Desert by the Sea

I came home to the desert by the sea only to find how harsh that can be. The sun makes things grow but plays hard ball with the man-made world. Just three meters from my back door the earth forms an abrupt slope, not exactly a cliff, but steep enough you would rather not have to pull weeds there. So, after a year of sun-filled independence, the slope was covered by ubiquitous baby pepper trees and a few other unwelcome green visitors. The ultimate goal here would be to cover the slope with drought-resistant ice plant or red apple, both of which have colorful blossoms at least once a year, but these hardy succulent ground covers don't always take off in the direction you might wish. So men had to be hired to chop, rip-up and transplant. On the day of the transformation, I came home to just one young man, left behind by the boss, a young man who wanted to know if I could please speak Spanish with him. So between my hand and body language and broken Spanish I found out he wanted to know if I wanted the bamboo trimmed and indicated he didn't need a ladder since he had a long-handled, expandable pruning tool which would do the trick. The sun had baked and actually over-cooked the patio furniture protective cover it seemed I had just bought just yesterday. It definitely went directly into the trash. The wooden table and chairs were burnished and warped. The black soaker-hoses were fully useless, having become brittle due to the elements. One soaker-hose had become lodged permanently under a morass of over-achieving ice plant. I pulled and pulled only to tear off a bit of a disintegrating hose. The rest will compost under organic matter. Once the slope had been freed of the vast jungle of undesirables, the "Naked Ladies" appeared. These surprising and delightful little bulbs activate quick-growing stalks which become lovely pink ladies. I cannot keep track of when they routinely bloom because it is not clear what triggers their ascent. You might think bulbs have a fixed time to bloom. In some climates it is a simple matter to know that "lilies of the valley" for example bloom in May and tulips and daffodils are to be expected around Easter time. But these naked ladies dance to their own drummer. They are a welcome sight now adding color to a somewhat bleak slope-scape. Only the bright deep pink bouganvilla high on the slope competes with them for your attention. The hibiscus in the front planter forms a symbolic connection for the inhabitant of this Casita Way house. She also beautified the balcony on Piusallee in Nordrheinwestfalen, wintered in the living room, and then was reborn in yellow on the balcony as summer approached. She did serious battle in the fall of 2007 with an army of small black pests which covered every leaf and every petal. After futile attempts to discourage the little buggers with soap and detergent, every bit of green had to be cut off before the journey into the shelter of the living room for the winter. Warmer and longer days brought out a few healthy blossoms in April. But a premature move outdoors did her in. She had to be replaced with a new yellow plant purchased at the outdoor market on the cathedral square. Fortunately Mary was there and having woven her magic, the new hibiscus flourished. There was no thought of smuggling her back to the States and she remained a pleasant memory until Costco had hibiscus plants on sale. The new plant came home in a pot and sat in the center of the backyard to welcome the grillfest guests but subsequently she desired a permanent plot so she joined the roses in the front planter. She is vivid pink and she greets me everyday upon my return home. She drinks from a new soaker-hose occasionally.

Passing for German

Just keep your mouth shut. They'll never know you're not German, you don' t belong. The facial features, the haircut, the nondescript, dark-colored clothing don't really give you away. There really isn't much need to speak to anyone anyway. You park your bike, walk past the kneeling beggar, ease through the side portal, grab a red hymnal and slip into a pew. There are no greeters, there's no one to shake your hand or give you a worship book. If there is a folded program it may be generic and therefore you still may need to refer to one of the wall displays to see which page numbers are assigned on that Sunday. It's easy enough to moderate your singing voice to the degree that people around you will never actually notice your pronunciation is a bit off. You can fudge it. As for liturgy, just modulate or moderate which ever suits your fancy. The tricky part is the unread, the rote part which you don't actually know yet and may have to search for in the worship book. It took a while to figure out that the "Lord's Prayer" and the Apostolic Creed are right inside the back cover of the book. But having to follow along on the printed page doesn't necessarily pinpoint you as a non-German. You could be a child for example who isn't brought to church very often or an adult who appears at worship once every ten years and has lost touch with some of the ritual. And don't worry, no one is going to ask you to turn to your neighbor in the pew and "pass the peace". That simply is not done at the Apostelkirche. But the money-changers have entered the church and set up their wares on a table in the back. You can buy fair-trade goods and in particular you can buy red wine from other parts of the globe. What would the folks back home say to that?! There is one tricky moment when you pass by to shake the preacher's hand and say: "Auf wiedersehen", they may realize you are not German. You may lose your cover. But I have never actually had anyone say any more than that to me at church. So I figure I may have "passed" for German. Au contraire: on the other side of town there is a place where there is not a chance in hell I could pass for German. Everyone in the building knows who I am even if I don't have a clue who they are. Just the other day at school I found myself accosted by a lovely little grade seven girl, a girl I don't recall ever having spoken to previously, who wanted to know why I had been sent out of the classroom. Had I gone out voluntarily? Class was just beginning and it just didn't seem right to her. She was eagerly awaiting her Latin teacher and knew that I was the one teaching French in the grade 7 classroom next door. I gently explained to her that the pupils were planning a surprise for Mme Stout and therefore they had asked me to exit for a few precious minutes. But what amazed me most was as we continued our little chat and I ended up admitting I was looking forward to reuniting soon with my cats she said to me, "They are called Love and Light, aren't they?" Wow, how the word does get around and stay around! At some point during the year I had probably had that girl during "class coverage" and told her class a bit about my life in America and apparently, it had stuck. Over the course of the year I had visited various classes speaking on requested topics such as immigration, ethnic diversity in California, and taking part in study abroad programs. So, taken together with the multiple class coverage experiences, there must be a lot of kids who know me that I don't know at all. So at Paulinum it would be hard to be invisible. There is that one brief moment in the Teachers' Room though when a new face walks in and before I open my mouth, they might think I am German.

