Ok, so, after having been here more than a month, there are now a few more things I’ve noticed, especially in the last week or so since I’ve last updated. Allow me to have a few laughs at the expense of others here; if it’s true, which it is (empirically), it’s fair game, get off me. Anyway, here goes:
First, I would venture to guess that 20% of the population of Nuremberg is blind. I’m not poking fun at people for having a seriously debilitating condition, I’m just making an observation here. There is an inordinate amount of blind people in this city, and I’ve witnessed some rather amazing things from these people. Let me preface these few short tales with one more observation about these people: the blind Nuremberger, whether male or female, always, repeat ALWAYS, has big balls. They are unafraid to tackle any everyday situation with as much bravado as any person with a set of eagle eyes. Case in point: less than an hour ago, I had to go to the bank, so I got on the subway to go to the Altstadt (downtown Nuremberg). I go a few stops down and get off the train and begin making my way to the escalator. As I’m walking, the train going the other way pulls up, and, when I’m closer to the stairs, the warning bell starts to ring, so people coming off the escalator begin to run to try to make the train. This sort of behavior is completely normal, but then I see something rather unexpected. The people coming off the escalator are all lined up, just due to the thing being rather narrow, so I can only see two or three people at a time coming off. A few people come off it running, and the next thing I see is a woman, going at full sprint, mind you, with a BLIND POLE in her hand. SHE’S WEARING SUNGLASSES, for Christsake, and she’s running through a densely populated, rather narrow area, without the ability to see where she’s going or how close things are to her. Ballsy, to say the least. And these people are everywhere; I saw a woman a few days ago jogging with a blind pole (I hope that’s the correct name for this; at any rate, I mean the pole they use to navigate); no seeing eye dog, no jogging partner, just a pole. Rather amazing.
They’re also rather bold in social situations, which, if you think about it, makes sense. Imagine how awkward you might feel if, when in the company of relative strangers, you run out of things to say; it’s not as though you can turn to look out the window or concentrate on a TV that might be in the area. It’s all conversation with these folks. I was in a pub last Saturday (watching the Mighty Reds of Liverpool trounce Aston Villa, 5-0) with two other guys, Mikkel and Jukka, having a Guiness and watching the football match, when I hear a voice behind me ask for help up the stair to the seating area of the place. I turn, and there stands a blind man. ‘No problem,’ I think, ‘I can take 30 seconds away from the match to help a guy out.’ 30 seconds? Guess again. I turn and offer him my hand, which he uses to guide himself between two tables and up the stair. His next question is, “Where is your table?” which leads me to think he’s going to use it as a reference point, but, no, I’m wrong again. “Immediately to your right,” I tell him, to which he replies, “Would you mind putting my drink down on it?” He next has me fetching him a chair, so there’s now no doubt about it, I’m in this for the long haul. The match is only 10 minutes old, so I’ve now got about an hour and 45 minutes of entertaining this guy when all I really want to do is watch the match, which is difficult to do simultaneously with carrying on a decent conversation in another language. Meanwhile, Mikkel and Jukka are trying to pretend they are not there so that they may watch, being free of any social responsibility; this scam doesn’t last long. Trying to be completely silent in close proximity with a blind man is like Wesley Snipes trying to avoid paying taxes- ain’t gonna to happen. But I’m still the one sitting next to him, so I’m still his main conversational conduit; I’m nice, but, as I said earlier, it’s difficult to divide my attention these circumstances, which at times gets me into trouble. Most memorably, at one point in the afternoon, the man, whose name is Peter, tells me that he really likes sports. Being that we’re watching football (soccer; America has got to drop this silly moniker- for Christsake, you use your FOOT to kick a BALL), I ask him who his favorite club is (TSV Muenchen 1860; a small club in Munich). The conversation sort of stops there, so I attempt to revive it by asking, “So do you watch many other sports?” Jukka and Mikkel give me a look of pure horror, and I then realize what I just asked a blind man. Instantly, all my internal organs melt and begin flowing into my feet, yet I never felt a stronger urge to vomit, but all is quickly relieved. Peter, not missing a beat, being the ballsy blind Nuremberger he is, says, “Just football and ice hockey.” These are the people with whom I mingle; how great is that?
Ok, so that’s stereotype #1 out of the way (blind people in Nuremberg are the Chuck Norrises of the world’s blind population). Next, being that I’m here with exchange students from all over the world, there are many more things I’ve realized about the world’s population at large. First, rather counter intuitively, the colder climate one comes from, the more one overdresses all the time (and, also, the more one is content with being consistently overdressed). Of the kids who are here, who are for the most part from Europe, I come from one of the hottest climates. There are a few kids who have me beat (a few Brazilians, a few Mexicans, an Argentine, that I know of), but, as far as averages are concerned, I’m killing most people on the heat factor. As a result of this, I tend to dress lighter than most of them, but I’m also well aware of how much a person can really sweat when pressed to it; on the other side, I would venture to guess that these kids are better aware of how cold a person can really feel, so they tend to dress heavier. But I’ve also noticed our attitudes toward temperature are different, independent of dress; I am less bothered by the cold here, but when I get on a train or go into a building, I strip my jacket and sweater faster than a jackrabbit (all the buildings are heated way too hot here, yet they also love to leave their windows open; silly Germans); for the kids from colder climates (we’re talking Denmark, Finland, Sweden, Russia, Belarus, Czech Republic, etc), they can leave their jackets on through anything, but they’re still constantly cold. Case in point, two weeks ago, I played football with some guys in a park and the temperature was probably about 40 or 45 (Fahrenheit), so, knowing the football involves almost constant running, often at a sprint, I play in shorts and short sleeves, but all, without exception, are in pants and sleeves, complaining about the cold the entire time. Of course, the Brazilian with us was in multiple layers on both his top and bottom, with a hat and gloves the whole time. I’m just going to attribute it to true American grit. Or maybe I just pine for spring. Whatever, it’s about 50 or 55 outside right now, and I’m definitely wearing Chaco’s; I’m tired of this crappy weather.
Anyway, this thing is starting to drag on, so let me end with one last comical anecdote, and I’ll save my other stuff for later. Let’s title this story “The Main Difference Between the US and Sweden;” here goes: The other day, I’m making my way home from class with my Swedish friend Erik (keep in mind he’s from Sweden, where everyone is white and blonde; it’s important to the story), and we’re walking through the train station toward the subway. For those of you who have never been in a European train station, they’re a lot like malls; you know, lots of stores and restaurants in them, aside from all the train platforms. As we’re walking, we walk by a restaurant whose tables splay out into the corridor through which people are walking, sort of like an indoor sidewalk café. We walk by a table at which a man and woman are sitting, the man of the couple being black, and the two are speaking German with each other. And, no, it was not Heidi Klum and Seal. Anyway, I can’t remember what Erik and I are talking about at this point, but I interrupt the conversation to say to Erik, “I can’t get over how weird it is to see black people speaking German,” to which Erik replies, “I can’t get over weird it is to see black people.” What a world, eh?
Monday, March 30, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Football: A Social Experiment
I’m going to be up front with this one; if you’re not into football (soccer, for some of you), the rest of this entry will probably mean nothing to you. You’ll probably give this about as much credit as “Big Momma’s House II,” but, if you can, I’d like you to stick with me; football is the world’s game, and its results have significant effects on societies around the world. Our collective psyche as world citizens is greatly impacted by the sport, and there are many conclusions to be drawn from it on all levels of play. If you cannot agree with any of the previous statements, please continue reading; I think the results that I witnessed today could change your mind, if not even spark your interest in the Beautiful Game. But this is a longer post, and it’s not as funny as my previous experiences here, so don’t get your hopes up if you’re in this for the laughs; this is all business, but I felt I had to write it to get my thoughts out.
Today, with five other guys, I set out from my dorm to find a park and get a match going. Our group consisted exclusively of exchange students, and we were remarkably diverse; among our number, everyone had neither the same nationality nor mothertongue. We were one Argentine, one Brazilian, one Finn, one Frenchman, one Dane, and, of course, one Yankee. It took us about half an hour, but we finally found the park we sought. There wasn’t too much action; just a few people having a kick-about, so we found an empty field to play a little three-on-three. Most of you are probably familiar with my high level of coordination, but I honestly didn’t too badly; in the 30 minutes or so that we played 3 on 3, I managed to tap in 3 goals and even stop a few, but the goals were all sitters (all I had to do was be there to poke it in; my teammates did everything else). All I did was avoid mistakes…which is easy enough to do in a six man game. Anyway, we were soon approached by another group of six guys, so the game was easy to piece together. Here’s where things get interesting; imagine the situation. We are six people who, to some extent, cannot communicate fluently. We come from six different countries, and, although all speak varying levels of English, it is easier for all to communicate in German. That is not to say that it is exactly always easy, but we certainly have more limitations than our rivals in the situation, who are all Germans. Here is where the experiment begins: how well will six people, who have problems communicating, fare in a team game against a team that has no problems whatsoever understanding one another? One more fun caveat to this whole thing: no one is really wary to exactly what’s going on here and certainly no one knows what is soon to happen.
