As of today, we have one more week of classes and then finals. Every time I try to form a sentence, it comes out with the syntax all wrong and basically completely opposite of what I've learned as a native English speaker. And when I was on the phone the other day with a hotel, I actually said "ja, genau" instead of "yes, exactly" and there was a distinct pause on the other side of the line before she spoke again. I think she thought I was hallucinating. And maybe I was.
Tonight we're watching a movie and I've decided to go old skool and make some Jiffy Pop on the stove. Every time I eat Jiffy Pop I think of Scream and how the popcorn sets off the smoke alarm. I hate that movie.
But we're seeing "O Brother where art thou!" - in German. And if that's not hilarious, I don't know what is.
Hope everyone has a great weekend, much love from your German correspondant.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Harry Potter, auf Deutsch, chapter one
I am what is common referred to as a "speed reader." I have been known to sit down with a Jane Austen novel and finish it in a day. I always scored in the 99th percentile on my reading tests in school. But I gotta say, reading in a foreign language takes me down a few pegs. It took me about 45 minutes to get through chapter one of Harry Potter 2 in German and I felt pretty darned good about that.
This is an ongoing conversation between myself and my suitemate Megan - why do people learn a foreign language at the graduate level if not to speak it or read it? And if one must only read it, then why come to an intensive speaking-oriented program only to shun the 'Aussprache' - that is, why go to a speaking-based program only to speak correct German with a hideous American accent that makes you almost unintelligible. We're in week five now, and there is a discernable difference between the people who have made an effort to understand the phonetic syntax of German, the sounds of the language, not just how one reads and constructs a sentence. These people, I've noticed, have made considerable progress in sounding more authentic.
Now before my more conservative friends go off about sacrificing your identity and how if you're American you should talk like an American and so on and so forth, I just want to say that I'm not talking about language as an identity here. That's an issue for another time. I'm talking about the ability to communicate effectively and be understood. I'm talking about the ability to ask where the bathroom/kitchen/grocery store is and get a helpful answer. This is what I mean by authenticity.
Here's a fun little example:
Schön Nacht, ja? - one pronounces the 'ch' combination in Nacht with that fun German phlegm sound in the back of the throat.
Schön nackt, ja? - the 'ck' combination is just as it sounds in the American word 'snack'
But the difference here is that one says 'Pretty night, hm?' and the other one says 'Pretty naked, hm?' - I'd be really careful about which one I said to my professor, wouldn't you?
And that's all I have to say about diction for today.
This is an ongoing conversation between myself and my suitemate Megan - why do people learn a foreign language at the graduate level if not to speak it or read it? And if one must only read it, then why come to an intensive speaking-oriented program only to shun the 'Aussprache' - that is, why go to a speaking-based program only to speak correct German with a hideous American accent that makes you almost unintelligible. We're in week five now, and there is a discernable difference between the people who have made an effort to understand the phonetic syntax of German, the sounds of the language, not just how one reads and constructs a sentence. These people, I've noticed, have made considerable progress in sounding more authentic.
Now before my more conservative friends go off about sacrificing your identity and how if you're American you should talk like an American and so on and so forth, I just want to say that I'm not talking about language as an identity here. That's an issue for another time. I'm talking about the ability to communicate effectively and be understood. I'm talking about the ability to ask where the bathroom/kitchen/grocery store is and get a helpful answer. This is what I mean by authenticity.
Here's a fun little example:
Schön Nacht, ja? - one pronounces the 'ch' combination in Nacht with that fun German phlegm sound in the back of the throat.
Schön nackt, ja? - the 'ck' combination is just as it sounds in the American word 'snack'
But the difference here is that one says 'Pretty night, hm?' and the other one says 'Pretty naked, hm?' - I'd be really careful about which one I said to my professor, wouldn't you?
And that's all I have to say about diction for today.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Why I am the master of all I survey
Okay, so we're all familiar with my recent angst for Deutsch. But today, who kicked the ever-loving crap out of her German test? Who, you ask, knew every single adjective ending in the Dative and Genetive cases? Was it some incredibly proficient German major?
No my friends, it was me. And this is why I am the master of all I survey. You want adjectives? I've got adjectives. In four different cases.
That said, it was a marvelous weekend. The weather actually cooled down enough to merit the use of a sweatshirt (macht mir Spass!!) and the translating class had a party last night. The only thing funnier than tipsy German students is tipsy German students trying to hit on other tipsy German students. Megan and I, the "alte verheiratete Frauen" had a great time discussing the differences between Old Norwegian and modern Norwegian and poetic French and spoken French. Yes, we are giant nerds. But hello, we're at language camp. What do you want from us?