Hells-Angels versus Bandidos

What to do when over 1000 Harley-riding, leather-clad rough-necks ride into town right under the windows of the school and park in front of the court house nearby?! It may be June, but it's too soon to close the school down altogether. Summer break is still two weeks away. Today was the day when the verdict would be announced as to whether two Bandidos had actually killed the Hells Angel. Both sides were to be well-represented to see that the decision went their way. Although the school has a small group of carefully-trained peer mediators, it was decided to leave the big decisions up to the big guys in the court house down the street and school was moved to "Freibad Stapelskotten", a large outdoor swimming pool/recreation area on the Werse River, many safe kilometers away. Excluding the grade 13 graduating class of about 70 and the grade 11 classes which are spending the week doing internships, roughly 650 children had to be accommodated. The coordination and planning flowed seamlessly. The local Harley-Davidson distributor donated enough ice cream for everyone and the city provided the park as well as the buses for those who didn't want to come by bicycle. Personally bicycle is the only way I would have considering getting there. I wanted to see the lay of the land. The p.e. teachers had gathered together equipment and ideas so that there was something for everyone to do. But the weather was the most important player in this game of chance and most of the children had their frolic in the water and many teachers, especially the class teachers of the younger children were coaxed into the pool. Class teachers had the typical duties of parents but not: they had to take roll, designate a gathering area for their class and basically be there for their kids. Other teachers were assigned to various activities such as ultimate frisbee, table tennis, beach volleyball, basketball, dodge ball, soccer, hula-hoops and jump rope. High lights would have to have been the fellows with the guitars picking out a few familiar songs and the representatives of the local press who interviewed staff and pupils. What kid wouldn't be content on a day like today?! Three of us colleagues rode our bicycles together through the city, detouring around a large construction site only to be joined along the way by various of our children on their way to the park. Going home we took a more countrified route through fields and woods, crossing the canal on several bridges. I would like you to try and describe a more perfect school day! There are rumors that it may have all been for naught. They say that a last-minute witness has appeared on the scene and that the verdict may not come down today after all.

Wire Donkey

To be more accurate: the "Drahtesel", is the life blood of Münster. It makes up both the red and the white cells which circulate on the Promenade, the tree-lined, bicycle highway which circles the Old City, the Altstadt. Just what can you see while perched on a wire donkey? Most obviously you see lots of other wire donkeys, although sometimes on long lonely stretches of the "Ring" where cars speed around the heart of the city you find yourself alone, inhaling the exhaust of automobiles and wondering where all the riders went. But on most days on most bicycle paths this is a bit of what else you see from the saddle: riders of all possible dimensions, ages, and attire, folks in business suits, sweethearts holding hands between bicycles, mothers with a baby up front and another small child perched behind, a sort of tricycle with a crutch mounted behind, a large plastic crate mounted up front with Fido tried in, very small children on a small bike attached to mom's bike, what looked like a wheel chair with a bicycle up front and hand pedals, parents pulling a baby-chariot (sometimes carrying things other than babies), Dutch-style bicycles where the rider sits quite erect, racing-style bikes where you hunch over in your skin-tight suit and most-likely wear a helmet and reclining bikes where the feet are clearly way out in front. Just what do people do with themselves while they are riding? They definitely smoke, talk on the phone, eat, stick the bud in for a bit of i-Pod, carry on important discussions, and enjoy the breeze rushing against the face. Yes, it does rain, but most folks just carry on. There are those balancing along with an umbrella in full array, others fully enveloped in the cocoon of a rain poncho with just a bit of face showing, but once the summer rains hit, most cyclists don't seem to mind getting wet. It's really only in Southern California that people stay home when it rains. There have been extremely windy days when you felt like you were standing still although you were peddling for all you are worth. Is there danger? It's easy to see myself smeared all over the highway because I feel that there is a long way to fall when I am riding along but nothing has ever happened. Once I did see the aftermath of a colleague's demise. She was on her bike just in front of the school when an 86-year old auto driver "didn't notice her". No real damage, but a couple of really upset people. Every day I read in the paper about bad things that do in fact happen to riders of the wire donkey: head-on collision of two cyclists, drunken biker ends up in hospital, drunken driver hits bicycle. Most often bicyclists under 14 are seen in helmets. Where do wire donkeys spend the night? The school has a huge bicycle cellar, with even a separate locked room for the teachers' bikes. My apartment building has a bicycle room in the cellar as well. But I prefer the great outdoors and my bike does to. Bike racks are almost everywhere in the city, but where there aren't any or enough of them the "bike police" arrive and line them up properly. These guys in neon yellow vests spend their days re-parking and re-arranging bicycles. What a cool job! They are especially busy around the university cafeteria buildings. It seems that university students have things other than orderly bicycle parking on their minds.

