passport revoked and stay in one place for thirty years.
Do not forget me quite, o severn meadows.
I'm having a small world/big world moment. I'm moving, I'm leaving my new set of friends in my newly established community with my newly established work/school/life connections to pick up and do it again. Anyone who knows me would probably ask,
"Why does this bother you? You do this every year or two."
And perhaps that's why - I do this every year or two. I was explaining to my new landlord where I live and it took way longer than it should have. "Well you see, I'm in Vermont right now but my house is in Indiana but my family is in Louisiana but my piano is in Mississippi but my fiancee's family is in DC and I'm moving to Boston with my dog. Yeah."
There are so many people with whom I have inexplicably lost touch. For no good reason, our connection has merely vanished into the ether. Through the wonders of the internet (whether truly wondrous or not) I've managed to re-establish a few of those. Largely, the "calls made" list on my phone goes to four entries: the fiancee, the parents, the best friend in BR and the college friend in Tennessee. The latter two are more sporadic with work schedules and the part where I can't speak English out loud right now, but there are people in my past with whom I have had fantastic experiences, heated arguments, shared cross-country trips, held each other up when we were drunk, screamed violently at each other, gone to Waffle House at 3am, and yet years have gone by without speaking.
I surmise that as time goes by, the yawning gap yawns further. It becomes awkward how much time has passed and how little it matters. And yes, one makes new friends and lives in new places and times change and people change. But for crying out loud, does it have to change so fast? I told myself that when I began my DMA I would have a chance to be in one place for three solid years. That has not happened since high school. For the last ten years it's been two years here, one year there, nine months somewhere else, constant turnover and not always by my hand. When my folks picked up out of the old house it pretty much signified the final break between me and the 'dell. I don't even know the first names of their neighbors in the new neighborhood - they've been there three years now.
Is it wrong to feel homeless when you can't really call anywhere home? If home is where the heart is, mine is in Indiana. If home is where you were born, mine is Louisiana. If home is where you found your true self, mine is England. And if home is where your zip code is, mine will soon be Boston. But all of that rings partially true and partially not. Oh, to live happily out of my suitcase again. Oh, to have my passport revoked and stay in one place for thirty years.
Do not forget me quite, o severn meadows.
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