Hope everyone had a great weekend. I'm going outside to enjoy the breeze.
No my friends, it was me. And this is why I am the master of all I survey. You want adjectives? I've got adjectives. In four different cases.
That said, it was a marvelous weekend. The weather actually cooled down enough to merit the use of a sweatshirt (macht mir Spass!!) and the translating class had a party last night. The only thing funnier than tipsy German students is tipsy German students trying to hit on other tipsy German students. Megan and I, the "alte verheiratete Frauen" had a great time discussing the differences between Old Norwegian and modern Norwegian and poetic French and spoken French. Yes, we are giant nerds. But hello, we're at language camp. What do you want from us?
Hope everyone had a great weekend. I'm going outside to enjoy the breeze.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Why I want to get married on the Algiers ferry
So today I talked to my third church wedding person in Boston and after she told me that members would only be required to pay the mandatory fee of TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS I thought to myself,
"Wouldn't it be cool to get married on the Algiers ferry?"
Here's my logic. The Algiers ferry is free for pedestrians. Ergo, no rental fee for the site. The ride is about half an hour long. It lets off at the foot of Canal Street. By the time we get across the Mississippi, we're married and we can go to Cafe du Monde and celebrate. End of story.
I told this to my mother. She was less than enthusiastic, but I guess she figured that walking across the deck on a ferry isn't the same as walking up an aisle in a church. No imagination.
I think it's brilliant.
Stacey has graciously offered to let me use her back yard for my wedding. And I gotta tell you Stacey, that sounds marvelous. But only if I can get married in crawfish season and have a crawfish boil for my reception. I think my fiancee's family would actually keel over and die of shame. They're Yankees (okay, they're from Maryland which is technically the South but not really) and have never experienced a crawfish boil. Actually, I don't think they've ever experienced a Southern family event. They don't understand that every cousin I have - second third or twice removed - will be there. And mom's one of seven so that's a LOT of cousins.
So we'll probably end up doing it in NO. It's home, it's my favorite city in the US, the food is good and the weather doesn't suck in winter. Updates to follow.
And to my favorite Dictator Princess - any chance you could see your way across the ocean?
"Wouldn't it be cool to get married on the Algiers ferry?"
Here's my logic. The Algiers ferry is free for pedestrians. Ergo, no rental fee for the site. The ride is about half an hour long. It lets off at the foot of Canal Street. By the time we get across the Mississippi, we're married and we can go to Cafe du Monde and celebrate. End of story.
I told this to my mother. She was less than enthusiastic, but I guess she figured that walking across the deck on a ferry isn't the same as walking up an aisle in a church. No imagination.
I think it's brilliant.
Stacey has graciously offered to let me use her back yard for my wedding. And I gotta tell you Stacey, that sounds marvelous. But only if I can get married in crawfish season and have a crawfish boil for my reception. I think my fiancee's family would actually keel over and die of shame. They're Yankees (okay, they're from Maryland which is technically the South but not really) and have never experienced a crawfish boil. Actually, I don't think they've ever experienced a Southern family event. They don't understand that every cousin I have - second third or twice removed - will be there. And mom's one of seven so that's a LOT of cousins.
So we'll probably end up doing it in NO. It's home, it's my favorite city in the US, the food is good and the weather doesn't suck in winter. Updates to follow.
And to my favorite Dictator Princess - any chance you could see your way across the ocean?
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Grilled cheese sandwiches
They serve grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup about once a week and it reminds me so strongly of my time in England. I was never much of a tomato soup person until I moved to England and it was the cheapest thing you could buy in a can. I cut myself pretty severely on a can of tomato soup once - that put me off for a LONG TIME.
The weather isn't too hot today, actually nice enough to sit outside for a little while. I have a master class this afternoon with some pianist from Germany. That should be interesting. I'm listening to Ute Lemper to get myself into the mood. If you haven't listened to any of Ute Lemper's stuff, it's truly an acquired taste. If you like dark Weimar cabaret or sexy French song, Sondheim, or you have an addiction to the show Chicago, she's your girl. If you're looking for one more girl to sing something from Phantom of the Opera, you will be totally put off. Ute Lemper is on my list of personal heroes, if for no other reason that she's managed to successfully cross the lines between musical theatre, cabaret, and legit art song. And she can roll her r's in the back of her throat, something only a German-born girl can do.