The game begins when Nahuel, my Argentine comrade, launches the ball in the air; it now belongs to the first team to obtain it. We have me and Antoine (the Frenchman) playing in the back, me on the right and him on the left; Nahuel, Flavio (the Brazilian), and Jukka (the Finn) in the middle, mixing up specific positions as needed; Mikkel (the Dane) plays up front, roving with the movement of the ball. The Germans had a similar layout of their six men, but at the beginning of the game I’m really more worried with the fact that they, on average, are bigger than us, and the fact that they all seem to be friends, so they’ve probably played together quite a bit more. Furthermore, well aware of my own lacking athleticism, I’d really like to escape this situation without embarrassing myself; being that we’re now playing six on six, the we’re now using is larger, and my worries about defending the goal have similarly doubled.. Oh well, the game’s on; nothing else to do now but give ‘em the old college try. After scrapping about with one another in midfield, we begin to take possession with a prominent degree of dominance. We’re playing very well together by sticking to our positions and moving the ball about quite a bit. When the ball has nowhere else to go, we move it backward and try again. I’m giving it my all not to screw up, and I’m succeeding at this goal; when the ball comes to me, I usually already have a target picked out, and I put it there. When the ball goes forward, I move forward, and, when the ball comes back, I move backward. Fundamentals; easy stuff. I’m no Maradona, but I’m no McManaman either. Things really start going pretty well; I’ve been tested defensively once, and Antoine did so well that all I had to do was clean up and clear the ball out. Within 10 minutes, we’ve put one in the ol’ onion bag; within 20, we’ve got two more. This continues; we are absolutely dominating these Germans. Nahuel is linking with Mikkel like Gerrard and Torres, Jukka and Flavio are winging like Ronaldo, and Antoine is making me look like Carragher. Meanwhile, the Germans look like England trying to qualify for the Euros; I’m on Cloud 9.
After about 45 minutes of this siege on their goal, we decide to mix up teams. Now, Jukka, Mikkel, and I are playing with of the Germans with Antoine, Flavio, and Nahuel naturally on the other side. The game begins anew in a similar manner to the way it had originally; the ball is launched into the air and bodies starting moving. Again, things are similar; possession is scrappy in midfield with no one being able to hold the ball for more than one or two passes. However, the game stays this way. The ball rarely gets far from midfield, and no one can score. Whereas earlier we had seen a goal, albeit tremendously one-sided, almost every 10 to 15 minutes if not faster, now, no one was able to do anything. Possession was given away easily; passes were not linking. It was frustrating, and the game was abandoned after another 30 minutes or so. We shook hands, spoke for a little about the recent Champions’ League draw, made plans to meet again next Friday, and went out separate ways. But, upon closer examination, this was no meaningless public park pick-up game; it definitely has deeper meaning.
Consider this situation (being that the following describes perfectly the scene depicted above): two teams play one another, one consisting of six people that are more or less familiar with one another, if not outright friends, while the other consists of six people that, at the least, are relative strangers who all come from vastly different cultures and speak very different native languages. Both consist of people who are, more than likely, of average athletic talent (probably with the exception of your humble author); this can be inferred from a few pieces of evidence. First, all 12 had enough interest in playing the sport to go out to a park on a day in which the temperature was in the low 40s (Fahrenheit) with ample wind. There is no obvious reason to do this other than if the people in question simply enjoy playing the sport; the enjoyment would then indicate some level of proficiency with the skills of the game. With the exception of perhaps golf and bowling, it is frustrating, if not infuriating, to consistently play a sport at which a person is awful (I count myself as an exception to this rule, being that I have an often unhealthy obsession with the game, but, I must say, that I, on principle, do not play basketball). Furthermore, football is perhaps the most popular sport in Germany, as it is in most of western Europe; unlike us in the US, it is very common for most all children to continue playing the game seriously beyond the age of 7, and it is generally a hobby for most athletically inclined young men. This is a stereotype, I realize, but it fits for the sort of guy who goes to a public park to play when the weather feels, let’s say, just a BIT brisk. This stereotype also fits for all the other countries represented with the exception of my own. But, seriously, this study doesn’t exactly concern me personally, but I feel like I play well enough in defense to fit. Finally, there is no reason to believe that either team was chosen from any more a talented field than the other; both appeared quite random. Actually, I can say with certainty that my team was incredibly random, but our opposition portrayed the part well enough.
Given this situation, you have two teams that should stack up fairly even on one another. They had their obvious choice for an MVP award; we had our own. They had their better players, as we did, and then they had their…less talented members, just as we did, too. At very least, this should have been an even match, if not a bit in their favor given their superior communicative abilities, but we quickly took dominance and were soon bunging in the goals. Why might this be, being that it is so counter-intuitive? The answer, friends, lies in diversity. Wait, don’t stop reading yet, this isn’t just another one of those namby-pamby “let’s all bring the world together for peace” rants; this is my attempt at a serious psychological study, and I’m not finished yet. I’m not talking about diversity just for diversity’s sake; I’m talking about all the other goodies that such a diversity entails.
First, being that we all knew our language skills to be somewhat limited with one another, all our on field communication was very basic and easy to understand; we were also a little unfamiliar with the tendencies of one another. While the Germans were confident in their ability to use nonverbal communication, we were constantly using short and basic commands to help one another (“Back!”; “Behind!”; “Look left/right!”; “Here!’; etc.). Also due to the fact that we were unfamiliar with the playing styles of one another, we mostly avoided extended possessions of the ball. As a result, the ball was all over the field, each member of the team more than willing to dump it off in the face of danger. Finally, we all brought our different playing styles to the pitch, each, oddly enough, somewhat resembled the general playing styles of our homelands. I can’t really speak for how the typical Danish or Finnish player plays, but the rest of our nationalities were well represented. The Argentine dribbled with finesse, preferring to take a few touches, even when perhaps a bit unnecessary, before passing rather than play straight one-touch footie. The Brazilian preferred to move forward rather than adequately cover the pitch and tended to get creative, even when his stunts seemed rather impossible. He backed it up well, though, being successful most of the time. The Frenchman was the most vocal player on the field, and, although he was a good defender, he enjoyed more than anything, it seemed, to rove forward into the midfield and play aggressive one-touch football. Me? Well, as is the stereotypical American way, I find that I am better at sweeping up in the back and playing aggressive in defense. With these guys being generally bigger than me, I was unafraid to throw my body between the attacker and the ball, and this was fairly effective. I committed two of the four called fouls in the back, not that I’m proud of this, but I just find it tremendously stereotypical, and, therefore, funny. The two Scandinavians displayed skilled footwork in attack, but, again, I’m really unfamiliar with typical play from either of those countries.
The Germans, all together, played typical German football; they were skilled in attack, but, with no defensive base, the team was fairly impotent. They were too confident in their ability to dribble through us; they were hesitant to pass when a potential dribbling opportunity showed itself to them, and, sometimes, they attempted to play the long ball when their skill levels, like our own, really would not permit this. Nobody on that field was making a decent trap of a 35 or 40 yard pass. Just ain’t happenin’.
Finally, the point of all this is that the most effective team, all other things being equal, is the most diverse one. This is easy to see amongst the world’s top club teams (Liverpool fields just two Englishmen in its starting XI; the rest of the still remaining Champions’ League squads, possibly with the exception of Man United, whose success is another story entirely, field 6 or fewer domestic players in their starting XIs), although there are also a lot of other factors affecting this. It was certainly observed today. And being that the best team is the diverse one, there is one final conclusion to make from this little story, which is the one that makes me the happiest: The World, despite all her troubles and strife, can still work somewhere efficiently when we simply come to play football together.
Today, with five other guys, I set out from my dorm to find a park and get a match going. Our group consisted exclusively of exchange students, and we were remarkably diverse; among our number, everyone had neither the same nationality nor mothertongue. We were one Argentine, one Brazilian, one Finn, one Frenchman, one Dane, and, of course, one Yankee. It took us about half an hour, but we finally found the park we sought. There wasn’t too much action; just a few people having a kick-about, so we found an empty field to play a little three-on-three. Most of you are probably familiar with my high level of coordination, but I honestly didn’t too badly; in the 30 minutes or so that we played 3 on 3, I managed to tap in 3 goals and even stop a few, but the goals were all sitters (all I had to do was be there to poke it in; my teammates did everything else). All I did was avoid mistakes…which is easy enough to do in a six man game. Anyway, we were soon approached by another group of six guys, so the game was easy to piece together. Here’s where things get interesting; imagine the situation. We are six people who, to some extent, cannot communicate fluently. We come from six different countries, and, although all speak varying levels of English, it is easier for all to communicate in German. That is not to say that it is exactly always easy, but we certainly have more limitations than our rivals in the situation, who are all Germans. Here is where the experiment begins: how well will six people, who have problems communicating, fare in a team game against a team that has no problems whatsoever understanding one another? One more fun caveat to this whole thing: no one is really wary to exactly what’s going on here and certainly no one knows what is soon to happen.
