Going to the sauna

Today my friend Silvi invited me to go to the sauna with her and a co-worker, who was so pregnant, her baby could have decided to be born in the changing room. It generated a lot of pondering in me.

For starters, I think it is fascinating that the sauna is a whole day event in Germany, not an afterthought at the end of a workout or a swim at ACAC. There are in any given area numerous elaborately landscaped wellness centers with half a dozen varieties of saunas, and - surprisingly - the clientèle is middle class. Something that I associate with absolute luxury and self-indulgence is something a lot of Germans would sooner equate with getting a car inspected: going to the sauna is prudent and, like everything in Germany, features prescribed routines.

After the 90 degree sauna (that's Celsius), for example, you must hose yourself down with ice water, jump in a cold swimming pool/lake, soak your feet, drink water, recline and read, have a warm shower, and then you can repeat the process. Regular sauna visitors - and there are many - regale the benefits of subjecting your body to temperature extremes, including everything from fighting minor infections before they flare up into flus and colds to keeping the skin shiny and fresh. And according to general wisdom, nothing speaks against a pregnant woman enjoying the sauna with her belly at the bursting point. You can't start early enough introducing your child to life's fundamental pleasures (of which the sauna is decidedly one), and if you are really attuned to prenatal health, sauna is part of the plan. So it is said.

Luckily pregnant women in the sauna means a visual treat for the rest of us. And that brings us to the next point: for me the most exciting thing about the sauna is nakedness.

First of all, I secretly love studying naked people. Not the sexy ones with varnished bodies and Chippendale muscles; I see enough of their nakedness in advertising. The ones I like to see are the ones who wouldn't volunteer to be nude models for an art class: the ones with stodgy, square, wrinkly, hairy, or weathered bodies. The ones that look human.

But even more than being invited to glimpse the nakedness of others in an environment of trust, I love being naked. The first time I went to a public sauna palace six years ago, I was terribly reluctant to part with my clothes. But I was even more reluctant to put them on again. Oh, how cumbersome they felt after a day of being dressed in nothing but water, unprotected, exposed, and free. On top of that I remember being acutely aware of their musty smell. They weren’t dirty, just worldly, and my senses had been awakened by all the deep breathing. That day I wrote in an email to a friend, “I think I could get addicted to public nakedness.” I did.

Why don’t Americans like going to the sauna to the same degree as Germans? They embrace lots of other indulgent things in the name of health and well-being. Are they too prudish to be seen in public naked? Do they lack free time? Do they find it too primitive and prefer hobbies that are technologically advanced, like jet skiing or playing virtual reality video games? Do they find sitting in other peoples’ sweat unsanitary? Some combination of factors is probably at work, but which is the most important? Please weigh in with your ideas.

Linguistic Pilferage

There are a number of German words that have made it into the English language because they are untranslatable, for example, Zeitgeist, Leitmotiv, and Schadenfreude. I have come across a few more that ought to be introduced.

• spießig (adj.) - used to describe anything that demonstrates tastelessness or an exaggerated sense of self-importance. For example, comb-overs, garden gnomes, and manicured lawns. Or, the Austrian Silent Night Society (mission: to be the world's authority on the song Silent Night).
  

• basteln (v.) - To basteln is to create like a kid in the largest sense, to make something impressive with modest inputs. So you can basteln a robot out of toilet paper rolls or you can basteln a dinner from what happens to be left in the refrigerator.

• Ausbildung (n.) is schooling or training in a general sense, could be practical, hands-on or theoretical. The word is useful and egalitarian because it can be applied so universally; whether mechanic or pilot or teacher or nurse -- just about everyone has some form of  Ausbildung.

• Liebeskummer (n.) - If you have a Liebeskummer, or a severe case of the love blues, you have been clinically diagnosed as heartbroken.

• Fingerspitzengefuehl - (n.) Though it literally only means the feeling (-gefuehl) in your fingertips (Fingerspitzen), this word refers to a particular flair, or an uncanny ability for something tricky. Intuition of the fingertips. 

And as a bonus bonus, here are some nifty words to incorporate from other languages.

The Circus' New Fans

Since my blog is named in honor of the three ring big top, I think it's about time to take the circus as a focal point here.