Hope everyone's having a good day. Deutsch camp is half over. *sigh*
The weather isn't too hot today, actually nice enough to sit outside for a little while. I have a master class this afternoon with some pianist from Germany. That should be interesting. I'm listening to Ute Lemper to get myself into the mood. If you haven't listened to any of Ute Lemper's stuff, it's truly an acquired taste. If you like dark Weimar cabaret or sexy French song, Sondheim, or you have an addiction to the show Chicago, she's your girl. If you're looking for one more girl to sing something from Phantom of the Opera, you will be totally put off. Ute Lemper is on my list of personal heroes, if for no other reason that she's managed to successfully cross the lines between musical theatre, cabaret, and legit art song. And she can roll her r's in the back of her throat, something only a German-born girl can do.
Hope everyone's having a good day. Deutsch camp is half over. *sigh*
Monday, July 18, 2005
The Buddy Christ, no AC and Berthold Brecht
This is how I spent my Sunday.
I got up early to go to Mass with my suitemate Megan. Megan and her husband Richard are both Russian Orthodox but there is no Orthodox church here in Middlebury so she goes to Mass at the Catholic Church. After two Sundays of feeling terribly heathen, I decided to go with her. I don't know where the Episcopal church is and the Catholic church is down the road, so we have breakfast and go.
The first thing I notice is that there is no organ in sight. The second thing I notice is the startling amount of people who don't look like they're going to church but instead, to the tanning bed. Those of you who have lived below I-1o for most of your lives understand what I mean. But I haven't been to the Catholic church in about eleven years (other than friends' weddings) so I just shrug and see what happens. There is no A/C, only the whirr of the box fans but I've been living for four weeks without A/C, so it's nothing really new. We sing the first hymn, the pianist has no clue what she's doing, and we get all the way to the sermon before anything really strikes me as truly wrong.
And then the priest opens his mouth.
I'm going to sidebar for a moment and reference the Kevin Smith film "Dogma." If you've seen if, then you know what I mean when I refer to the "Buddy Christ." For those of you who haven't, George Carlin plays a high-up Catholic muckymuck who, in cooperation with the diocese, is trying to revamp the image of the Catholic church, beginning with the physical representations of Christ. Namely, the extremely large crosses with Jesus and the crown of thorns. George Carlin is marvelous and delivers without a hint of palpable sarcasm the introduction to the newly redone Buddy Christ. He's giving a thumbs-up and winking, somewhat in the style of say, Matthew Lillard.
Going back to Mass, this is the first thing I think of when the priest begins to speak. Not only does he appear to be a frat boy in robes, he talks like one. I don't know what kind of classes one must take in order to become a priest. I assume that there are several classes on sermons and the like. I also assume that none of them involve telling borderline inappropriate jokes and saying H-E-double hockey sticks instead of Hell like a normal person and furthermore, like a priest is totally authorized to do.
I have no great crisis with the Catholic church. I am a very happy Episcopalian and haven't been a lapsed Catholic for eleven years. I have come to grips with almost all of my former Catholic-ness and have no desire to go back to the land of guitar masses and bad English translations. I actually think the liturgy is more reverent in Latin but I'll take British English, I think congregations sing better when they can pick a part, I think organists are not just for weddings, and I think incense is not just for the Grateful Dead, but those are my opinions.
I don't take issue with the Catholic church's views on communion, and even though I was baptized RC, I didn't take communion on Sunday because I respect the denomination.
I take issue with one very large point: the dumbing down of a sermon. If you think that using social parlance and cracking teenagerish jokes is going to get people to comprehend and embrace salvation, I'm here to tell you that you're sadly mistaken. I'm not an evangelist but pardon me while I get up on my soapbox for a moment. There is a reason that churches have tall spires and hang large crosses high on the wall - we are meant to witness the awe and majesty and power of the Lord. He is both shepherd and warden, He is our 'feste Burg' (to quote one of my favorite hymns) but He is not on an equal footing with mortals. I think it weakens the creedence of the Almighty to reduce Him to colloquialisms. And no, I'm not talking about what you say amongst your friends or what Kevin Smith puts in his films. I'm talking about the Word as delivered through the mouth of someone who's supposed to be there to help the congregation on their spiritual journey and when he sounds like an idiot, I have a problem.
I should have stayed home and watched Veggie Tales. As we were leaving, I was a little bit muddled trying to put my finger on what exactly struck me as so wrong. Megan turned to me and said, "The Buddy Christ" and I instantly knew what she meant. And it so completely codified everything I was searching to say. And it made me sad.
So to make my Sunday even more fun, I wrote an essay on Brecht. Nothing but fun here in German camp. Hope your Sunday was better than mine.