The game begins when Nahuel, my Argentine comrade, launches the ball in the air; it now belongs to the first team to obtain it. We have me and Antoine (the Frenchman) playing in the back, me on the right and him on the left; Nahuel, Flavio (the Brazilian), and Jukka (the Finn) in the middle, mixing up specific positions as needed; Mikkel (the Dane) plays up front, roving with the movement of the ball. The Germans had a similar layout of their six men, but at the beginning of the game I’m really more worried with the fact that they, on average, are bigger than us, and the fact that they all seem to be friends, so they’ve probably played together quite a bit more. Furthermore, well aware of my own lacking athleticism, I’d really like to escape this situation without embarrassing myself; being that we’re now playing six on six, the we’re now using is larger, and my worries about defending the goal have similarly doubled.. Oh well, the game’s on; nothing else to do now but give ‘em the old college try. After scrapping about with one another in midfield, we begin to take possession with a prominent degree of dominance. We’re playing very well together by sticking to our positions and moving the ball about quite a bit. When the ball has nowhere else to go, we move it backward and try again. I’m giving it my all not to screw up, and I’m succeeding at this goal; when the ball comes to me, I usually already have a target picked out, and I put it there. When the ball goes forward, I move forward, and, when the ball comes back, I move backward. Fundamentals; easy stuff. I’m no Maradona, but I’m no McManaman either. Things really start going pretty well; I’ve been tested defensively once, and Antoine did so well that all I had to do was clean up and clear the ball out. Within 10 minutes, we’ve put one in the ol’ onion bag; within 20, we’ve got two more. This continues; we are absolutely dominating these Germans. Nahuel is linking with Mikkel like Gerrard and Torres, Jukka and Flavio are winging like Ronaldo, and Antoine is making me look like Carragher. Meanwhile, the Germans look like England trying to qualify for the Euros; I’m on Cloud 9.
After about 45 minutes of this siege on their goal, we decide to mix up teams. Now, Jukka, Mikkel, and I are playing with of the Germans with Antoine, Flavio, and Nahuel naturally on the other side. The game begins anew in a similar manner to the way it had originally; the ball is launched into the air and bodies starting moving. Again, things are similar; possession is scrappy in midfield with no one being able to hold the ball for more than one or two passes. However, the game stays this way. The ball rarely gets far from midfield, and no one can score. Whereas earlier we had seen a goal, albeit tremendously one-sided, almost every 10 to 15 minutes if not faster, now, no one was able to do anything. Possession was given away easily; passes were not linking. It was frustrating, and the game was abandoned after another 30 minutes or so. We shook hands, spoke for a little about the recent Champions’ League draw, made plans to meet again next Friday, and went out separate ways. But, upon closer examination, this was no meaningless public park pick-up game; it definitely has deeper meaning.
Consider this situation (being that the following describes perfectly the scene depicted above): two teams play one another, one consisting of six people that are more or less familiar with one another, if not outright friends, while the other consists of six people that, at the least, are relative strangers who all come from vastly different cultures and speak very different native languages. Both consist of people who are, more than likely, of average athletic talent (probably with the exception of your humble author); this can be inferred from a few pieces of evidence. First, all 12 had enough interest in playing the sport to go out to a park on a day in which the temperature was in the low 40s (Fahrenheit) with ample wind. There is no obvious reason to do this other than if the people in question simply enjoy playing the sport; the enjoyment would then indicate some level of proficiency with the skills of the game. With the exception of perhaps golf and bowling, it is frustrating, if not infuriating, to consistently play a sport at which a person is awful (I count myself as an exception to this rule, being that I have an often unhealthy obsession with the game, but, I must say, that I, on principle, do not play basketball). Furthermore, football is perhaps the most popular sport in Germany, as it is in most of western Europe; unlike us in the US, it is very common for most all children to continue playing the game seriously beyond the age of 7, and it is generally a hobby for most athletically inclined young men. This is a stereotype, I realize, but it fits for the sort of guy who goes to a public park to play when the weather feels, let’s say, just a BIT brisk. This stereotype also fits for all the other countries represented with the exception of my own. But, seriously, this study doesn’t exactly concern me personally, but I feel like I play well enough in defense to fit. Finally, there is no reason to believe that either team was chosen from any more a talented field than the other; both appeared quite random. Actually, I can say with certainty that my team was incredibly random, but our opposition portrayed the part well enough.
Given this situation, you have two teams that should stack up fairly even on one another. They had their obvious choice for an MVP award; we had our own. They had their better players, as we did, and then they had their…less talented members, just as we did, too. At very least, this should have been an even match, if not a bit in their favor given their superior communicative abilities, but we quickly took dominance and were soon bunging in the goals. Why might this be, being that it is so counter-intuitive? The answer, friends, lies in diversity. Wait, don’t stop reading yet, this isn’t just another one of those namby-pamby “let’s all bring the world together for peace” rants; this is my attempt at a serious psychological study, and I’m not finished yet. I’m not talking about diversity just for diversity’s sake; I’m talking about all the other goodies that such a diversity entails.
First, being that we all knew our language skills to be somewhat limited with one another, all our on field communication was very basic and easy to understand; we were also a little unfamiliar with the tendencies of one another. While the Germans were confident in their ability to use nonverbal communication, we were constantly using short and basic commands to help one another (“Back!”; “Behind!”; “Look left/right!”; “Here!’; etc.). Also due to the fact that we were unfamiliar with the playing styles of one another, we mostly avoided extended possessions of the ball. As a result, the ball was all over the field, each member of the team more than willing to dump it off in the face of danger. Finally, we all brought our different playing styles to the pitch, each, oddly enough, somewhat resembled the general playing styles of our homelands. I can’t really speak for how the typical Danish or Finnish player plays, but the rest of our nationalities were well represented. The Argentine dribbled with finesse, preferring to take a few touches, even when perhaps a bit unnecessary, before passing rather than play straight one-touch footie. The Brazilian preferred to move forward rather than adequately cover the pitch and tended to get creative, even when his stunts seemed rather impossible. He backed it up well, though, being successful most of the time. The Frenchman was the most vocal player on the field, and, although he was a good defender, he enjoyed more than anything, it seemed, to rove forward into the midfield and play aggressive one-touch football. Me? Well, as is the stereotypical American way, I find that I am better at sweeping up in the back and playing aggressive in defense. With these guys being generally bigger than me, I was unafraid to throw my body between the attacker and the ball, and this was fairly effective. I committed two of the four called fouls in the back, not that I’m proud of this, but I just find it tremendously stereotypical, and, therefore, funny. The two Scandinavians displayed skilled footwork in attack, but, again, I’m really unfamiliar with typical play from either of those countries.
The Germans, all together, played typical German football; they were skilled in attack, but, with no defensive base, the team was fairly impotent. They were too confident in their ability to dribble through us; they were hesitant to pass when a potential dribbling opportunity showed itself to them, and, sometimes, they attempted to play the long ball when their skill levels, like our own, really would not permit this. Nobody on that field was making a decent trap of a 35 or 40 yard pass. Just ain’t happenin’.
Finally, the point of all this is that the most effective team, all other things being equal, is the most diverse one. This is easy to see amongst the world’s top club teams (Liverpool fields just two Englishmen in its starting XI; the rest of the still remaining Champions’ League squads, possibly with the exception of Man United, whose success is another story entirely, field 6 or fewer domestic players in their starting XIs), although there are also a lot of other factors affecting this. It was certainly observed today. And being that the best team is the diverse one, there is one final conclusion to make from this little story, which is the one that makes me the happiest: The World, despite all her troubles and strife, can still work somewhere efficiently when we simply come to play football together.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Razor Scooters, Toilet Paper, and My Teacher's Boobs
Lately, I’ve been tired. Like really tired- a lot more so than I usually am. I mean, the college student’s life is pretty exhausting to begin with, and I’ve been doing all those normal things- drinking heavily, staying up late (even when I have nothing to do and usually in combination with the drinking), waiting until the last second to study that which requires a good deal of time to learn, etc. But, then, there’s a few things that are a little more unusual; I AM in a foreign country, still trying to adapt to all these things that are new for me, which can wear on a person.
First, unlike the suburban feel of Athens, Nuremberg is definitely an urban area. You know, subways, more homeless people, wider sidewalks, the whole shebang. This brings with it a certain fascination for me. My hometown has a population 35,000 on a good day- like if we’re having a gigantic carpet sale or something. Athens, although not exactly small, is no concrete jungle; we’ve got our crazy homeless people, but you can still get about anywhere in town in less than 20 minutes. There’s stuff to do, but it’s no metropolis. Nuremberg, though, is the real deal. Let’s be frank- we have stoops here. As a result of this, I walk everywhere. Seriously, EVERYwhere. Even if I can take the subway most places, I prefer to walk when I have the time. That way, I get to see all the crazy people on the streets of such an urban center. The other day, I saw a grown man who would only walk forward with one foot. If this seems unclear, let me explain; he literally would take a step forward, but then, unlike most people who know how to walk, would only bring his other foot forward to the point that it was even with his first step. He would then step forward again with the first foot and start the whole process again. Meanwhile, he was discussing, with himself of course, something about how he shouldn’t let his children go anywhere near farms or farm animals or something. I wanted to follow him, but I figured there might be a reason why this individual was so odd, and that I may not have wanted to find out exactly what that was. Also, his peculiar walking tactics made him incredibly slow, and therefore, difficult to stay behind. One more stranger of note and I’ll move on: today, and this one is even more surprising to me than the last one, so I may have hallucinated it, but, really, I saw a grown woman using a Razor scooter as a primary means of transportation. This woman had to be in her 40s at least, and here she was, not even walking the damn thing up a hill, just pushing like a madman. I love Nuremberg.