The direct inspiration for this post came from an event at my former school near Bonn, a circus perfor- mance that transformed kids who usually sit like zombies in a classroom into flying, twirling, juggling masters. They were the prodigies of a professional, traveling children's circus trainer who led them through a week of workshops culminating in a show.

A week sounds like a long time - and it is if you consider that no ordinary school lessons took place in those five days. But when you look at the fact that most kids don't have any experience with acrobatics, disappearing like Houdini, or playing a clown, a week is a preciously small amount of time to get anything polished enough for a stage - even a stage with only loving audience members.

Given those constraints, I was blown away by the level of professionalism and the overwhelming success of the acts during the performance, not to mention the energy that the kids brought onto the stage. Only once or twice did anyone fall from a unicycle or miss a ball flying in her direction. Furthermore, students from every clique and age group were enthusiastic participants. Cool, sullen 10th graders dazzled the audience with diablos, while 8th grade girls hung from trapeezes and their smaller schoolmates hung from them.

What is the price of this success, you might ask. Cut the population of the school down by two-thirds (the remaining students get busy work) and bring in loads of volunteer parents to cultivate a 1:2 teacher-student ratio. Then ask the school principal to leave so that lots of funding and more labor is donated in honor of his retirement.

But wouldn't it be great if P.E. were always so full of suspense and so cooperative? Wouldn't it be worth putting a bit more money into our school systems? Those kids came alive. Maybe they'll spend more time over the next couple of weeks dancing with streamers than sending text messages or collecting inappropriate videos on their cell phones. Because what do you need hardcore porno for if you've seen someone eating fire - live - and it was your buddy from algebra?

Bewerbungsfoto

Applying for jobs in Germany has given me a chance to better understand Recht and Ordnung.

For example, the obligatory Bewerbungsfoto that accompanies every job application. The shot on the left was my first attempt to create such a thing, before I learned that job portraits are subject to hard and fast rules:

- If the photographer charges you less than 50 €, fuggetaboutit. 
- The picture is under no circumstances to have been taken at home.
- The applicant must look into the camera.
- Not too much neck. 

Most of this I learned from a website called "JOB oder FLOP?", which gives inexperienced applicants a chance to get feedback on their professional portraits from strangers. There are hoards of people who give candid, contemplative criticism, and not all of them are trying to promote their photography studios.

Here is a sampling of the comments on "JOB oder FLOP?": "Your lipstick doesn't match the color palette." "Looks artificial." "Did you just roll out of bed?" "Ever heard of body language?" "Can't you do something about that droopy eyelid?"

In the (embarrassingly) large sample that I evaluated, I never saw a rating higher than 7 out of 10. That could be because only novices or insecure (looking) people post their pictures on "JOB oder FLOP?". But I think it also says something about German mentality: there is no such thing as a perfect 10, because that wouldn't leave any room for doubt or the fabrication of new requirements.

Praise for Green Cities

When I was home in the States I had to defend having wanted to live for 2 and 1/2 years in Germany. For many people 30 months (or 921.5 days) is the brink of eternity - an eternity abroad. They are sure I will be in Germany forever. And no one, except a person without financial alternatives or someone who is persecuted would choose that, right?

Surprisingly people who have been abroad a lot are the most disbelieving. "Don't you get tired of not being able to express yourself naturally in your own language?" "Don't you wish you could just pop home for a weekend?" The answer, of course, to both questions is yes, but it misses the point here.

The crux of my defense is always: I think Germany has really livable cities with vibrant nuclei. I can stumble out my front door and within five minutes I've reached my dentist, picked out organic groceries, taken shoes to be repaired, popped into a thrift store, or sat down for Spanish lessons. And restaurants, beer gardens, and cafes within a five-minute radius are in such abundance it is hardly worth mentioning. (The best news is - but, ssh, it's a secret - even with the dollar at rock bottom and a student/subsistence salary it isn't prohibitively expensive to live in a thriving German downtown - and it's safe.) Another bonus is, when I've had enough of the city, there are frequent trains and smoothly paved bike paths to get me out.


That upshot of all of this is that living without a car is not only possible, it is the only sensible way to live. And that point is made here by a more articulate spokesman from the NY Times.