I got up early to go to Mass with my suitemate Megan. Megan and her husband Richard are both Russian Orthodox but there is no Orthodox church here in Middlebury so she goes to Mass at the Catholic Church. After two Sundays of feeling terribly heathen, I decided to go with her. I don't know where the Episcopal church is and the Catholic church is down the road, so we have breakfast and go.
The first thing I notice is that there is no organ in sight. The second thing I notice is the startling amount of people who don't look like they're going to church but instead, to the tanning bed. Those of you who have lived below I-1o for most of your lives understand what I mean. But I haven't been to the Catholic church in about eleven years (other than friends' weddings) so I just shrug and see what happens. There is no A/C, only the whirr of the box fans but I've been living for four weeks without A/C, so it's nothing really new. We sing the first hymn, the pianist has no clue what she's doing, and we get all the way to the sermon before anything really strikes me as truly wrong.
And then the priest opens his mouth.
I'm going to sidebar for a moment and reference the Kevin Smith film "Dogma." If you've seen if, then you know what I mean when I refer to the "Buddy Christ." For those of you who haven't, George Carlin plays a high-up Catholic muckymuck who, in cooperation with the diocese, is trying to revamp the image of the Catholic church, beginning with the physical representations of Christ. Namely, the extremely large crosses with Jesus and the crown of thorns. George Carlin is marvelous and delivers without a hint of palpable sarcasm the introduction to the newly redone Buddy Christ. He's giving a thumbs-up and winking, somewhat in the style of say, Matthew Lillard.
Going back to Mass, this is the first thing I think of when the priest begins to speak. Not only does he appear to be a frat boy in robes, he talks like one. I don't know what kind of classes one must take in order to become a priest. I assume that there are several classes on sermons and the like. I also assume that none of them involve telling borderline inappropriate jokes and saying H-E-double hockey sticks instead of Hell like a normal person and furthermore, like a priest is totally authorized to do.
I have no great crisis with the Catholic church. I am a very happy Episcopalian and haven't been a lapsed Catholic for eleven years. I have come to grips with almost all of my former Catholic-ness and have no desire to go back to the land of guitar masses and bad English translations. I actually think the liturgy is more reverent in Latin but I'll take British English, I think congregations sing better when they can pick a part, I think organists are not just for weddings, and I think incense is not just for the Grateful Dead, but those are my opinions.
I don't take issue with the Catholic church's views on communion, and even though I was baptized RC, I didn't take communion on Sunday because I respect the denomination.
I take issue with one very large point: the dumbing down of a sermon. If you think that using social parlance and cracking teenagerish jokes is going to get people to comprehend and embrace salvation, I'm here to tell you that you're sadly mistaken. I'm not an evangelist but pardon me while I get up on my soapbox for a moment. There is a reason that churches have tall spires and hang large crosses high on the wall - we are meant to witness the awe and majesty and power of the Lord. He is both shepherd and warden, He is our 'feste Burg' (to quote one of my favorite hymns) but He is not on an equal footing with mortals. I think it weakens the creedence of the Almighty to reduce Him to colloquialisms. And no, I'm not talking about what you say amongst your friends or what Kevin Smith puts in his films. I'm talking about the Word as delivered through the mouth of someone who's supposed to be there to help the congregation on their spiritual journey and when he sounds like an idiot, I have a problem.
I should have stayed home and watched Veggie Tales. As we were leaving, I was a little bit muddled trying to put my finger on what exactly struck me as so wrong. Megan turned to me and said, "The Buddy Christ" and I instantly knew what she meant. And it so completely codified everything I was searching to say. And it made me sad.
So to make my Sunday even more fun, I wrote an essay on Brecht. Nothing but fun here in German camp. Hope your Sunday was better than mine.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Harry Potter day
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Shiksa in Beantown
Spent about 23hours in Boston looking for an apartment. At last, great successes were made despite torrential rain and a general unwillingness to rent to "foreigners." Chose to drive instead of taking mass transit - security was really beefed up on the T and I figured I'd see what all the fuss was about Massachusetts drivers.
Hold the phone people.
From now on, my car stays parked safely in the driveway. Boston is a completely different animal when viewed from behind one's steering wheel. When you're a pedestrian, you look for things like crosswalks and whether or not the little red hand is flashing telling you to stay put. When you're driving, you (theoretically) look for the same indicators that are meant to prevent chaos. Yet, in Boston, chaos ensues. People making illegal left turns on lights that have not just turned red, they have been red for a while. People cutting around on the right of you in order to make said illegal left turn. Honking horns, fists raised, it looks like performance art. Thank you very much, I'll be holding my year-long T pass and reading my copy of Opera News.
