Frozen Delight

This week's thaw triggered a really unusual reaction in me: wait, winter could be over soon? I am not ready for hunting Easter eggs and donning rain gear. This winter felt like sliding down one long ice track, with a running start. (Like poor 1 1/2 year-old Lotte, above, on the frozen-over Alster River in Hamburg.) Isn't winter usually the time to be a sloth, to hibernate? I never got that rest; too many awe-inspiring distractions.

So, here, before it is gone, is a small photo tribute to the fairytale-like wintery whiteness that captivated me the last few months.

First, around the New Year, there was a sledding adventure - my first time sledding in ten years. And my first time ever on a real, classic wooden sled. (Our landlords wanted to throw them away, but luckily we were there as they were cleaning out their basement and could protest.) Since there are exactly three suitably inclined landscapes in all of Bonn, the crowds here were not small, but neither was the enthusiasm - regardless of age.

In late January I spent a weekend in the best possible place to enjoy snow: a small farm with a couple of puppies and a lot of antiquated equipment, made more mysterious by its heavy, white attire.

Then, back home, on a walk over the Rhine, even the ship traffic was somehow elegant covered in snow.

But, on shore, the thaw was beginning...

Auf Wiedersehen, Winter.

Carnival

I survived my first real bout of Carnival.

For five days in the middle of February (leading up to Ash Wednesday), the streets of the Rhineland are filled with drunk clowns, sailors, and bumble bees. In the past two years I resisted the madness, either by fleeing town, or just drowning out the music on the streets with my own living room beats. This year, I got swept into the heart of the chaos.


On Friday night I participated in a Cologne cultural ritual known as "Loss mer singe," (in proper German "Lass' uns singen," in English "Let us sing"). The setting: a cavernous brewery in the shadow of the massive Cologne Cathedral, in the heart of the old city. The protagonists: hundreds, or perhaps thousands, of sweaty bodies with preposterous headgear, crammed together belting out well-worn Carnival songs with insipid lyrics ("Give me your heart; I'll show you the world, na na na"). The purpose: local patriotism. Most of the songs are in the native dialect (Kölsch, or Colognish) and praise the "people with sun in their hearts" in that "friendly little city on the Rhine."

You have to be drunk to really enjoy it. (At least that is what I concluded from the corollary.)

Kölsch is about as similar to real German as Dutch or Yiddish, so, amusing to hear and try to parse out. But I couldn't actually understand much of anything amidst the whooping of the crowds and the thumping of the base. Even the waiters (carrying tiered trays of beer) had trouble getting anyone's attention despite the whistles they blew to part the crowds.

Carnival festivities here actually culminate on "Rose" Monday (Rosenmontag) in a parade featuring everyone and his brother. But after Friday night's adventure, I can't say I was too upset that Monday was a regular work day for me. (Hardly anyone here works on Carnival; however, it is officially up to employers, and mine used the caveat to keep us at the office.) But there is no way to duck the Carnival spirit. I had to dodge trucks unloading beer in the streets as I biked to work at 9 am. Then, at some point after lunch, I got a phone call.

"Good afternoon. I***M head office."

"Bonn Alaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaf!"

"Hello? Who's there?"

"Alaaaaf! Are you still at your desk? Alaaf!"

(A., my former colleague, rang to see if he couldn't pry me away from work with the traditional "alaaf" used as a greeting and a rallying cry in the Rhineland on Carnival.)

In the evening, nearing home, the crowds were still massive in the old town. As I dismounted from the bike to navigate my way through the sea of people, a bear and a clown nearly toppled me down: "Hey, there you are! We just rang your doorbell and no one answered. Can we stop off at your place to pee?"

I chatted with these two friends for a while and let them use the toilet while I helped myself to their bag of parade plunder. (Yes, even in times of economic crisis, it seems the city of Bonn did not skimp on sweets, or local business Haribo made a generous donation.) But even sweeter than the gummy bears: when they closed the apartment door behind them, I knew I wouldn't see another clown face until next year.

The State of the (German) Nation

In the interest of bringing German talent to a non-German audience, I translated a Wise Guys hit from the nineties called "Zur Lage der Nation" ("The State of the Nation"). This song takes German nationalism to a new level: satire. At least one immigrant was amused.
The original German lyrics, by Daniel Dickopf, can be found here, music here.

The State of the Nation
I fear our country has a crumbling foundation.
Too many foreigners, an ever-present grief.
That's why I say let's put a stop to immigration!
Head scarves and minarets don't fit our leitmotif.
Today our IT branch has barely any Germans,
And for that we have the Indians to thank.
What a pity that our own kids aren't a-learnin'
How to get a pretty penny in the bank.

Listen up! The nation needs a face lift.
I've got a plan - perhaps you catch my drift:


We'll put the wall back up tomorrow,
to restore a bit of order.
This one won't cut through the middle,
but instead protect the border.
Then Oktoberfest won't be
just in October anymore
And the riffraff of the world
won't come knocking at our door.
With mashed potatoes, pickled pork,
and sauerkraut galore
We'll celebrate by clapping
to an oom-pah score!

We lost many soccer games against our neighbors
Countless shots, they flew right past our defense.
But no more we'll be denied fruits of our labours,
If we have no foreign teams to play against.
The only problem that remains: Mallorca Island.
We can't live without those sunny, Spanish sands.
But what's to stop us from importing mini-Deutschland?
In the North Sea there is plenty of room to expand!
So listen up! The nation needs a face lift
I've got a plan - perhaps you catch my drift:
We'll put the wall back up tomorrow,
...
Imagine Sushi's out and cauliflower's in.
And the Alps belong to Heidi and kin.
And even Opel might exhibit recov'ry,
In this picture-perfect, modern Germany.
We'll put the wall back up tomorrow,
...

For my niece Cecilia, born today

Hello there, my dear Cecilia
Here you are in a brand new world!
We're glad that you have joined us
(especially cuz you're a girl)

We watched you grow on Blogger,
To your temperament grew wise.
We were wowed as little hiccups
From the uterus met our eyes.

Before you were Cecilia called,
The nickname Chickpea was installed.
As Facebook updates fed us news,
All your stats we had - down pat.
We were indeed insatiable
For Chickpea this and Chickpea that.

Fun as it was to follow your
prenatal track, howe'er wide-eyed,
We longed to kiss your soft, round head,
and are glad you're on the outside!

On this wondrous day of your birth,
Here's some advice, for what it's worth:
Milk your status of being queen,
Before a sibling arrives on the scene.

Take after me, wear what you like,
A dress with rubber boots is nice
and just a diaper would suffice
for romping around - snow or ice.

Your uncle can be a model, too:
Open your heart up, live for you!
Don't let life's setbacks get you down
and if they do, get outa town.

All told, I know your life will be
A tale of wonder unforeseen.
As you live and love, work and grow
Surprised we'll be by where you go.

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.

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?