I live in the sort of neighborhood in Germany that Krugman describes, "a pleasant, middle-class neighborhood consisting mainly of four- or five-story apartment buildings, with easy access to public transit and plenty of local shopping." And I agree with his conclusion that this kind of neighborhood "barely exists in America, even in big metropolitan areas." To make a contrast, he even mentions a US city close to home: "Greater Atlanta has roughly the same population as Greater Berlin — but Berlin is a city of trains, buses, and bikes, while Atlanta is a city of cars, cars, and cars."

For most educated Americans this isn't really news. It is, however, hard for people who haven't lived in Germany or similar places in Europe to appreciate the extent of the disparity. And the ramifications that transportation issues have for quality of life.

On the other hand, Americans are making changes. I am really pleased to see more bikers in my hot and humid hometown every time I visit. They are defying the famous wisdom from Field of Dreams, ("If you build it, they will come."), tired of waiting for bike paths to be built. Hoping that if they come, the city will build. I am also encouraged by talk of restoring existing railway lines and expanding passenger rail travel between major cities in the area I grew up. Both these things seem to not only be relevant for the liberal enclave in which I was nurtured, but also for other parts of the nation.

Rock on, green city planners, amateur and professional. It makes me want to come back and fight the fight. Almost.

Compost Bin Bandit

My aunt has a neighbor who sneaks the contents of his cat's litter box into her trash. I used to think that this fetish for pristine rubbish was the epitome of strange behavior in the category garbage disposal. But then I experienced theft of compost bins.

This story begins with Carnival, when our compost bin disappeared on pick up day.* For the uninitiated, Carnival in Germany is the biggest party of the year.** We didn't spend much time wondering why something on the street disappeared in its aftermath. We just waited to see if the container would be found in a thicket around the corner, and, when it didn't, we called the city and asked for a replacement.

My flatmate E. spotted the shiny, newly delivered container at our doorstep while she was racing to work. When she looked for it a few hours later, it was gone. And this time there were no Carnival drunks to take the blame.

Feeling befuddled we called the city again. We had to present the very implausible truth that the street was a dangerous place for compost bins. They treated us like prank playing teenagers. But they agreed to send out another container.

The third compost bin came as promised, and we toted it immediately to the backyard and closed it in behind the heavy door of our shed. But the next morning it was missing. A suspicion that had been brewing seemed confirmed: there was someone who was determined to keep us from having a compost bin. And it was one of the nine people who has access to our garden.

The majority of the women who rent in our building had shown interest in having the bin replaced. But the only non-resident tenant, the owner of a tea shop on the ground floor, had been a bit aloof. Asked in passing whether she had an idea how or why the containers disappeared, she said, "Ladies, I have nothing to do with the compost bin. I know nothing about it." Everyone else had just expressed confusion; she jumped right into self-defense.

With this as our tip off we began to unravel the mystery of the Compost Bin Bandit. We knew the tea shop was planning to unveil an outdoor seating area in our garden. We knew that the owner of the shop had compulsive and unattainable standards of cleanliness. We figured the very idea of having compost anywhere near her guests, even inside a shed, repulsed her.

To most people this sounded like a preposterous theory. Why would a grown woman with a successful business take such a juvenile approach to problem solving? And what did she do with the three compost bins? Those two questions remain mysteries to us. But a statement made in confidence to one of her employees, also a resident of the house, assured us we weren't paranoid: "I will not tolerate a compost bin in my garden."

So we raised the white flag and decided not to keep on fighting the fight that we didn't know we had been fighting. The city won't deliver any more bins, anyway. But every time I toss a walnut shell, a banana peel, or carrot shavings into the regular garbage, I fantasize about that same little piece of the earth flying out the window and landing in a dainty tea cup.

*In Germany, compost is picked up on the curbside and has its own special bin.

**Carnival is when all the uptight, humorless, Recht und Ordnung Germans don garish costumes and face paint and exercise every long-suppressed impulse to conduct themselves like frat boys.

Plink!

E. and I were in the supermarket the weekend that our kitchen was being renovated, because, after Chinese food we both had an irrational craving for ice cream - and where else can you find it in the middle of January? Next to the ice cream freezer in our PLUS market is, logically, the housewares aisle, and that's where we noticed the energy-efficient light bulbs being offered on the cheap.

Finding a compact fluorescent bulb for sale at the chaotic, convenience-oriented drop-out prices discounter around the corner is a little like finding a Williams and Sonoma sale catalogue in the waiting room of a free clinic. Imagine hearing this in a 7-11:
"I'll have a Big Gulp, a corn dog, and a HighPower 4-Watt soft glow light bulb."
"Your total is 12.77."