I also have to be in class every morning at 10:15, and I’m there, with only one 15 minute break in the middle, until 1:30. “Well, John,” you might be saying, “10:15 is really not that early,” but, smartass, one must also remember that this is in Erlangen, which is a smaller town near Nuremberg. In order to get to class on time, I have to wake up at 8:15, catch the subway at 9:00 (it’s a 10 minute walk to the subway), get off at the Nuremberg train station, catch the 9:15 to Erlangen (it’s a 30 minute train ride), and then finally catch a bus for a 10 minute ride to my building. And then I repeat the process to go home. Still think you know everything? That’s what I thought…if indeed you did make the prior statement to yourself. If not, well, at least you’re now better informed of my schedule.
This class, though, is suffocating me. For the entire month of March, plus a little of April, I have this course in Erlangen. It is what the University calls an “intensive language course,” which means, that, no matter what, the only language allowed to be spoken in the room, even if it isn’t directed toward another person, is German. No exceptions, not even to talk to yourself. If you make a mistake, it’s “ach, scheiss,” not “oh, shit.” “Verdammt!” instead of “damn it!”. And, of course, fuck’s just “fuck.” Gotta love American culture swallowing the world, eh? But they seriously enforce this; my teacher is awful. This is a woman that is in dire need of two things: a sense of humor and tightly fitting brassiere. Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile. And, although she’s probably pushing 60, she just lets ‘em swing like she was 15 again. Really insufferable. Anyway, so the point is that sitting in this class does awful things to a person. I’ve noticed that it changes me, temporarily; I revert back to attending to my most primal of needs in the middle of it. One would think that class would stimulate a student into deeper thought and perhaps broaden his character, but this one stands in stark contrast to this logic. I am so blanketed in ennui that my thought process hibernates. Seriously, I can remember a few moments today that went something like this:
‘…Man, I wish all these people weren’t around- I’d like nothing more right now than to pick my nose…oh well, I hope break comes soon, I gotta go down to that bakery and buy a sandwich…hopefully I’ll be hungry then, not that it matters…I don’t even know what they put on those sandwiches…but I don’t care, I’ll just eat whatever they give me…screw it, if the Germans eat it, it’s gotta be ok for me, right? Of course, these are the same people that use raw ground beef as a spread…oh well, maybe I’ll even use the bathroom at the bakery, this nose thing is really bothering the heck out of me.’
Seriously, these were my thoughts until I realized how sad this was. Meanwhile, my teacher was trying to encourage us to discuss the pros and cons of the university sponsoring a program that would send high school kids out to sea for a semester to work as sailors on a trans-Atlantic sailboat. Seeing the topic of discussion, can you now really blame me?
Finally, if I haven’t already said in a previous post, I live in a dorm again. Which rocks. Kinda. But we all know how tiring it can be. Yet, there’s always people around so I shouldn’t complain. It does bring back all sorts of fond memories, such as having to carry all your groceries the long way from the parking lot, all the way through the building to your room, by which time, you are now sweating. For me, though, I don’t drive, so I have to carry them from the store. Which, here, makes you pay for grocery bags, so I often don’t get them; I just carry them in my hands. However, due to my latest dorm experience, I believe I will start shelling out the 10 cents for a bag.
We’ll begin the story with a mental exercise: think about all the things we buy from the grocery store; do we really want everyone seeing us bringing ALL of those things home? Hmm? And here’s where our story begins. I’m making my regular trek down to my neighborhood Aldi (the German Kroger; it’s only about a 7 minute walk away from my dorm) to pick up a few things I’m needing. The rooms here all have their own bathrooms and kitchens, and one must remember, that the tenant, of course, must keep himself stocked. Well, my bathroom had one roll of paper (the starter roll, I called it) when I moved in, but that was quickly expired, so, of course, I had to get some more. I was also in the market for some body wash; with delicate skin like my own, harsh bar soaps just won’t do. So I’m at the Aldi, and I’m looking through the toilet paper for the best deal. Everything seems so expensive and the biggest pack I can find only comes with 4 rolls, so I’m starting to get audibly pissed off until I finally spot Golden Boy. He’s sitting at the very end, almost hidden from view and he’s only got two of his pals left. Golden Boy is large pack of 8 rolls of environmentally-friendly, recycled-paper. He even has his own handle and a re-sealable zip-loc top. Just what the doctor ordered. Next, I turn to the soap section in pursuit of the elusive men’s body wash. Again, I’m getting nothing. And there is no liquid soap cousin of Golden Boy specifically designed for me to be seen. Reminding myself that, as an American, I have nothing to prove about my masculinity to these Germans, I grit my teeth and pick up the “tropical citrus dream” body wash. I pick up a few other things and finally check out to be on my way home. It’s about 8 or 9 pm, so everyone at the dorm is starting to go out or think about going out, and, on this particular evening, I’m of a similar opinion, but being that this is one of my first days in the building, I don’t know many people yet. Oh, but Lady Luck hadn’t forgotten me…or had she? I’m walking up the stairs when a cute blonde Danish girl I recognized from orientation catches my eye.
“Hello, I’m Sanne,” she says, “you’re an exchange student, right?”
“Uh…yeah…that’s me,” I respond, caught off guard. You’ve got to remember, I’m holding in my hands some very embarrassing loot. I’m trying to look cool in front of this girl while I have in my hands, most prominently to her view, the jumbo pack of toilet paper and women’s body wash. I’m also sweating a little because I’m carrying a case of water in my backpack, and there’s no elevator in the building (I’m also wearing a flannel shirt and my jacket because it’s cold out; get off me, this IS normal). Real smooth; I look like a single dad on a typical Monday night.
“Well, if you don’t have any other plans tonight, I’m going to meet up with several of the other exchange students; do you want to come with?”
“Well, yeah, but...” I say, trying to think of something to say that might break this awkwardness. “Well,” I finally finish, gesturing to my body wash, “I…uh…kinda need to shower.” Note to self: that was definitely not the rescuing witty comment. But I still got her phone number and met up with the group later. It was a good night, but it still began with a most awkward beginning, as you probably can tell. Oh, well, I’m still in the game here, and, as long as I’m in the line-up, I’m still playing ball, and that’s all I need.
First, unlike the suburban feel of Athens, Nuremberg is definitely an urban area. You know, subways, more homeless people, wider sidewalks, the whole shebang. This brings with it a certain fascination for me. My hometown has a population 35,000 on a good day- like if we’re having a gigantic carpet sale or something. Athens, although not exactly small, is no concrete jungle; we’ve got our crazy homeless people, but you can still get about anywhere in town in less than 20 minutes. There’s stuff to do, but it’s no metropolis. Nuremberg, though, is the real deal. Let’s be frank- we have stoops here. As a result of this, I walk everywhere. Seriously, EVERYwhere. Even if I can take the subway most places, I prefer to walk when I have the time. That way, I get to see all the crazy people on the streets of such an urban center. The other day, I saw a grown man who would only walk forward with one foot. If this seems unclear, let me explain; he literally would take a step forward, but then, unlike most people who know how to walk, would only bring his other foot forward to the point that it was even with his first step. He would then step forward again with the first foot and start the whole process again. Meanwhile, he was discussing, with himself of course, something about how he shouldn’t let his children go anywhere near farms or farm animals or something. I wanted to follow him, but I figured there might be a reason why this individual was so odd, and that I may not have wanted to find out exactly what that was. Also, his peculiar walking tactics made him incredibly slow, and therefore, difficult to stay behind. One more stranger of note and I’ll move on: today, and this one is even more surprising to me than the last one, so I may have hallucinated it, but, really, I saw a grown woman using a Razor scooter as a primary means of transportation. This woman had to be in her 40s at least, and here she was, not even walking the damn thing up a hill, just pushing like a madman. I love Nuremberg.
I also have to be in class every morning at 10:15, and I’m there, with only one 15 minute break in the middle, until 1:30. “Well, John,” you might be saying, “10:15 is really not that early,” but, smartass, one must also remember that this is in Erlangen, which is a smaller town near Nuremberg. In order to get to class on time, I have to wake up at 8:15, catch the subway at 9:00 (it’s a 10 minute walk to the subway), get off at the Nuremberg train station, catch the 9:15 to Erlangen (it’s a 30 minute train ride), and then finally catch a bus for a 10 minute ride to my building. And then I repeat the process to go home. Still think you know everything? That’s what I thought…if indeed you did make the prior statement to yourself. If not, well, at least you’re now better informed of my schedule.
This class, though, is suffocating me. For the entire month of March, plus a little of April, I have this course in Erlangen. It is what the University calls an “intensive language course,” which means, that, no matter what, the only language allowed to be spoken in the room, even if it isn’t directed toward another person, is German. No exceptions, not even to talk to yourself. If you make a mistake, it’s “ach, scheiss,” not “oh, shit.” “Verdammt!” instead of “damn it!”. And, of course, fuck’s just “fuck.” Gotta love American culture swallowing the world, eh? But they seriously enforce this; my teacher is awful. This is a woman that is in dire need of two things: a sense of humor and tightly fitting brassiere. Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile. And, although she’s probably pushing 60, she just lets ‘em swing like she was 15 again. Really insufferable. Anyway, so the point is that sitting in this class does awful things to a person. I’ve noticed that it changes me, temporarily; I revert back to attending to my most primal of needs in the middle of it. One would think that class would stimulate a student into deeper thought and perhaps broaden his character, but this one stands in stark contrast to this logic. I am so blanketed in ennui that my thought process hibernates. Seriously, I can remember a few moments today that went something like this:
‘…Man, I wish all these people weren’t around- I’d like nothing more right now than to pick my nose…oh well, I hope break comes soon, I gotta go down to that bakery and buy a sandwich…hopefully I’ll be hungry then, not that it matters…I don’t even know what they put on those sandwiches…but I don’t care, I’ll just eat whatever they give me…screw it, if the Germans eat it, it’s gotta be ok for me, right? Of course, these are the same people that use raw ground beef as a spread…oh well, maybe I’ll even use the bathroom at the bakery, this nose thing is really bothering the heck out of me.’