My affair with a Passat

You could hardly blame her for reacting in such a violent and remarkable way to a long period of neglect! She even brought me here on July 31, my conveyance to Münster. We parked her behind the apartment building on a spot set aside just for her. It had a little flaw however. It was on a slopey slant and we soon learned that slopey slants are not good for the brakes. We also learned that hand brakes don't like to be tense for so long and therefore prefer a position of rest. So she found her way out onto the street called Piusallee and there she waited until the day the city began tearing up the street and sidewalk. On that day I had exactly 10 minutes to race up the flights, fetch the key to her heart, drive her around the not-so-square block and find a new spot for her. The street worker admonished me that she would soon have been towed. Not too long later she went out on the town and got herself ticketed for parking illegally. With great relief I realized that this occurred while she was in someone else's hands and therefore someone else had to pay. Passat is actually on a very meager diet and hasn't consumed much this year at all. Just once, after she had been in the hands of agreed-to others, she got her fill for the very memorable price of $90. Since then she has had very few outings, just out to the airport at Greven a couple of times and such. That last trip out to the airport however was under very severe conditions. Vision was very poor almost o%. The poor girl was almost fully encased in bird droppings. Those lovely tall trees on Piusallee afford much shade but also are home to more than a few feathered friends. Getting the windshield clear took some doing. The windshield wipers and the cleaning fluid helped a bit. Then I descended upon the old girl with paper towels and more window cleaning fluid in hand. A sticky substance, perhaps also from the trees had fully sealed the car as well as the droppings. With much effort and more scraping, the old girl began to shine. By then it was time to visit the motor car inspection station just up the road. They were kind and efficient enough to inform me that the old girl needed work before she could go on stage again. Her performance would have to wait. At the Pit Stop they wanted my money and Passat was invited to spend the weekend while replacements for her private parts were procured. The really fun part was opening her trunk and slipping the bicycle in so that once there I could have conveyance on to school. Lifting and tugging and shoving we got the bike in, but I was trapped within the handle bars and only with great contortion was I able to free myself from the situation. Bungee cords held the trunk cover in place and we were set to roll. Fortunately the mechanic takes VISA and he even managed to tack on the fee for the final inspection so a further visit to the TÜV people would be unnecessary. As I picked the old girl up I found myself putting the bicycle into the trunk once again. There were two men, one on each side of me, and just for a brief moment I imagined one of them offering to help me juggle the bike into place, but no, no one said a word and well, I guess gentlemanly graciousness is dead. So sad. In any case, we got home and now we avoid that nasty Piusallee parking spot. We are on the side road, with the two left wheels up on the curb. Here that is perfectly legal, at least it appears to be since so many cars spend their nights that way. As a matter of fact you can be facing any which way on that side of the street as long as two of your wheels are up on the curb. Well, we know that we have at least one more outing ahead of us and that will be the full service car wash but we are waiting for a warm dry July day for that special spa visit. There is a lesson to be learned in all of this. Had the Passat been taken out more frequently and regularly she might not have had rusty brakes and then she might have passed inspection without a trip to the mechanic. One would have to have calculated carefully knowing the price of gas per liter is €1,48 to know how much driving would have kept the brakes oiled and happy and not to have spent more than the €558 which the brake job cost. In any case there is no way I would have given up my bicycle year in Münster.