So now I'm back at Deutsche Camp, conjugating my modal verbs and preparing for my test tomorrow morning on the accusative case (blech) and trying really hard to not listen to music in English and constructing an Aufsatz on a German short story and sprech-ing nur Deutsch.
*sigh*
Hope y'all had a good weekend. Is there a word in German for "y'all" with the same colloquial and regional inflection? Hoffendlich.
Hold the phone people.
From now on, my car stays parked safely in the driveway. Boston is a completely different animal when viewed from behind one's steering wheel. When you're a pedestrian, you look for things like crosswalks and whether or not the little red hand is flashing telling you to stay put. When you're driving, you (theoretically) look for the same indicators that are meant to prevent chaos. Yet, in Boston, chaos ensues. People making illegal left turns on lights that have not just turned red, they have been red for a while. People cutting around on the right of you in order to make said illegal left turn. Honking horns, fists raised, it looks like performance art. Thank you very much, I'll be holding my year-long T pass and reading my copy of Opera News.
So now I'm back at Deutsche Camp, conjugating my modal verbs and preparing for my test tomorrow morning on the accusative case (blech) and trying really hard to not listen to music in English and constructing an Aufsatz on a German short story and sprech-ing nur Deutsch.
*sigh*
Hope y'all had a good weekend. Is there a word in German for "y'all" with the same colloquial and regional inflection? Hoffendlich.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Breakin the law
Whenever I see this phrase, the voices of Beavis and Butthead automatically jump into my head. I guess that says something about me, hm.
By writing in English I'm breaking the language pledge. Don't tell anyone, okay?
Today is day ten of German language camp, day nine of only speaking German with other people, and the fourth of July. The German language school does not observe the fourth of July (other than the obligatory strawberry and blueberry fruit salad served with dinner) so we had class today. I was up until 2:30am translating Kafka and even after I understood every word I still didn't understand what it was about.
Today is not a good day at Deutsche camp. My suitemates are graduate students who speak at the speed of light and I speculate that they avoid talking to me, not because I'm a soprano (thought that's a valid reason) but because they know I can't keep up.
Let me backtrack for a moment and say that I've never felt instantly acclimated in any social situation since high school. I've always felt a little too smart but not smart enough, a little too tall but not thin enough, you get the picture. You would think that going to a total immersion language camp, this would be the ultimate equalizer.
Alas, in vain.
There are still the girls who get up a whole hour earlier than you so that when they go to breakfast at 7am, their hair is in the right place and their makeup is perfect and even though the humidity is killer, they don't look like they're sweating. In my case, these are also the girls who have lived in Germany for the last year and have come back speaking so fluidly (though with terrible Ameri-Deutsch accents) that you can't get past "Na, wie geht's?" before they lose you in the dust. I am not one of these girls.
I was up until 2:30am translating Kafka and did not get up early and put makeup on. I sort of figure that we're here in the business of learning the language (obviously evidenced by my flagrant breaking of the rules) and not in the business of picking up other students at the weekend Tanzparties. But I could be wrong because there still seems to be quite a lot of that. You would think the appeal of falling into a bed barely big enough for one (let alone two) in the throes of passion would have worn off by now.
Friday night was the Language School faculty party. A small group of us from the Deutsche for Singers were asked to provide some entertainment. I thought it was going to be a small group of teachers but it ended up being all of the language schools' faculty and administration. There was lots of beer and wine and yummy food and everyone was all dolled up like it was a Hamptons clambake. I find it amusing that the German phrase for 'made up' is 'geschminkt.'
As becomes a singer, I was sufficiently 'geschminkt' and in a dress and heels with the necessary hair fanging and whatnot. While standing in the bar line, I ran into a professor with whom I had eaten lunch that afternoon and dinner the night before. He asked me, in English, what school I taught in. When I pointed to my Deutsche Schule pin, he looked really confused and asked if I was a TA or something and I said, "Nein, ich bin Saengerin." And it still took him another solid minute of looking at me to figure out who I was. Wash, rinse, repeat with other professors. Needless to say, I consumed mass quantities of free Gewuerztraminer.
I go to class in jeans and a t-shirt because it's comfortable. I put my hair in a ponytail because it's godawful hot and I know the humidity will make it misbehave as soon as I step out the door - all the Louisiana girls can back me up on that one. I don't wear makeup because it melts off my face and besides, sunscreen and makeup together feels like pan-cake and why in the name of all that is holy am I so hard to recognize when I look like a glamourpuss instead of a college students?