Seriously, these were my thoughts until I realized how sad this was. Meanwhile, my teacher was trying to encourage us to discuss the pros and cons of the university sponsoring a program that would send high school kids out to sea for a semester to work as sailors on a trans-Atlantic sailboat. Seeing the topic of discussion, can you now really blame me?
Finally, if I haven’t already said in a previous post, I live in a dorm again. Which rocks. Kinda. But we all know how tiring it can be. Yet, there’s always people around so I shouldn’t complain. It does bring back all sorts of fond memories, such as having to carry all your groceries the long way from the parking lot, all the way through the building to your room, by which time, you are now sweating. For me, though, I don’t drive, so I have to carry them from the store. Which, here, makes you pay for grocery bags, so I often don’t get them; I just carry them in my hands. However, due to my latest dorm experience, I believe I will start shelling out the 10 cents for a bag.
We’ll begin the story with a mental exercise: think about all the things we buy from the grocery store; do we really want everyone seeing us bringing ALL of those things home? Hmm? And here’s where our story begins. I’m making my regular trek down to my neighborhood Aldi (the German Kroger; it’s only about a 7 minute walk away from my dorm) to pick up a few things I’m needing. The rooms here all have their own bathrooms and kitchens, and one must remember, that the tenant, of course, must keep himself stocked. Well, my bathroom had one roll of paper (the starter roll, I called it) when I moved in, but that was quickly expired, so, of course, I had to get some more. I was also in the market for some body wash; with delicate skin like my own, harsh bar soaps just won’t do. So I’m at the Aldi, and I’m looking through the toilet paper for the best deal. Everything seems so expensive and the biggest pack I can find only comes with 4 rolls, so I’m starting to get audibly pissed off until I finally spot Golden Boy. He’s sitting at the very end, almost hidden from view and he’s only got two of his pals left. Golden Boy is large pack of 8 rolls of environmentally-friendly, recycled-paper. He even has his own handle and a re-sealable zip-loc top. Just what the doctor ordered. Next, I turn to the soap section in pursuit of the elusive men’s body wash. Again, I’m getting nothing. And there is no liquid soap cousin of Golden Boy specifically designed for me to be seen. Reminding myself that, as an American, I have nothing to prove about my masculinity to these Germans, I grit my teeth and pick up the “tropical citrus dream” body wash. I pick up a few other things and finally check out to be on my way home. It’s about 8 or 9 pm, so everyone at the dorm is starting to go out or think about going out, and, on this particular evening, I’m of a similar opinion, but being that this is one of my first days in the building, I don’t know many people yet. Oh, but Lady Luck hadn’t forgotten me…or had she? I’m walking up the stairs when a cute blonde Danish girl I recognized from orientation catches my eye.
“Hello, I’m Sanne,” she says, “you’re an exchange student, right?”
“Uh…yeah…that’s me,” I respond, caught off guard. You’ve got to remember, I’m holding in my hands some very embarrassing loot. I’m trying to look cool in front of this girl while I have in my hands, most prominently to her view, the jumbo pack of toilet paper and women’s body wash. I’m also sweating a little because I’m carrying a case of water in my backpack, and there’s no elevator in the building (I’m also wearing a flannel shirt and my jacket because it’s cold out; get off me, this IS normal). Real smooth; I look like a single dad on a typical Monday night.
“Well, if you don’t have any other plans tonight, I’m going to meet up with several of the other exchange students; do you want to come with?”
“Well, yeah, but...” I say, trying to think of something to say that might break this awkwardness. “Well,” I finally finish, gesturing to my body wash, “I…uh…kinda need to shower.” Note to self: that was definitely not the rescuing witty comment. But I still got her phone number and met up with the group later. It was a good night, but it still began with a most awkward beginning, as you probably can tell. Oh, well, I’m still in the game here, and, as long as I’m in the line-up, I’m still playing ball, and that’s all I need.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
John Mingles with the Locals
Part of what is making this trip so great is the fact that everyone here with whom I’ve had the chance to mingle has been wildly different. In the exchange, there’s literally people from all over the world. For example, the language course I’m taking right now has 12 people in it; of those 12, only one other is a native English speaker, and she’s from England. Of the rest, there are two Czechs, one Swede, two Turks, one Hungarian, one Brazilian, two Japanese, and one French. I realize that “French” isn’t a proper noun, but, being that she’s female, I figured Frenchman would be a misnomer and Frenchwoman is just too much to say. Sue me. Anyway, I’ve been doing my best to surround myself with those who are unlike me, which is fairly easy to do here. The pursuit of this is where my latest story begins.
A few nights ago, I’m sitting in my room trying to figure out what my next move is for the evening. Thinking that it might not be the greatest idea to call one of the Americans here to hang out, being that I’ll just speak English all night, I call a Danish girl I met the night before to see what she was doing. This turned out to be a pretty good move; she and another Dane were going to a party being thrown by a friend of a friend, and she invited me to come along. ‘Excellent,’ I think. Seriously, what’s better for practicing my language skills than taking a leap of faith and going to a party where I only know two people? And the answer to this question is, “A lot of things are better for practicing your language skills than going to a party where you don’t know anyone and everyone speaks a language that is not your mothertongue.” But that’s a different story.
So I’ve just been invited to go to a party with two girls, who, I must say, are absolutely ravishing; needless to say, I’m feeling pretty good about myself at the moment. Whilst getting ready to go out, I’m singing in the shower, dancing while I brush my teeth, and generally bouncing around my room as I pull on clean clothes. I’m in a mood. Just before leaving, I pull a beer out of my fridge, pop the cap, and then I’m on my way. Trust me, this is a significant part of the story. Note: It is completely legal in Germany to walk around whilst drinking alcohol; they do it here all the time, any time of day. It’s like Coke to them.
The plan is to meet these girls at a subway station that’s actually the next stop down from me. So I’m whistling my way to the subway (known as the U-Bahn in these parts), feeling pretty good as I sip on my beer. Which, by the way, is amazing here. Even cheap beers here make ours taste like raw sewage. Anyway, I ride the subway to the next stop and get off. As I’m riding up the escalator, I notice that there’s a group of ruffian-looking kids just hanging out at the top of the escalator. We’re talking about 8 to 10 Turkish guys, all probably between the ages of 16 and 20. Which, at this point, isn’t really concerning me; it’s a subway station at 9:30 pm- of course there’s some people around. Problem was, as I later realized, these kids are the ONLY people around. So I get to the top of the escalator and start to walk toward the stairs, which are about 35 yards away. I take about four steps before one of the kids turns to me and demands a cigarette, which I don’t have. This kid looks ridiculous, I must first say. He's Turkish, but he's got his hair slicked back and he's wearing a leather jacket over a t-shirt tucked into tight jeans. He's like a 21st century, European extra from West Side Story. And things are about to get very West Side Story. When I tell him I have no cigarettes, a funny look comes across his face, which, in retrospect, I sort of understand. To him, this is like when a homeless person asks for money from a passer-by, and the passer-by claims to have none. His thinking, if he is the homeless person, is, of course, “What kind of normal person leaves their home with absolutely no money whatsoever?”. This is normal thinking for this situation because we’re in Europe. Where everyone smokes. So everyone must carry cigarettes. However, the homeless are rarely proactive in the pursuit of that for which they beg. And my refusal to give him cigarettes (which I honestly don’t have) by no means warrants his next actions.
Upon hearing that I have no cigarettes, he obviously hears my accent and knows that I’m not German. He also probably thought that I was lying to him, but whatever, I wouldn’t have given him a cigarette anyway. He begins walking directly into my path. When I try to sidestep him, he grabs my shoulder and shoves me backward. Two of his toadies flank me so that I cannot go anywhere; meanwhile, his nine other friends mingle around the background.
“Give me a cigarette,” he says.
“I don’t have any; I don’t smoke,” I respond, my level of nervousness rising swiftly. I didn’t have any; what was I going to do, roll him one with the tobacco I don’t have? Plus, I’m white, I have red hair, and I weigh 150 pounds. This could get ugly.
“Who are you?” he asks, not at all hinting any aggression.
“I don’t know,” I respond, “who is anyone?” Great, John, confront your mugger with an existential conundrum. Like friggin' Rene Descartes wants your cigarettes and possibly your wallet, too. That’s working. I look down and notice I have a beer bottle, but swiftly realize that I certainly don’t have the balls to break it when I’m this sober. Nor could I probably actually stab someone if they were to call my bluff. But good thinking, Swayze.
“What are you doing here? Where are you from?” he demands.
Now I’m faced with a decision I’m in no state to make. Tell him I’m an American college student? One of those adjectives would probably arouse aggression from this prick; the other might indicate being soft. Well, big guy, only one thing to do, right?
“I’m a student; I’m from the States,” I confess. This kid’s going down with the ship, probably without much of a fight.