Shaky knees in front of grade 8

It seems that everyone was nervous except the authorities. There I was standing on the stage, high above 94 assembled grade 8 pupils reading the test-taking instructions to the state-mandated "Lernstandserhebung" in German. The title of the test is untranslatable and therefore even German educators living in other states have no idea what it means. Once you leave Nordrhein Westfalen, it becomes an unknown. Basically it is a proficiency assessment which changes forms like a chameleon each year. So why were my knees shaking? It felt like a Saturday but it wasn't. It was a school holiday, where only the grade 13, graduating pupils were there for their orals. By chance the grade 8 test had been scheduled on this date state-wide and therefore all of the grade 8 pupils had to appear in the auditorium at 9am that day as well. Since most teachers had significant duties associated with the grade 13 orals and I teach two out of the three grade 8 English classes, the untranslatable test fell to my shoulders. We had been told it was a good idea to prepare the children so I went out of my way to order a preparation booklet, including a CD (out of my own pocket naturally). Here in Germany the teachers all provide their own teacher materials. There are no personal teacher editions of books provided for example. A couple of months ago I plunged into the preparations head-on with carefully orchestrated listening comprehension exercises, etc. only to discover from my colleague that this year the test would only consist of two written essays, nothing else. The topics would be everyday routines and an additional issue for which they would need to argue pro and con and take a stand. So, when I was scheduled to be out of town for a few lessons, they were assigned to write essays about the typical stuff folks like to argue about: "Life would be better without TV", "Computer games cause violence in real life", "School uniforms should be required". They did good work and I had the time to correct their written work and have them learn from their mistakes. So when the big day came I wasn't worried for them. I was more worried for me. Would I follow the procedures properly, etc.? We had had to write their names and their assigned code-numbers on each test booklet in advance in pencil. (Why in pencil? No one knew the answer to that one.) Several factors led to my stress as I prepared the room for the testing. How do grade 8 pupils behave in such a setting? Grade 9 pupils are the youngest available to me on a regular basis at Patrick Henry High School, therefore grade 8 children are still somewhat of a mystery to me. In particular, I was worried about the one-third of the group which belonged to another teacher. It turned out they did have a few smart-ass comments to make(probably just letting off their own nerves). As I read aloud to them the first page of the test booklet, I felt my German pronunciation slipping away. With each long complicated bit of testing jargon, I anticipated a chuckle or a jeer. None came. It seems they were focused on their task at hand. Although I had written an admonishment to stick to the requested number of words for each essay and told them repeatedly, most of them far overshot the 100 or 120 word goal. It seems stating what needs to be stated in a minimal manner is harder than it looks. Even when writing in a foreign language, English in this case, kids would rather keep writing than put a lid on it. Normally I don't speak German with my English classes, therefore having to do it doesn't feel quite right. Having to read aloud some particularly challenging paragraphs is especially stressful. My self-confidence was at an all time low. Fortunately that lasted about 30 seconds after I quit reading and then the horses were off and running. I have since corrected all 60 of my pupils' tests and am trying to figure out how to enter the website where I must input 32 pieces of response data for each of those pupils. Certainly there could be an easier way to assess these pupils and collect the data. Ultimately it reflects back on the school, more than it does on the individual pupils, somewhat like standardized testing does in the State of California, where schools are rated based on test scores.

Jumping Rope in the School Yard

What is it about sunshine which brings out the best in most of us?! Today was one of those days. During the first long break there I was in the thick of it on school yard duty, met almost immediately by a horde of my grade 7 French students speaking English to me for the first time. They had a basketball in their possession and were determined to dominate the hoop where we stood. It had been taken over by big kids, probably grade 12, at least twice the size of the little ones and it was a sort of stand-off, but no one was actually confrontational. I was most hesitant to say or do anything, mostly I was just sizing up the situation. The grade 7 pupils claimed they had been there first. The older group was suggesting the little ones move to another hoop across the way. But the little ones were holding their ground. Meanwhile another adult who was listening in on the bits of English took the older players off to the mobile hoop (on wheels) and they all pushed it out of the area where soccer was seriously underway. It happened all so smoothly that I was surprised when my pupils thanked me for what I had done, which actually was nothing. Meanwhile I turned my attention to the jump rope at my other side. There were my really big, grown-up grade 9 pupils having the time of their lives. Various kids were taking turns turning the extra-long rope while grade 9 kids (boys and girls alike) were running into the center and giving it a try. This was most entertaining. These were the kids I had begun the year with, fresh out of grade 8, still looking so young, who had matured physically in more ways than one so that I felt as if I were watching young adults jumping with glee. Sometimes a group would get going and find themselves in perfect coordination for several synchronous jumps, then some other kids would jump in and trip it up. Still others would deftly dash through. Perhaps most daring were the little grade five girls trying to roll their hula hoops through the swinging rope. I finally suggested to them that elsewhere might be better. Some of these grade 9 kids were so tall, you could wonder how the rope managed to miss them. As I watched these happily jumping kids, relaxing at random, I kept thinking of those 11 subjects they juggle each week, of those who take three foreign languages, biology and physics, history and geography and so on. On the other side of the play yard, the grade 5 and 6 boys play ping pong around a circular table, in a continuous running circle. No one is actually left out, as far as I could tell. These are permanent outdoor concrete table tennis tables. Just beyond them there are the hardcore smokers banished to a position a meter off of campus, just one meter from the old assigned smoking area for upper level pupils. I am so happy my duty assignment was changed from the bicycle cellar cum smoking area end of the courtyard to the middle of the sports area. Waving smokers from under the overhang to the off-campus walk-way was no pleasure for me. I always found it deeply depressing thinking of what those very bright, promising young people were doing to their bodies. And of course there were often a couple of teachers standing there with them since even teacher smokers have been banished from the campus since January 1 of this year. My plan is to bring a camera next week when my duty slot comes up again but I wonder if I will actually be able to capture that same moment in the sunshine.

