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 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?

Divination Class

I've spent most of my year as a foreign language teaching assistant feeling like I don't have much authority. The students may dutifully employ the German formal address of "Sie" with me, but they have no scruples about tuning out my requests and challenging my directions and competence. I recently experienced, however, that it is possible to convince them that I have access to mysterious, hidden sources of wisdom.

It started as a small joke; I wanted to open a lesson on career choices with a satirical spin on a job assessment test. With the help of Google, I had found a survey supposedly administered in the circus, a litmus test for the Ringling Brothers to determine how to corral newbie members into the professions of clown, animal trainer, ringmaster, and acrobat. I gave this test to my students. I told them to answer it accurately and I would score their tests at home.

Of course I had no scoring sheets. And it was too much work to sniff out which answers belonged to which professions. Could you say which member of the circus is most or least likely to be afraid of thunderstorms? So I decided, based on intuition and random association, which professions I thought fit my students. Or absolutely didn't. And in doing so I didn't limit myself to the circus. I wrote my scientifically confirmed results in an official-looking ballpoint pen in the corner of each paper.

With the same air of self-mockery and exaggerated irony I returned their "aptitude tests" to them. Their knowing chuckles assured me I had played a reasonably funny joke and that no one was too depressed at being assigned the fate of "real estate agent" or "teacher." Until I came to Lisa "the wonder child," who has a reputation among the teachers for spoiling a lesson by hitting the figurative nail on the head in the first five minutes of class.

Linda said, "Computer scientist?! But - mein Gott - how did I get to that result? All computer scientists who I have met just sit all day and stare straight ahead" - (she demonstrated with her hands on an invisible keyboard) - "and never go out."

When I said, "Well, it's based on the answers you gave," trying desperately not to break a smile, she looked so down-trodden that I felt a small twinge of guilt.

I continued on with the lesson nevertheless and figured that when Lisa's shock wore off she would be able to convince herself that whether or not she liked skipping better than jumping rope has nothing to do with being destined to end up working in software development. But then I began to wonder how many members of the class actually had seen through the aptitude test. Almost all of them were excited to see their "results," and they called across the classroom, "I'm a make-up artist, what about you?"

But at the end of class, the students indeed started to use their powers of reason to work out my playful deceit. Two pupils put their two quizzes together and determined that they had answered four of the - five - questions on the test identically. Confused at first and then relieved, confident of my trickery, they said, "We have everything the same, but she is a fashion designer and I an architect. Hmm."

I puzzled for a long time over the unintended outcome of my lesson on career paths. I wanted them to know that you can take an aptitude test to learn more about yourself, but critically evaluate the theory that certain personalities are suited for specific professions. Instead they wanted to believe that their course in life is written in the stars. I am baffled that I can tell them a million times in vain, "the United States is singular" and that they have to do their part (i.e. homework) if they expect the lessons to be interesting. But they plod forward, insisting that even in English a coffee cup is female, unable to motivate themselves to prepare a short article at home. Yet I can look into my teacherly crystal ball, report what I see in their futures, and the branding goes so deep that I scare myself realizing how much power I have.