So of course we nestled them into our shopping basket. PLUS may be an unusual place to find elite consumer goods, but we needed lightbulbs, and we stood to save a handful of cash by buying them from an unusual supplier. We swam contently in the knowledge that discount doesn't have to mean abandoning your values, inwardly congratulating the higher-ups int he PLUS chain for their forward-thinking range of products.

But as we neared checkout, the responsible consumers in us awoke and we felt uneasy about not being able to test the bulbs on the spot, which you can do in any respectable store. E. presented this dilemma to the man at the end of the conveyor belt and asked what happened if the light bulbs didn't work.

"Yeah," he said, scratching the peach fuzz on his chin. "You can't bring 'em back, cuz we wouldn't know how they got broken, if you know what I mean."

But then a light bulb went off above his own head and he gave us this reassurance: "But all you have to do is just put it to your ear and shake a little and you don't hear anything, then it is gonna work all right."

Confirmed. Whatever forwardthinkingness the company exhibited by offering enery-efficient lightbulbs hadn't trickled down to the brain behind the counter. Still I saw the situation with an upbeat: if someone so lacking in general knowledge or experience can present such a positive, self-confident face and an air of expertise in his job, I really don't have to hold back my piece of mind.

Hitting a Nerve

There are many signs that my stay in Germany is more substantial than a post-college flirtation with Europe. For example, I know the word for that plastic thing that you hammer into a wall to anchor a screw - only in German. And in a weak moment I thought the word friend might actually be spelled more like its German cousin, as in freind (Freund auf Deutsch). But the most obvious sign that I am really making a nest here is that I went to see a German dentist.

A dentist is something that everyone choses carefully. But in my family there is an almost religious (bordering fanatical) faithfulness to the honorable Dr. R. Only once did I venture into an unknown practice, though I haven't lived in my hometown for eight years. The price of that sole instance of infidelity is a sensitive tooth, its yowling response to hot, cold, and pressure as deep as my regret.

Before I left for Germany the first time, my attentive mother made sure to help me squeeze in an appointment with Him. The second time around, however, I had started dumping a large sum of money into German health insurance each month, and somehow, with a sunken heart, I couldn't justify going without US insurance coverage to visit the family doctor.

So I bit the bullet (don't tell Dr. R.) and asked around in Bonn for a reputable teeth caregiver. I came away from my first set of visits with contradictory feelings. On the one hand, I was relieved to find that treatment results were similar - no complaints. On the other hand, I was bemused to see German/American cultural differences reflected in dental care, and the lasting psychological impact of my visit couldn't be less familiar.

The emphasis of my appointment with Dr. S. was a performance review: how I am doing in the guardianship of my teeth. She took my jaw under the microscope and gave me feedback: fear-inducing feedback. She told me that my gums were on a forward march to pulp-dom (as a result of haphazard flossing) and did a demonstration. A delicate, pin-shaped object sunk in beside a rear molar like a rake into a pile of tender leaves. She smeared my teeth with blue dye and used a small camera to project every patch of plaque thus revealed onto a computer screen. She pointed out where small pieces of tooth enamel were worn away, leaving cold, frightened nerve endings to fend for themselves.

With Dr. R. the sober, clinical analysis must have taken place in his head. He certainly found faults - I've had my share of fillings. But with a sunny grin he preferred to talk about his trips to Haiti and Lithuania and ask if that heart-breaking brother of mine had settled down. During the standard professional cleaning of the teeth - itself rather a rarity this side of the pond - his assistant always asked which flavor toothpaste I preferred, offering bubble gum until I was well into my twenties. And I never left the office without a sparkling new tooth brush, a stash of floss - travel size and regular - and a foamy sticker or an eraser shaped like a tooth.

Dr. S.'s goal was to offer objective, relevant, practical advice. But because she bypassed all of the small talk avenues and failed to make any encouraging remark, I found her approach cold-hearted - and very German. But I also see that the chatty optimism of my family dentist, just as stereotypically American, can also leave something to be desired. Because, while one result of Doctor S.'s frank language is that I have had nightmares of smiling into the mirror, only to see gaping, black holes, I also can't remember a time in which I took better care of my teeth.