The Package Which Has Been Around the Block

The morning after Tax Day I was innocently descending the stairs to fetch the morning paper when my neighbor accosted me with a package she noted that had been delivered the previous day. I was both thrilled and curious since mostly, I don't get much personal mail and most definitely very few packages. But it was so early in the morning and much too soon for my eyes to focus properly. So it wasn't until somewhat later when I was able to read to whom and from whom the yellow box was. The color alone should have tipped me off to the fact that it had been sent from Germany where you can purchase these practical and useful build-it-yourself cartons right at the post office. The return address was my street in Münster and it had been destined for son number two in Pacific Beach. To the best of my knowledge I had sent this package in early January since son number one had requested it be sent as soon as possible. It was his nasty old, smelly old jacket which he had left accidentally (or on purpose) here in the guest room. This had meant that we two had had to go shopping for a new winter coat for him in Paris during our stay the first four days of 2008. It was cold in Paris and a warm coat was definitely in order. After some Internet research we located just the shop for us: "Big and Nice", which specializes in the sizes larger men need. How it got this name I am not sure, especially considering the French aversion to borrowing English words into their language. Back to the package! Son number one doesn't actually receive non-cyber or physical mail so the package had had to be sent to son number two who does normally receive snail mail. Somehow however the notices of "attempt to deliver" didn't get through. So after the "statute of limitations" ran out, that elongated yellow box found its way back to Piusallee in Münster. It would be most intriguing to know what kind of a route and form of transport takes fourteen weeks from Münster to San Diego and back again. The official stamp on the fully intact package stated "failure to claim". So the search is on for someone who "will claim". As the weather in San Diego reaches into the 90's and Münster yearns for a 50-degree day, the package is on its way to an institution which rarely closes its door, is staffed by living, breathing human beings who stand ready to sign for a package: the place of employment of a trusted friend. The method of delivery requested was the "least expensive" which officially means "Land" or surface mail, but in fact, it often goes air freight since "slow boats to China" seem to be laden with other kinds of cargo these days. You might ask: "Why not just tuck it into the suitcase for the return trip?" Most of the major international airline carriers have cut back the luggage allowance beginning in early May to one checked through item for free. After that there is a charge. But actually this has become a challenge to see what comes of this well-traveled little yellow box. Will it ever get home?

The package from hell!

I guess it just doesn't pay to relax too completely when on vacation. I had allowed myself to fall apart. There we were housed conveniently at the Intercity Hotel in Erfurt in the state of Thuringa for just one night and everything went to pot. Two days after leaving Erfurt we began to realize that we had left stuff behind. To be honest, one of the items was supposed to be left, another could be dismissed as not so crucial and another was so inconsequential that it wasn't even recognized at first. But the lovely little alarm clock was sorely missed. The dilemma became: "How to get it back?" The new cellphone which Andy had brought me in February could finally serve a truly essential function. I called and talked to Housekeeping. They made the necessary search and found the mentioned items plus a couple we hadn't thought of. They agreed to send it all to my Münster address at my expense. Trying to lighten the load, I said they could keep the little white blouse, Ellen had intended to leave behind. Many days later, after visiting Dresden, Magdeburg, Berlin, Antwerp, Gent and Brugges and returning to Münster, we made the requisite trip to the post office on Berliner Platz with the delivery notice in hand only to find out we had not made it in time. After seven days, an unclaimed package is returned to the point of origin. Oh woe! Oh sadness! That little silver-gray travel alarm was becoming increasingly important to me on a daily basis. It was all I could think about. Even the grey-brown jjill jacket seemed to be beckoning to me across the kilometers. That was when the phone calls back to the hotel began in earnest. I soon learned that Housekeeping has very restricted hours: 7:00-14:00 on weekdays. They didn't care that I couldn't sleep quite right not having my little clock at my side, my clock which would glow brightly with a touch in the night. Day after day I would call and ask for Housekeeping and be put on hold or told that the woman couldn't be found. Or I would simply forget to place the required call until it was too late in the day. I needed to find out if the package had been sent back to the hotel because the gentleman at the post office had been so thoroughly unhelpful. I kept thinking: "Some way to run a business!" Certainly there must be a way to track these things! Finally I was smart enough to try my call towards the end of the Housekeeper's shift and actually got hold of the woman. Well, she didn't know where the package was but would check with the front desk to see if they had received it back but she was doubtful since it would have required payment for an unfruitful journey and well, who would pay, etc.! The next day, I was livid! I was determined! I was going to storm the German postal service and I was going to demand a face-to-face with the supervisor even though I don't know how to say the word. I was going to let them know "just who I was", give them a piece of my mind! Quite fortunately on Thursdays I have a late start at school which means that I could bicycle over to the post office in time for their opening at 8:30 and still be at school on time to press a bit of English into the grade 9 pupils. I planned my approach carefully, but felt a bit insecure because I had failed to bring (official identification in the form of my passport) but had my trusty California Drivers License (as if that would actually be a valid proof of anything in Germany!). First I mailed a small package and sent two postcards. Then, as I laid the delivery slip in the front of the employee, I struck gold. He said to his coworker: "That is the package we have been talking about it, isn't it?" So indeed, the German postal service came through. It cost me €12 even though it had been back and forth from Erfurt twice and perhaps technically I should have been paying €24. You don't want to know how many dollars that is, because the dollar is falling daily. I felt blessed indeed. It was a large package filled with more than I could have hoped for. H. had long since told me I could toss the foam travel pillow. E. had wanted to be rid of the white blouse. But hey, all four items were there. I carefully strapped the box on the back of my bicycle with two bungee cords, stored it in the teachers coat closet at school and by the end of the day took it up the 43 steps to my "home away from home".