It's not a good day at Deutsche camp. Happy 4th to everyone who got the day off, drink an Abita for the Southern transplant, will you?
By writing in English I'm breaking the language pledge. Don't tell anyone, okay?
Today is day ten of German language camp, day nine of only speaking German with other people, and the fourth of July. The German language school does not observe the fourth of July (other than the obligatory strawberry and blueberry fruit salad served with dinner) so we had class today. I was up until 2:30am translating Kafka and even after I understood every word I still didn't understand what it was about.
Today is not a good day at Deutsche camp. My suitemates are graduate students who speak at the speed of light and I speculate that they avoid talking to me, not because I'm a soprano (thought that's a valid reason) but because they know I can't keep up.
Let me backtrack for a moment and say that I've never felt instantly acclimated in any social situation since high school. I've always felt a little too smart but not smart enough, a little too tall but not thin enough, you get the picture. You would think that going to a total immersion language camp, this would be the ultimate equalizer.
Alas, in vain.
There are still the girls who get up a whole hour earlier than you so that when they go to breakfast at 7am, their hair is in the right place and their makeup is perfect and even though the humidity is killer, they don't look like they're sweating. In my case, these are also the girls who have lived in Germany for the last year and have come back speaking so fluidly (though with terrible Ameri-Deutsch accents) that you can't get past "Na, wie geht's?" before they lose you in the dust. I am not one of these girls.
I was up until 2:30am translating Kafka and did not get up early and put makeup on. I sort of figure that we're here in the business of learning the language (obviously evidenced by my flagrant breaking of the rules) and not in the business of picking up other students at the weekend Tanzparties. But I could be wrong because there still seems to be quite a lot of that. You would think the appeal of falling into a bed barely big enough for one (let alone two) in the throes of passion would have worn off by now.
Friday night was the Language School faculty party. A small group of us from the Deutsche for Singers were asked to provide some entertainment. I thought it was going to be a small group of teachers but it ended up being all of the language schools' faculty and administration. There was lots of beer and wine and yummy food and everyone was all dolled up like it was a Hamptons clambake. I find it amusing that the German phrase for 'made up' is 'geschminkt.'
As becomes a singer, I was sufficiently 'geschminkt' and in a dress and heels with the necessary hair fanging and whatnot. While standing in the bar line, I ran into a professor with whom I had eaten lunch that afternoon and dinner the night before. He asked me, in English, what school I taught in. When I pointed to my Deutsche Schule pin, he looked really confused and asked if I was a TA or something and I said, "Nein, ich bin Saengerin." And it still took him another solid minute of looking at me to figure out who I was. Wash, rinse, repeat with other professors. Needless to say, I consumed mass quantities of free Gewuerztraminer.
I go to class in jeans and a t-shirt because it's comfortable. I put my hair in a ponytail because it's godawful hot and I know the humidity will make it misbehave as soon as I step out the door - all the Louisiana girls can back me up on that one. I don't wear makeup because it melts off my face and besides, sunscreen and makeup together feels like pan-cake and why in the name of all that is holy am I so hard to recognize when I look like a glamourpuss instead of a college students?
It's not a good day at Deutsche camp. Happy 4th to everyone who got the day off, drink an Abita for the Southern transplant, will you?
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Shiksa auf Deutsch
Hallo! Heute ist mein zweiter Tag in Deutsche Schule. Dieser 'posts' werden sehr klein sein weil ich nicht viel sprechen kann. Heute abend geh' ich ins "Kino" um "Lola rennt" zu sehen.
Mehr spaeter
Deine Shiksa
Mehr spaeter
Deine Shiksa
Friday, June 24, 2005
Auf die Bahn nochmal
For those of you who find screwball translations humorous, that title is the rough translation for:
"On the road again"
I amused myself on our 16hour car trip by translating random things into German because, as we all know, everything is more laughable in another language. Arrived at German camp today, only two more nights until I have to sign away my native tongue and assume the position of one in a foreign society trying to make do, saying please and thank you and excuse me and how do you say I'd like to sit here is this seat taken? in a language that's not completely your own. Yet.
They tell me that by the time week 7 is over, I'll be reading and writing with more fluency than I thought possible. Hopefully.
Tomorrow morning I rise at 7am and prepare myself for the four hour placement test that will tell me how much or little German I know. And to Cristi - they have a fizzy water machine in the dining hall. Tell me that this isn't a few steps below Heaven - fizzy water and chickpeas and fresh fruit and Ben & Jerry's ice cream oh my!
