Dancing in the Streets

A clear sign of my cultural schizophrenia, I came to Germany to learn Lindy Hop. Tuck turns and tacky Annies on the Rhine, Markus and Bernd in beanie berets.

The last 5-10 years have seen a Lindy explosion in Europe: hipsters plan their vacactions around festivals, or fly to Como or Zurich for a weekend of master classes with world champions from Sweden (where it all began, I mean, in the Old World). Hop Spot Cologne has 500 friends on Facebook and a professional dance studio devoted to nothing but Lindy. Dancers from Utrecht, Brussels and Berlin regularly turn up at our practices for a night or two while on business in the Rhineland.

In the summer things pick up momentum: dancing biweekly outdoors (once a week with live music) draws attention and inspires usually reserved, privacy-conscious Germans to give us, complete strangers, their email addresses.

Sometimes I realize what a fad I am part of and ask myself why I didn't choose a less ... conventional hobby. But, not only is dancing in my blood, Lindy is a refreshing break from the more stifling aspects of living in Germany. People who wouldn't make eye contact on a train toss each other in the air. A little taste of home imported en masse.

'O' wie Otto

363 days a year I think it feels alright to be a foreigner in Germany. The two days a year I have to get my residency permit renewed, by contrast, usually bring on tears of frustration.

At the Ausländeramt (municipal immigration office) in Germany everything has its Ablauf (course of events). For example, a snippet of the phone call I just made requesting an appointment (wie means "as in"):

Call center employee: "'U' wie Ulrich?"

Me: "Nein, 'N' wie Nordpol, 'O' wie ... wie ... Oktopus."

Call center employee [impatiently]: "'O' wie Otto?"

Me: "Ja, 'O' wie Otto."

... and so on with every letter of my last name.

In Germany in general and for civil employees in particular, the Buchstabiertafel (phonetic alphabet) is the emblem of inflexibility. Every letter has only one correct paired word. Failing to use "'O' as in Otto'" is a breach, an insult.

It took me seven minutes and 40 seconds to give my name and telephone number to a call center. (Half the call was spent convincing her she didn't need my street address or my email!) Her only responsibility was to ask the municipal immigration office to call me back.

The craziest part is, I was at the immigration office this morning and sat in the office of the man who issues residency permits for those with surnames beginning with 'R' (as in Richard). He does not give out his own appointments.

So I asked the bouncer at the door where in the building I could make an appointment. Mid-sentence he handed me a card with the call center number. Right - a call center. Not the number for the immigration office, but for a service set up to deliver information to the immigration office on who needs an appointment.

Otto - Martha - Friedrich - Gustav.

(I'm practicing.)

It reminds me of the game Mouse Trap. The objective is to trick foreigners into making a mistake that will cost Bearbeitungsgebühr and leave the immigration office employees and their call center cohorts feeling competent and in control. Unfortunately, there is a small, definitely unwanted but barely addressed side effect: Germany's population is sinking.

Mixed Messages

I used to like flipping through the info-zine sent to me by my health insurance provider (the AOK). At least there were occasional tips on regional bike tours and colorful recipes. I was frankly impressed at any communication beyond, "Yes [or no] this is[n't] covered." Suitable bathroom reading. Then one day I stumbled across the ad for diet pills. The perfect cliché: a somber-looking woman in a white leotard, big boned but delicately featured, crouches in a dimly lit corner hugging her knees. OK, it was an advertisement. But any semi-serious publication has to use a bit more discretion. I mean, corralling women into eating disorder clinics? Isn't that expensive? I still like that they subsidize my yoga classes, but the magazine tends to land unopened in the recycling of late.

This morning another schizophrenic moment, brought to you by the Frankfurter Rundschau:

The headline on the left reads: "Climate Legislation Refused". It lightly chastises the Merkel administration for failing to enact binding measures to reduce greenhouse gas emissions in Germany. "Great!" I thought. "Climate change hasn't completely disappeared from German consciousness, and the newspaper gives weight to Merkel critics."

To the right: Frankfurt to Dublin for 44.99 Euro round-trip.

Moment of outrage, flying breakfast cereal: "Is this an earnest attempt to inform the public, or just an opportunistic rag?"

Moment of calm, sip of juice: "Maybe the ad was subversively placed."

Word Puzzle

What do these three words have in common?

1. Kissen

2. Hafen

3. Verlängern

Hint: Many more fit the same bill.

So, you must be fluent by now?

During the opening lesson of my rookie Goethe-Institut summer school course in 2003, I was amazed I could instantly understand "Der Fisch schwimmt," "Der Ball rollt," and "Der Apfel sinkt" (if you drop it in a bowl of water).

This was the first little pearl on a string of triumphs marking my journey toward fluency. How many beads does it take to craft an artifact?

Here are a few of the milestones that followed my immersion euphoria that summer. You tell me where I became fluent. Or am I there yet?

1. Realizing why, while shopping, store employees didn't leave me alone after I shook my head. (In Germany they don't ask, "Can I help you?" but rather, "Are you doing alright?" / "Kommen Sie zu Recht?")

2. Identifying a love song on the radio.

3. Grasping snippets of a passerby's conversation on a busy sidewalk.

4. Failing to tune out background conversations at will.

5. Successfully concealing my foreign accent from a curious stranger seated next to me on a train.

6. Identifying potential nuclear waste repositories as the topic of a radio program.

7. Holding my own in a argument.

8. Word play - on purpose.

9. Passing my statistics exam.

Goals up ahead:

1. Laughing at stand-up comedy in Frisian dialect.

2. Being a statistics tutor.

3. Simultaneous translation of the tour through the archaeological excavation under the Cologne Cathedral.

Fluent sounds so final. Once you are fluent, you can't improve. But even in your native language you are never done learning, not least of all because the language itself is steadily changing.

It is like my high school calculus teacher Ms. Perkins explained: you can jump half way to a wall until the cows come home.

The ants go marching... on vacation

A recent trip to Hamburg reminded me of a favorite German poem to share. Below a translation by the late Ernest A. Seemann, followed by the original Ringelnatz.

The Ants

There once were two ants in Westphalia

Who wanted to go to Australia.

But cursing their feet

In a Belgian street

They gave up the trip as a failya.

Die Ameisen

In Hamburg lebten zwei Ameisen

die wollten nach Australien reisen.

Bei Altona auf der Chaussee

Da taten ihnen die Beine weh.

Und da verzichteten sie weise

Dann auf den letzten Teil der Reise.

More translations of Ringelnatz poems.