Why go to Magdeburg?

"Why would anyone want to go to Magdeburg?" asked a friend. It was another friend from much further away who said he absolutely had to visit Magdeburg. Since his interest is primarily in modern architecture, I assumed he had wanted to see the canal which crosses over the top of the Elbe River just outside of Magdeburg, certainly an amazing feat! But I was wrong. It was in fact "Die Grüne Zitadel" designed by Hundertwasser, the last-executed project completed after his death in 2001. Having visited his "Wohnhaus" in Darmstadt and his "Gymnasium" in Lutherstadt Wittenberg, I was prepared for brightly colored irregular columns and trees growing out of windows. In fact what we came upon was true to his colors. A whole city block had been transformed in a way which brightened and beautified a somewhat drab stretch of post-Soviet blocks. Our tour guide enlightened us to the fact that living in this complex comes with various privileges and other obligations but especially a sense of community. Even the parking garage was subject to unique rules. Individually-assigned spaces were marked not by letters and numbers but rather by child-generated art pieces mounted on the wall. You could say your car was parked by the duck in the pond for example. Hundertwasser left a few of the details in the completion process up to the workers. The tile-layers were given the area in the staircase foyer to fill in as they pleased. This may or may not have been pleasurable for them. When seen from the rear, the complex reveals why it is so livable. There are numerous small and unique green spaces built into the landscape. Community gatherings such as grill parties were planned in the beginning but now occur spontaneously. Neighbors know, greet and take care of each other. On the lower three levels there are professional offices, shops, a hotel and a restaurant. The front door of each apartment is unique, a chance to show one's individuality. Straight lines are almost non-existent. Don't expect the floor or the walk-way to be completele flat either. Waiting for our tour to begin we discovered other reasons to visit Magdeburg as well. The cathedral as archaeological dig site was particularly interesting as well. It turns out in the former East many of the cathedrals are protestant. It seems as well that there is a very thin line between what is protestant and what is Catholic in Germany. High church liturgy can sometimes seem especially close, especially to this outsider from a low church. But one thing is certain, there is beauty there to behold!

When the Master of the House Speaks, ....

The head custodian, the physical plant manager or the master of the house (Hausmeister), whatever you call him, he had his say today in my English 9b class. In fact, class could not begin because he was there. I found that I could not enter the room because he had corralled all 34 of the pupils at the end of the room near the door, the sink and the defaced furniture. No one was settled, everyone had coats and backpacks on and the Hausmeister was making a speech. I didn't catch every word but the gist of it was rather apparent: the room had been left in full disarray, a few pieces of furniture had been decorated with indecent images and even the cupboard door didn't look quite right. The brand new chalk board didn't look brand new anymore either. The pupils were trying to explain to the man that when they had been out of the room and their parallel class had been using the room for either Latin or religion class, the damage had most likely occurred. Of course I was having a hard time picturing Latin students or religion students, either Catholic or Protestant, going wild with the black markers, but I didn't say a thing. I was just trying to follow the conversation. Two volunteers were mustered to accompany the Hausmeister to this office to fetch supplies and the clean-up was underway. There were girls pushing brooms right and left. There were perfectly clean looking tables being scrubbed to the nub and most important of all, the indecent images were scoured-off. This allowed me lots of time to prepare my instruction and took a chunk out of our double-period. I figured it would be worthwhile to hold a class discussion about what had happened in English, but I held off until half-way through class. It seems that there are plenty of opportunities for kids to wreak havoc in the classrooms, between classes, for example. Kids are in the rooms and teachers aren't. All kinds of stuff happens and that is the polite way to say it. Twice I came into a grade 8 room only to find an injured child where a hand ball had met them in the face to the extent that they needed ice or to go home. Pupils are trusted to an extent that one might not see in other kinds of schools. When things go wrong, it is up to the lead teachers of each class to mediate, make crucial decisions and counsel troubled kids. Each class has a male and a female lead teacher who work closely together, meet with the parents and manage the physical, mental and emotional well-being of the class. Beginning with grade 11 this changes a bit. There are still advisers but they are called grade-level advisers and their role is a bit different. The Hausmeister apologized twice to me. The second time he told me that he had had an English "Leistungskurs" in school himself and would like to hold a discussion the next time (if there is a next time) with the students in English if possible. This means in fact that we have a very educated Hausmeister. He is new at the school and I think that the school is very happy to have him.