“Good. You can leave,” he says, just before stepping forward to embrace me in the tensest hug I’ve ever received. ‘There goes my wallet,’ I think, ‘Bye-bye credit card, ta-ta proof of international insurance, have a nice life, debit card.’ He then takes a step backward and turns his shoulders perpendicular to me to give me a place to walk. Crabbe and Goyle on my sides step back, too; I quick-step it for the stairs, but I’m still walking at this point. Halfway up the tunnel to the stairs, I hear a new, different voice behind yell, “HEY, CIGARETTE!” This is when John shamelessly runs away. Small victories: I avoided peeing my pants and my wallet was not stolen. And the girls were waiting for me at the top of the stairs, which definitely made me look cool when I came running up them.
Honestly, I really can't explain the dude's actions. My neighbor, who is German, claims that this sort of thing is fairly common; the intent is to provoke the accosted person into action so that the accosters then have an artificial reason to mug that person. Oh-so-fortunate was I that I was, probably for the bajillionth time in my life, not ready to fight 10 people at once. Otherwise I might have had a problem.
Two weeks and I’ve already come close to being mugged for not having a cigarette. Go-go-gadget, survival abroad, right?
A few nights ago, I’m sitting in my room trying to figure out what my next move is for the evening. Thinking that it might not be the greatest idea to call one of the Americans here to hang out, being that I’ll just speak English all night, I call a Danish girl I met the night before to see what she was doing. This turned out to be a pretty good move; she and another Dane were going to a party being thrown by a friend of a friend, and she invited me to come along. ‘Excellent,’ I think. Seriously, what’s better for practicing my language skills than taking a leap of faith and going to a party where I only know two people? And the answer to this question is, “A lot of things are better for practicing your language skills than going to a party where you don’t know anyone and everyone speaks a language that is not your mothertongue.” But that’s a different story.
So I’ve just been invited to go to a party with two girls, who, I must say, are absolutely ravishing; needless to say, I’m feeling pretty good about myself at the moment. Whilst getting ready to go out, I’m singing in the shower, dancing while I brush my teeth, and generally bouncing around my room as I pull on clean clothes. I’m in a mood. Just before leaving, I pull a beer out of my fridge, pop the cap, and then I’m on my way. Trust me, this is a significant part of the story. Note: It is completely legal in Germany to walk around whilst drinking alcohol; they do it here all the time, any time of day. It’s like Coke to them.
The plan is to meet these girls at a subway station that’s actually the next stop down from me. So I’m whistling my way to the subway (known as the U-Bahn in these parts), feeling pretty good as I sip on my beer. Which, by the way, is amazing here. Even cheap beers here make ours taste like raw sewage. Anyway, I ride the subway to the next stop and get off. As I’m riding up the escalator, I notice that there’s a group of ruffian-looking kids just hanging out at the top of the escalator. We’re talking about 8 to 10 Turkish guys, all probably between the ages of 16 and 20. Which, at this point, isn’t really concerning me; it’s a subway station at 9:30 pm- of course there’s some people around. Problem was, as I later realized, these kids are the ONLY people around. So I get to the top of the escalator and start to walk toward the stairs, which are about 35 yards away. I take about four steps before one of the kids turns to me and demands a cigarette, which I don’t have. This kid looks ridiculous, I must first say. He's Turkish, but he's got his hair slicked back and he's wearing a leather jacket over a t-shirt tucked into tight jeans. He's like a 21st century, European extra from West Side Story. And things are about to get very West Side Story. When I tell him I have no cigarettes, a funny look comes across his face, which, in retrospect, I sort of understand. To him, this is like when a homeless person asks for money from a passer-by, and the passer-by claims to have none. His thinking, if he is the homeless person, is, of course, “What kind of normal person leaves their home with absolutely no money whatsoever?”. This is normal thinking for this situation because we’re in Europe. Where everyone smokes. So everyone must carry cigarettes. However, the homeless are rarely proactive in the pursuit of that for which they beg. And my refusal to give him cigarettes (which I honestly don’t have) by no means warrants his next actions.
Upon hearing that I have no cigarettes, he obviously hears my accent and knows that I’m not German. He also probably thought that I was lying to him, but whatever, I wouldn’t have given him a cigarette anyway. He begins walking directly into my path. When I try to sidestep him, he grabs my shoulder and shoves me backward. Two of his toadies flank me so that I cannot go anywhere; meanwhile, his nine other friends mingle around the background.
“Give me a cigarette,” he says.
“I don’t have any; I don’t smoke,” I respond, my level of nervousness rising swiftly. I didn’t have any; what was I going to do, roll him one with the tobacco I don’t have? Plus, I’m white, I have red hair, and I weigh 150 pounds. This could get ugly.
“Who are you?” he asks, not at all hinting any aggression.
“I don’t know,” I respond, “who is anyone?” Great, John, confront your mugger with an existential conundrum. Like friggin' Rene Descartes wants your cigarettes and possibly your wallet, too. That’s working. I look down and notice I have a beer bottle, but swiftly realize that I certainly don’t have the balls to break it when I’m this sober. Nor could I probably actually stab someone if they were to call my bluff. But good thinking, Swayze.
“What are you doing here? Where are you from?” he demands.
Now I’m faced with a decision I’m in no state to make. Tell him I’m an American college student? One of those adjectives would probably arouse aggression from this prick; the other might indicate being soft. Well, big guy, only one thing to do, right?
“I’m a student; I’m from the States,” I confess. This kid’s going down with the ship, probably without much of a fight.
“Good. You can leave,” he says, just before stepping forward to embrace me in the tensest hug I’ve ever received. ‘There goes my wallet,’ I think, ‘Bye-bye credit card, ta-ta proof of international insurance, have a nice life, debit card.’ He then takes a step backward and turns his shoulders perpendicular to me to give me a place to walk. Crabbe and Goyle on my sides step back, too; I quick-step it for the stairs, but I’m still walking at this point. Halfway up the tunnel to the stairs, I hear a new, different voice behind yell, “HEY, CIGARETTE!” This is when John shamelessly runs away. Small victories: I avoided peeing my pants and my wallet was not stolen. And the girls were waiting for me at the top of the stairs, which definitely made me look cool when I came running up them.
Honestly, I really can't explain the dude's actions. My neighbor, who is German, claims that this sort of thing is fairly common; the intent is to provoke the accosted person into action so that the accosters then have an artificial reason to mug that person. Oh-so-fortunate was I that I was, probably for the bajillionth time in my life, not ready to fight 10 people at once. Otherwise I might have had a problem.
Two weeks and I’ve already come close to being mugged for not having a cigarette. Go-go-gadget, survival abroad, right?
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Irish I Could Shut Up
A few nights ago, I went to a club called “WON,” which, truly, stood for “World of Nightlife.” In Nuremberg. Germany. Seriously. Oh, American culture, how I adore thee. You can probably imagine what this place looked like; lots of neon everywhere, a smoke machine running on full blast, friggin’ lights going everywhere, and LOTS of techno in the house. A drunken dancer’s paradise; many of you can probably see the “Drunk John Shuffle” going full steam ahead in this place. But, seriously, it was a pretty cool location just because there was such a wide variety of people there. There are a lot of American GIs living in the Nuremberg area, so I ran into several of them, and there were lots of college students there, and, since WON is such a large location (for real, people, we’re talking about the flippin’ WORLD of nightlife), people from all over the Nuremberg metropolitan area come to this joint. So, as I’m shufflin’ all over the floor, I feel like it might be time for a break. I had started dancing with this group of three girls (who I later found out were all 18…whoops), so I ask them if I can buy them drinks and we make tracks for the bar. As I’m standing there drinking my delectable German pilsner with these girls, I hear a voice in my left ear say, “Ah-mehrickan or Cunadian?” Turning to my left, I see a tall chap with a shaved head and a t-shirt for some punk band that also says, in big letters on the back, “FUCK THE GOVERNMENT.” Ironically, he’s American military. However, that didn’t account for the strange accent.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
“Ireland, but I’m in the American Army now.”
“Really? Irish in the American military? What are you doing in the Army?”
“Trying to get citizenship- I got exiled from Ireland.”
Now, usually, when someone is exiled from their home country, they usually don’t tell people about it; logically, it’s rather easy to see that one is only exiled for a rather tremendous crime. And, using further logic, it’s probably also rather easy to figure out that when one is from the Republic of Ireland and one is exiled, it’s rather likely that the IRA was involved. I could have left it at this and been satisfied that my answer to this question was likely correct, but, no, I had to ask; I had been drinking, and, as one is apt to do when feeling a little saucy, I said the wrong thing.
“Exiled? Whaddaya, IRA or something?”
Open mouth, insert foot.
His response? “Well, I’d tell ya, but I’d probably get in trouble.” Correct-a-mundo, J-Dubs.
Soon, though, it seems he stops caring about the consequences of telling me that he was exiled from Ireland for being a member of the Irish Republican Army. Yes, it seems that our dear friend lived just south of the Northern Ireland border, over which he would often steal to plant bombs in parked cars in order to kill those dastardly Protestant Northerners. Over the next ten minutes, he relates to me many of the things that he did for which he was eventually exiled.
My response to this? Again, probably the wrong thing to say.
‘Ok, John, just agree with the man, and get back to dancing with these girls before they get bored and walk away,’ I think to myself. ‘Just open your mouth and say it.’ Here goes: “Don’t you think the targets of the IRA could be better placed? To me, and the world at large, it just looks like you’re killing Protestants indiscriminately.”