The blogging will be sporadic after Sunday - unless you read German, of course.
"On the road again"
I amused myself on our 16hour car trip by translating random things into German because, as we all know, everything is more laughable in another language. Arrived at German camp today, only two more nights until I have to sign away my native tongue and assume the position of one in a foreign society trying to make do, saying please and thank you and excuse me and how do you say I'd like to sit here is this seat taken? in a language that's not completely your own. Yet.
They tell me that by the time week 7 is over, I'll be reading and writing with more fluency than I thought possible. Hopefully.
Tomorrow morning I rise at 7am and prepare myself for the four hour placement test that will tell me how much or little German I know. And to Cristi - they have a fizzy water machine in the dining hall. Tell me that this isn't a few steps below Heaven - fizzy water and chickpeas and fresh fruit and Ben & Jerry's ice cream oh my!
The blogging will be sporadic after Sunday - unless you read German, of course.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Sam the Biedermeier painting
Yesterday we took Sam out to the park. It was only about 78, perfect weather for sitting on a bench and drinking a beer while watching my dog sniff romantically into the green fields. There is a part of my Louisiana heritage that says it's completely acceptable to drink beer out of a plastic cup in public places. I don't actually know if this is legal in Indiana but when you've just bought a 6-pack of Pyramid Apricot Ale (which is really good, if you haven't tried it) it calls for breaking out the Mardi Gras cups and a little sneaky open container hijinx.
After about half an hour of throwing the ball around, Sam pooped out and just flopped down in the grass. I love those summer days. That's all I want to do today. Flop down in the grass and read Harry Potter in German (with the handy dandy Harper/Collins dictionary by my side, of course) and sip fizzy water with lime - I know Cristi will appreciate this. As soon as I went to Europe, fizzy water seemed like the part of my diet that was missing all this time.
That and it's really hard to get flat tap water in Germany. They look at you like you're nuts and then bring you a liter of Gerolsteiner anyway. Apparently, you're going to drink that fizzy water whether you like it or not. (insert really bad Mr. Hart German joke here)
Tomorrow, ich gehe aus Middlebury so I can learn to sprech better Deutsch. Cross your fingers I won't go completely verruckt.
After about half an hour of throwing the ball around, Sam pooped out and just flopped down in the grass. I love those summer days. That's all I want to do today. Flop down in the grass and read Harry Potter in German (with the handy dandy Harper/Collins dictionary by my side, of course) and sip fizzy water with lime - I know Cristi will appreciate this. As soon as I went to Europe, fizzy water seemed like the part of my diet that was missing all this time.
That and it's really hard to get flat tap water in Germany. They look at you like you're nuts and then bring you a liter of Gerolsteiner anyway. Apparently, you're going to drink that fizzy water whether you like it or not. (insert really bad Mr. Hart German joke here)
Tomorrow, ich gehe aus Middlebury so I can learn to sprech better Deutsch. Cross your fingers I won't go completely verruckt.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Leaving Las Vegas
Or Bloomington, as it were. Today I went to school to print out some paperwork and stopped by the financial aid office to officially hand back my AI. It was surreal, being in there and telling them that I'm leaving and accepting that today could be the last day I set foot in that building where my little closet of a studio lived on the third floor with the psychotic harpsichordist professor around the corner who banged on my door every time I practiced Lakme and the long dark hallway of other voice studios filled with wannabe cast members of Wicked and the eccentric early music kids (no offense friends) talking about groppos and mordents and whether or not well-tempered could exist in a climate controlled building. I've gotten a string of emails from my students: average age 18, ambitious musical theatre kids who showed up in their leotards and jeans from ballet class, holding their tap shoes, bringing in extra music to learn for their auditions, writing out their French IPA and tape-recording their German pronunciation so they could check it against their IPA and seeking the eternal perfection of the correct [i] vowel while learning the correct style interpretation of Cole Porter and why Sondheim is different than Schwartz and yes it's a ballad so sing it like a ballad I don't care how Bernadette Peters does it and no you cannot belt that high today because you're not warmed up and besides, don't you have some Italian to speak to me today? I will miss them so much.
It's 75 and sunny. Thanks to the new contacts I got this morning, I can see things with more clarity and as such, I'm going to sit on my back porch swing with my beer while I still can. Don't get into too much trouble while I'm gone.
It's 75 and sunny. Thanks to the new contacts I got this morning, I can see things with more clarity and as such, I'm going to sit on my back porch swing with my beer while I still can. Don't get into too much trouble while I'm gone.