Art as a Political Statement

You innocently wander into IKEA thinking you will check out the mid-priced beds or the fully-equipped kitchens only to discover a photo of four lonely fish sticks artfully-arranged in a frying pan clipped to the counter. You open the display refrigerator and discover two little white mice occupying one of the shelves. What IS going on? It turns out that Ruppe Koselleck has visited this particular IKEA and left his "calling card". Particularly memorable are his family photos, half of his shaved head with a raw steak where a hat might be, his infant daughter swallowed up by a huge beanbag chair, and the red-with-a white-bar-across DO NOT ENTER symbol placed in the toilet bowl. It does make you stop and consider. At a recent public event in Emsdetten, 30 km north of Münster, Ruppe explained that he had unloaded quite a bit of trash at IKEA. He had placed items under cushions on couches and in drawers of display desks, etc. Actually this has been an ongoing project for over ten years. He has played art in IKEA stores in France, England and throughout Germany. We are of course hoping for San Diego, but will wait and see. When no one was watching (actually, when is anyone watching at IKEA?) he would open up a small picture frame and insert his own family photo. Eventually he made a film of himself in action, a film which we were shown at the Galerie Münsterland in Emsdetten. Only once, did IKEA actually respond to Ruppe's activities. They took one of the photos and displayed it in the management's office. While we were at the event, we partook in the rest of the art on display and were particularly struck by one piece which also had attracted a lot of attention from the younger crowd. It consisted of a large circle of salt strewn on the floor with a small something in the middle which went mostly unnoticed. The interactive aspect began as one small child tasted it to be sure what it was and then the children began to make art; indeed one of the Koselleck children left the most lasting-impression, a large, broad face. Even a baby left a footprint. My friend, the artist, told me that this is what art is all about. Let it with messed with!

pigs floating across my screen

There are pigs floating across my screen. By some miracle I have learned how to adjust my screen saver so that I can have any or all of my photos wander through my screen once I have quit doing stuff on the computer. All I need to do is switch from fiddling with the internet to French test corrections for about ten minutes then it begins to happen. When the pigs appear I must think again, are they the pigs from St. Omer in northern France, the pigs which will be sold to Belgian processors, or are they the clean little pigs from the farm just 45 minutes from Münster who just begged to be picked up by the passer-by? In France the pig farmer was particularly proud of his computerized feeding system. But it was the German farmer who explained to me how the exact mix of ingredients was crucial to weaning the piglets off of mother's milk and onto "real" food. Although we are all part of the European Union here on the continent, and standards have to be maintained, pig farmers do display a few cultural differences. My guess is though, that if you grab a baby pig by the middle it will squeal regardless of which language its owner speaks. One must grab the hind leg to lift the piglet out and have a closer look if one wants to avoid the squeal. It was clear to me that these German pigs are kept clean, although the farmer assured me that his farm isn't as clean as he would like it to be. There is a tradition here in Westfalia, called the "Westfalia Divide". When folks get together, eventually the women and the men tend to form up gender-specific groups for their own separate chats. So while Andrew was taking care of the beer which needed to be drunk with the other men, I was privy to the house interior, where I was treated to a tour of the hand-painted family tree, the blue cloth printing blocks and then the garden... Oh what a garden! The mother, and now grandmother, created and cares for a garden to knock your socks off. There is a carefully laid-out French-style garden with little, precisely trimmed hedges, there are literally fields of snow bells, the little harbingers of spring, a bit early this year and oh, how she told me of the colors yet to appear. Right in the midst of it all, there stood planted a large stone with ancient-appearing letters and numbers engraved on the sides. It had marked the boundary between the Catholic and the Protestant regions here about hundreds of years ago. It rather made the earth tremble with history, especially knowing that the Autobahn was just a stone's throw away and definitely within view of the farm. Meanwhile Anika, the four-legged hunting dog, queen of the show, froliked among the sunlit blanket of blossoms. In spite of a slight chill in the air, we sat out in the garden for freshly-made waffles with warm cherries and ice cream. Just before departure back to city life, Ol got out his skeet shooting gun and gave Anika a bit of practice being patient while he shot at clay pigeons. It was not clear who was more excited, Anika, hearing the gun, or Andrew being invited to go shooting the following day.