Goddamn it, John. Way to pee all over your balls. This comment launches another 20 minute diatribe on the part of our mick friend here, detailing just all the ways that the British and the Protestant faith at large are the enemy of Ireland and her sons and daughters. After he’s finished, I finally wise up and say, “Well, all I know is that Michael Collins guy really had a sack on him.” Which scored me a free double shot of Jameson’s Irish whiskey, a pat on the back, and a free pass to go get my groove on. Altogether, perhaps not a German experience, but an international one all the same. Silly micks.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
“Ireland, but I’m in the American Army now.”
“Really? Irish in the American military? What are you doing in the Army?”
“Trying to get citizenship- I got exiled from Ireland.”
Now, usually, when someone is exiled from their home country, they usually don’t tell people about it; logically, it’s rather easy to see that one is only exiled for a rather tremendous crime. And, using further logic, it’s probably also rather easy to figure out that when one is from the Republic of Ireland and one is exiled, it’s rather likely that the IRA was involved. I could have left it at this and been satisfied that my answer to this question was likely correct, but, no, I had to ask; I had been drinking, and, as one is apt to do when feeling a little saucy, I said the wrong thing.
“Exiled? Whaddaya, IRA or something?”
Open mouth, insert foot.
His response? “Well, I’d tell ya, but I’d probably get in trouble.” Correct-a-mundo, J-Dubs.
Soon, though, it seems he stops caring about the consequences of telling me that he was exiled from Ireland for being a member of the Irish Republican Army. Yes, it seems that our dear friend lived just south of the Northern Ireland border, over which he would often steal to plant bombs in parked cars in order to kill those dastardly Protestant Northerners. Over the next ten minutes, he relates to me many of the things that he did for which he was eventually exiled.
My response to this? Again, probably the wrong thing to say.
‘Ok, John, just agree with the man, and get back to dancing with these girls before they get bored and walk away,’ I think to myself. ‘Just open your mouth and say it.’ Here goes: “Don’t you think the targets of the IRA could be better placed? To me, and the world at large, it just looks like you’re killing Protestants indiscriminately.”
Goddamn it, John. Way to pee all over your balls. This comment launches another 20 minute diatribe on the part of our mick friend here, detailing just all the ways that the British and the Protestant faith at large are the enemy of Ireland and her sons and daughters. After he’s finished, I finally wise up and say, “Well, all I know is that Michael Collins guy really had a sack on him.” Which scored me a free double shot of Jameson’s Irish whiskey, a pat on the back, and a free pass to go get my groove on. Altogether, perhaps not a German experience, but an international one all the same. Silly micks.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
John Czechs Into a Hospital
Ah, Wednesday! If my trip hadn’t yet had an official beginning, it finally got one am Mittwoch. The first orientation session was that morning, followed by another on Thursday.
Although it was great to finally meet my fellow exchange students, this morning really wasn’t the best morning, seeing as I had gotten quite drunk at a club the night before. Frailty, thy name is vodka and Red Bull. I was hungover somethin’ fierce.
I sat in the room with the same feelings any new student in a room full of new students might; I looked around excitedly at my fellow students, introducing myself to those around me and trying to figure out with whom I might hang out. Of course, I had half an ear perked to the cute Polish woman who was conducting the info session; seriously, she had that inexplicable Eastern European mystique. And then came a welling from the depths of my loins. Earlier, I felt hungover; now, I felt like Nagasaki was happening in my colon. Now, I had one of three options (which weren’t really options, being that whatever was going to happen wouldn’t be my choice): 1) puke, 2) soil myself, or 3) let off the world’s single foulest cloud of gas. None of these really felt like winners.
“Are you ok?” said a soft voice next to me. I must have had a look of intense fear upon my countenance. I turn to see not one, but two pretty faces looking at me with concern.
“Of course,” I assure them, despite the fact that I’ve never told a bigger lie. Seriously, my intestines are in a boxing match with my stomach. My brain was the ref, but the two contenders turned on him a long time ago, and it’s now turned into a MMA cage match with no rules. Folding chairs and shanks are being used shamelessly. I don’t know if ever a person vomited and shat himself simultaneously, but it certainly seemed a viable possibility. I figure that maybe talking to these two girls might distract me from my agony, and the Pollack Penelope has paused here speech to look through some papers, so I drum up a little conversation. Without moving too much, I introduce myself and shake their hands, hoping to God neither of them pulls my finger in the process. Hurdle #1 cleared here.
As I talk to them, I find out they’re both Czech, both here studying international business and German, and both living in Nuremberg. I’m being me, making corny jokes and laughing more at myself than they probably are, but the conversation is flowing well. While all this is happening, I notice my pain fading. It’s like God is pumping the gas right out through his Almighty Straw. I think it may have just gotten a lot smellier in Heaven, but I am as appreciative of this as I am the Creation, and God, if you're reading, I'm sorry for the odor, but you did invent the fart, am I right?
Anyway, when the session continues and we can no longer speak, everything wells up again as it was before. I begin whispering with the American guy next to me, but this does nothing. In desperation, I turn back to the girls and make a bad joke about something the Warsaw Wonder Woman has just said; I get soft chuckle, and the release returns. 'How strange,' I think, but I don’t care; I’ll do anything to not to feel like a skin bag full of barf and farts. I continue to survive this way, and finally, the session ends. Slowly, I walk out the door (so as not to unsettle anything that had been painstakingly tamed throughout the previous hour) with a sense of pride at having met two gorgeous girls and having wrangled my bodily functions.
I’ll end the story with a scientific conclusion, and that is this: never underestimate the healing power of Czech women. Their very presence can be the difference between life and death, as illustrated here. These angels from Prague saved me from death by flatulence. I’ll begin writing my article for American medical journals soon, just wait and see.
More stories soon; a few blog worthy misadventures have occurred within the last few days, so I’m a little backed up, but there are certainly more nuggets of joy to be extracted from this journey.
Although it was great to finally meet my fellow exchange students, this morning really wasn’t the best morning, seeing as I had gotten quite drunk at a club the night before. Frailty, thy name is vodka and Red Bull. I was hungover somethin’ fierce.
I sat in the room with the same feelings any new student in a room full of new students might; I looked around excitedly at my fellow students, introducing myself to those around me and trying to figure out with whom I might hang out. Of course, I had half an ear perked to the cute Polish woman who was conducting the info session; seriously, she had that inexplicable Eastern European mystique. And then came a welling from the depths of my loins. Earlier, I felt hungover; now, I felt like Nagasaki was happening in my colon. Now, I had one of three options (which weren’t really options, being that whatever was going to happen wouldn’t be my choice): 1) puke, 2) soil myself, or 3) let off the world’s single foulest cloud of gas. None of these really felt like winners.
“Are you ok?” said a soft voice next to me. I must have had a look of intense fear upon my countenance. I turn to see not one, but two pretty faces looking at me with concern.
“Of course,” I assure them, despite the fact that I’ve never told a bigger lie. Seriously, my intestines are in a boxing match with my stomach. My brain was the ref, but the two contenders turned on him a long time ago, and it’s now turned into a MMA cage match with no rules. Folding chairs and shanks are being used shamelessly. I don’t know if ever a person vomited and shat himself simultaneously, but it certainly seemed a viable possibility. I figure that maybe talking to these two girls might distract me from my agony, and the Pollack Penelope has paused here speech to look through some papers, so I drum up a little conversation. Without moving too much, I introduce myself and shake their hands, hoping to God neither of them pulls my finger in the process. Hurdle #1 cleared here.
As I talk to them, I find out they’re both Czech, both here studying international business and German, and both living in Nuremberg. I’m being me, making corny jokes and laughing more at myself than they probably are, but the conversation is flowing well. While all this is happening, I notice my pain fading. It’s like God is pumping the gas right out through his Almighty Straw. I think it may have just gotten a lot smellier in Heaven, but I am as appreciative of this as I am the Creation, and God, if you're reading, I'm sorry for the odor, but you did invent the fart, am I right?
Anyway, when the session continues and we can no longer speak, everything wells up again as it was before. I begin whispering with the American guy next to me, but this does nothing. In desperation, I turn back to the girls and make a bad joke about something the Warsaw Wonder Woman has just said; I get soft chuckle, and the release returns. 'How strange,' I think, but I don’t care; I’ll do anything to not to feel like a skin bag full of barf and farts. I continue to survive this way, and finally, the session ends. Slowly, I walk out the door (so as not to unsettle anything that had been painstakingly tamed throughout the previous hour) with a sense of pride at having met two gorgeous girls and having wrangled my bodily functions.
I’ll end the story with a scientific conclusion, and that is this: never underestimate the healing power of Czech women. Their very presence can be the difference between life and death, as illustrated here. These angels from Prague saved me from death by flatulence. I’ll begin writing my article for American medical journals soon, just wait and see.