Tacky-cardigan
Sounds like 'tachycardia' only with a little more panache. Tonight, when my pulse rate spiked for no apparent reason (I was watching Harry Potter 2 on television and I don't care what anyone says, it's not THAT inflammatory) I called my dad to tell him, he being the resident cardio-guru. He says to me, "So, you're feeling a little tacky tonight?"
Those of you who have met my father realize that this is just another facet of his ever inappropriate humor, especially in times of crisis. I was lucky he didn't make a joke about people from Pearl River ala Jeff Foxworthy in the same breath.
So an hour later, after wrapping myself around Spiehler the stuffed dog and taking my pulse every ten minutes, it went back down to my daily sub-normal pulse rate. And I don't even have a tacky cardigan to show for it.
Hope everyone had a good weekend.
Those of you who have met my father realize that this is just another facet of his ever inappropriate humor, especially in times of crisis. I was lucky he didn't make a joke about people from Pearl River ala Jeff Foxworthy in the same breath.
So an hour later, after wrapping myself around Spiehler the stuffed dog and taking my pulse every ten minutes, it went back down to my daily sub-normal pulse rate. And I don't even have a tacky cardigan to show for it.
Hope everyone had a good weekend.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Back to the vegetable
So I decided that having to log into Friendster to blog was a pain in the ass. So here I am.
Today I had a garage sale and managed to rid myself of a sufficient amount of crap. Cristi will be sad to know that I parted with a great deal of my old piano music. I am finally acknowledging that I am no longer a concert pianist, I am not going to be a concert pianist, and carrying around the library of a concert pianist is both time and space consuming.
Career garage salers scare me. We had people showing up at 7:15am for an 8am garage sale and looking with great confusion when only half the stuff was out. What do these people do with their lives? Do they comb the classifieds and set out their route, mapping their destinations on mapquest to figure out the shortest and most efficient way to hit sixteen garage sales in one morning? If so, was I their first stop?
As the child of my father, I will never be this person. My father and I (as both Cristi and Drew can attest) share the common gene of needing to throw things away. It is my great hope that, as I get older, I do not inherit the "throwing things away and then forgetting as to alleviate guilt" gene.
Back in Bloomington, the weather is lovely and cool, completely unlike the inhospitable heat I met in LA during my home visit. I made it back to the balmy Midwest with the help of my good friend, Garrison Keillor, reading aloud from Homegrown Democrat through my CD player.
Must go cook dinner for the Other Half.
Today I had a garage sale and managed to rid myself of a sufficient amount of crap. Cristi will be sad to know that I parted with a great deal of my old piano music. I am finally acknowledging that I am no longer a concert pianist, I am not going to be a concert pianist, and carrying around the library of a concert pianist is both time and space consuming.
Career garage salers scare me. We had people showing up at 7:15am for an 8am garage sale and looking with great confusion when only half the stuff was out. What do these people do with their lives? Do they comb the classifieds and set out their route, mapping their destinations on mapquest to figure out the shortest and most efficient way to hit sixteen garage sales in one morning? If so, was I their first stop?
As the child of my father, I will never be this person. My father and I (as both Cristi and Drew can attest) share the common gene of needing to throw things away. It is my great hope that, as I get older, I do not inherit the "throwing things away and then forgetting as to alleviate guilt" gene.
Back in Bloomington, the weather is lovely and cool, completely unlike the inhospitable heat I met in LA during my home visit. I made it back to the balmy Midwest with the help of my good friend, Garrison Keillor, reading aloud from Homegrown Democrat through my CD player.
Must go cook dinner for the Other Half.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
shiksa on the move
So this isn't going to be my primary space, actually hasn't been for a while, but I thought I'd make the notice that I've moved to Friendster blogs. If you're curious, go check it out.
Good night to the goyim,
Emily
Good night to the goyim,
Emily
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Turkey Day
Yesterday was non-stop pie day with my Korean accompanist, Jihye. She is, approximately, the size of my pinky finger and was bowled over by the enthusiastic welcome from Sam, the gregarious chocolate lab. Having never made pie, Jihye wanted to take part in the American experience that is Thanksgiving preparation. After many initial mishaps, we finished the evening with two apple pies and two pecan pies, and a lot of leftover praline filling. Mmmm....praline filling.
As an addendum, Jihye also learned the 'twelve days of beer' thanks to my other houseguest, Jason. Oh the joys of cross-culture exchange.
Happy turkey day everyone
As an addendum, Jihye also learned the 'twelve days of beer' thanks to my other houseguest, Jason. Oh the joys of cross-culture exchange.
Happy turkey day everyone
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