More stories soon; a few blog worthy misadventures have occurred within the last few days, so I’m a little backed up, but there are certainly more nuggets of joy to be extracted from this journey.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
A Room with a View
Yesterday I finally moved into my dorm room. The building is a little out of the way of the old city, which is where everything is happenin', but it is in a good neighborhood and right across the street from the grocery store. And the walk to the old city is about 30 minutes, so whatever. Anyway, to officially move in, I had to set up a time for the Hausmeister (the manager of the dorm) to show me around, tell me the rules, etc. So I roll in looking for him, and, of course, he's not in his office. This is a man who is only available by phone for 30 minutes a day, 3 times a week. I had called him and set my time for 10:30 am on monday, and, go figure, he's not here. I wait outside his office until, finally, a dude that looks like he's on his way to a costume party walks up and tells me he is the Hausmeister (his name is Herr Krieger). Seriously, Krieger looks like a roadie for Deep Purple; he's overweight and pale with long blonde hair in a pony tail falling halfway down his back. He's wearing a hoodie advertising a tattoo parlor, featuring a detailed image of a snake crawling out the eye of a human skull on the front and a bleeding heart on the back. This is the man who will remind me to turn my stove off when I'm not using it. Unbelievable.
Finally, Krieger finishes his spiel and leaves me alone to unpack. Whilst putting everything away, I notice that, despite the fact that I have an enormous window overlooking the street and several other people's balconies, there is no curtain. This window literally stretches from floor to ceiling and nearly all the way across the outside wall of my room; there's really no hiding from this beast. What I'm saying here is that, in my own room, even with the door closed and locked, I still have to go into the bathroom to avoid showing off my considerable manhood to the citizenry of Nuremberg and my fellow students. Maybe the designer of the building is trying to convince me that this is acceptable behavior in German culture; even if so, I'll still need to warm up to the idea. No matter, I'll try anything once.
Seriously though, this implies far more than my nudity. Think for one second, my dear reader, if you do indeed exist, of all the things that humans probably do that aren't necessarily immoral or entirely indecent but are certainly things they do not want to put on display. This means no nose picking, butt scratching, crotch scratching, armpit picking, pube cutting, booger eating, or indecent self-examination. Not that I do any of these things of course, I'm just trying to paint the full picture of the living status of the "glass house." And that certainly doesn't mean that these things are wrong, I just don't do them, you see. Ever. Period. None of them. Seriously.
The room is great, but, as they say concerning glass houses, don't touch yourself. Oh, and I guess my rock-throwing days are probably gone for awhile, too.
Finally, Krieger finishes his spiel and leaves me alone to unpack. Whilst putting everything away, I notice that, despite the fact that I have an enormous window overlooking the street and several other people's balconies, there is no curtain. This window literally stretches from floor to ceiling and nearly all the way across the outside wall of my room; there's really no hiding from this beast. What I'm saying here is that, in my own room, even with the door closed and locked, I still have to go into the bathroom to avoid showing off my considerable manhood to the citizenry of Nuremberg and my fellow students. Maybe the designer of the building is trying to convince me that this is acceptable behavior in German culture; even if so, I'll still need to warm up to the idea. No matter, I'll try anything once.
Seriously though, this implies far more than my nudity. Think for one second, my dear reader, if you do indeed exist, of all the things that humans probably do that aren't necessarily immoral or entirely indecent but are certainly things they do not want to put on display. This means no nose picking, butt scratching, crotch scratching, armpit picking, pube cutting, booger eating, or indecent self-examination. Not that I do any of these things of course, I'm just trying to paint the full picture of the living status of the "glass house." And that certainly doesn't mean that these things are wrong, I just don't do them, you see. Ever. Period. None of them. Seriously.
The room is great, but, as they say concerning glass houses, don't touch yourself. Oh, and I guess my rock-throwing days are probably gone for awhile, too.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
The Nina, the Pinta, and the Lufthansa
So here I’m sitting (actually, that’s a lie; I’m writing this after the fact, but go with my stream of consciousness- it just makes this easier for me to rehash) on the airplane from Atlanta to Frankfurt. Bored, I’m listening to Billy Joel to make myself feel cooler; nothing like associating myself with lame people to feel better, eh? And, honestly, I really can’t hold this against ol’ Bill, I just need a pick-me-up. Anyway, this flight is awful so far, and I’m getting the message that this whole thing may have been a mistake. The guy sitting next to me is an Indian who smells like he soiled himself and he won’t shut up, despite the fact that his English is awful, a problem which is compounded by the fact that his breath smells like burnt hair. In front of me is some jackass who feels like he has to recline his seat at 7:30 PM (early to bed, early to go shove it, you jerk- you’re on a friggin’ airplane, for Chrissake). Behind me is a group of German teenage girls who are squawking on and on about fairly shallow, teenage topics as if no one on a Lufthansa flight speaks German. Pretty soon I notice that the one directly behind me has put her sockfeet up on my armrests, but I don’t say anything; rationalizing that I’ve only got, what, like…6 HOURS TO GO!?!
Now, I’m not superstitious really; I think the Powers that be have better things to do with their omnipotence than to screw with people just trying to survive, but the relative horror with which I’m now faced for the next 360 minutes is making me question that belief. Franticly, I begin searching for the signs I need- the signs that’ll look me in the face and say, “John, cut the shit, this trip is gonna be totally sweet.” You know the ones I’m talking about. Maybe the stewardess will screw up and give me two packs of pretzels, or the in-flight movie will be “Juwanna Mann,” or maybe the plane will go into a tailspin just outside of Frankfurt and the pilot will have a heart attack and I’ll jump in and save the day ‘cause I’m super-badass. Something like that. But I’m getting nada. I know that pretty soon I’m going to be watching “Bio-Dome” and wishing I’d never left Athens.
But wait. The drink cart is on it’s way, and, truly, it must be Helen of Troy pushing it. Seriously, Helen of Troy is about to remove the cap from a fresh Warsteiner, just for me. Beer at the expense of nobility; now, that’s service, eh?
But I really can’t speak. Even if I could speak Greek, no words will ever again emit from my mouth as long as she’s here. Helen is not hot; that would be insulting. This woman is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. It’s like Marilyn Monroe took an etiquette course. This face, these eyes, those divine ears are too perfect to be soiled by my harsh and flawed tones. Awestruck, I quietly ask for a beer in German, to which she responds in English and moves on.
Wait. I may not be James Bond or anything, but I certainly did NOT come here for Helen of Troy to respond to my German with English. I do not care if we’re not even past Greenland yet; this is Lufthansa, damn it, and I demand to be fully serviced in a language I do not yet fully grasp. Inconvenience me, goddamnit. I can feel a bulge welling up under me- it’s the manhood that had been missing moments before. In the words of Colonel J.H. Patterson, “I’ll sort this out.”
The Aryan Jennifer Aniston returns to serve me a drink with my dinner, and I’m ready to flip this thing on its head.
Her (in English): “What would you like to drink?”
Me (in German): “You can speak German with me, I’ve got it. Seriously.”
Her (in German): “Sure, sure, how do you know German?”
Me (in German): “I have my ways…”
And the conversation has begun. 5 hours later, I walk off the plane with a name, a phone number, and a promise to be given a tour of Frankfurt by Helen of Troy. In the words of Will Hunting, “How’daya like them apples? I got a numbah.”
Getting my feet wet? I’m swimming laps, babe. It’s going to be one hell of a semester.
Now, I’m not superstitious really; I think the Powers that be have better things to do with their omnipotence than to screw with people just trying to survive, but the relative horror with which I’m now faced for the next 360 minutes is making me question that belief. Franticly, I begin searching for the signs I need- the signs that’ll look me in the face and say, “John, cut the shit, this trip is gonna be totally sweet.” You know the ones I’m talking about. Maybe the stewardess will screw up and give me two packs of pretzels, or the in-flight movie will be “Juwanna Mann,” or maybe the plane will go into a tailspin just outside of Frankfurt and the pilot will have a heart attack and I’ll jump in and save the day ‘cause I’m super-badass. Something like that. But I’m getting nada. I know that pretty soon I’m going to be watching “Bio-Dome” and wishing I’d never left Athens.
But wait. The drink cart is on it’s way, and, truly, it must be Helen of Troy pushing it. Seriously, Helen of Troy is about to remove the cap from a fresh Warsteiner, just for me. Beer at the expense of nobility; now, that’s service, eh?
But I really can’t speak. Even if I could speak Greek, no words will ever again emit from my mouth as long as she’s here. Helen is not hot; that would be insulting. This woman is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. It’s like Marilyn Monroe took an etiquette course. This face, these eyes, those divine ears are too perfect to be soiled by my harsh and flawed tones. Awestruck, I quietly ask for a beer in German, to which she responds in English and moves on.
Wait. I may not be James Bond or anything, but I certainly did NOT come here for Helen of Troy to respond to my German with English. I do not care if we’re not even past Greenland yet; this is Lufthansa, damn it, and I demand to be fully serviced in a language I do not yet fully grasp. Inconvenience me, goddamnit. I can feel a bulge welling up under me- it’s the manhood that had been missing moments before. In the words of Colonel J.H. Patterson, “I’ll sort this out.”
The Aryan Jennifer Aniston returns to serve me a drink with my dinner, and I’m ready to flip this thing on its head.
Her (in English): “What would you like to drink?”
Me (in German): “You can speak German with me, I’ve got it. Seriously.”
Her (in German): “Sure, sure, how do you know German?”
Me (in German): “I have my ways…”
And the conversation has begun. 5 hours later, I walk off the plane with a name, a phone number, and a promise to be given a tour of Frankfurt by Helen of Troy. In the words of Will Hunting, “How’daya like them apples? I got a numbah.”
Getting my feet wet? I’m swimming laps, babe. It’s going to be one hell of a semester.
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