Israel in Germany

The day she flew into Münster/Osnabrück and found herself on foot with two suitcases alone in Münster, she found how welcoming the Jewish community in Münsterland could be. They immediately took her in and helped her get settled. Coming to a strange land to study, so far from home, takes great courage. But this young woman is not short on courage. People wanted to know how her German language skills had been so finely-tuned so quickly, considering she grew-up a speaker of Hebrew. She believes that the upper level German language course she took at the Goethe Language Institute in Israel had something to do with it. Perhaps having a German-speaking Opa from Vienna helped as well. Last evening as the local Synagogue opened its doors for the curious among the Münsteraners, she was our guide and our source of information about Judaism. The session was a barrage of questions about every aspect of Jewish life in general to the specifics of how many of the Jewish community here actually can speak or read Hebrew. Reading Hebrew is one of the keys to being able to take the Torah down from its resting place and reading aloud to the congregants. The other factors include gender and age. You must be able to read Hebrew fluently, be male and at least 13 years of age. To pray properly in a synagogue you need to have a minyon which means ten males over 13 years of age who have been through bar mitzvah. Sometimes they have to place a call to get the ten there despite the fact that there are around 900 members in the community. Somewhere between 60 and 95% are east European, mostly Russian, from the former Soviet block. A reminder to wash your hands before participating in most synagogue activities is posted in Cyrillic above each sink. All three custodians are Russians who speak rather limited German if any. She explained to us that the congregation is officially conservative since liberal Jews can still pray in a conservative setting but conservative Jews could never participate in a liberal setting. She carefully described how the kitchen is kosher and how to get kosher meat you would have to order over the internet or send for it from Dortmund where the resident rabbi slaughters meat the kosher way as well as pursues his quest for scholarly knowledge. Women of course sit upstairs and they don't need to cover their heads or pray. They already have a good relationship with God is what she told us. She said the community is immensely important to her even though she is not terribly religious herself. She explained how a synagogue is much more than a house of prayer. They have no rabbi but they do have a choir and a song leader and a multitude of other active groups. The building was erected in 1971 but they need to expand because the community is growing. When asked about life in Israel she responded with a short story which is a common Jewish way to make a point. She said a survey was taken in which people were asked whose side they would take: the residents of the Gaza Strip or those in Israel. Respondents sided with the Gaza Strip inhabitants. One year later the same respondents were asked in a slightly different context if they would side with Israelis or the rest of the Middle-East and people sided with the Israelis. It seems people like to take the side of the underdog. It seems she is one of three members of the congregation who speak Hebrew. I was trying to put that together with the fact that one needs a minyon of 10 to pray and that one needs knowledge of Hebrew to read from the Torah. Perhaps being able to read aloud is different from being able to speak and function in the language.
We learned that if you honor the Sabbath as the conservatives do you cannot allow your soup to boil on that day but you can place it on a hot plate which maintains a constant temperature. She told us that this synagogue is not orthodox because if it were members would have to live within 200 meters of the building and that the high price of real estate simply wouldn't allow that. She passed around a piece of an already-spoiled Torah hand-written on soft leather and explained that the readers aren't allowed to touch the Hebrew letters with their fingers and must use a silver pointer instead in order to protect the integrity of the written letters. As we exited the synagogue we could see a green-striped police car keeping watch. I wondered if it is always there in the evening or only because of the open house event.

Head Grades

or as they are called here in the State of North Rhine Westphalia, "Kopfnoten" are appearing today on the report cards for the first time since the 1970's. These grades should evaluate the pupil's work habits and social behavior. They are broken down into six separate categories: readiness to achieve, reliability, carefulness, readiness to be responsible, conflict management, and cooperation skill. The re-introduction of these marks is the result of a new school law. The fact that there is controversy about this is somewhat surprising to me. The headlines and the quotes assert that these young people will be stigmatized for life by such marks on their record, that they won't be able to get a job and that prejudices will be cemented into place. I personally wanted to take the professor of pedagogy who does educational research to task. I would like to see him managing a group of insolent, attention-deficit 13-year-olds over the course of a year. I am wondering how sensitive he would remain to their fragile egos. Take the teacher's perspective. A few days before the grades are handed out, the teachers take an entire day to meet and discuss the pupils' grades. Since the pupils are organized into classes, roughly three per grade level, all the teachers for that class must meet. These meetings begin early in the morning with grade level 5 and go on throughout the day, ending with grade 12. Grade 13 had already received their grades. At-risk pupils who are in danger of having to repeat a grade as well as outstanding pupils are mentioned. Strategies for helping pupils are presented. Since the head grades are dealt with as a class, we have to vote on any aberration from the norm. The class teachers often have collected this information in advance, but sometimes individual pupils still needed to be discussed and voted upon. Since I am used to assigning citizenship grades myself for my pupils, this was all very strange to me. Since all of the grades assigned to a given pupil are on the table, nothing is secret. If a certain teacher appears to be a hard grader or an easy grader it is evident to everyone. What does this indicate about the teacher? You can see the advantages as well as the disadvantages of this structure. It would be hard for a child to fall through the cracks or "be left behind", as Bush is so fond of saying. It still really sticks in my gut that teachers should be afraid to label a student with anti-social behavior as anti-social. Why cover-up the truth? Perhaps parents don't want to know the truth about their children. From what I have observed the teachers here are very knowledgeable about pupils' personal and familial problems. It doesn't mean, however, that we can make those problems go away. It is tradition that the grades are handed out during period three and then the school day ends early so that the rush to go home doesn't coincide with rush hour. This is fine with me since on Fridays I don't teach until period four which gives me a day off. One of my grade 8 pupils tried to convince me that another tradition is to play games during the last class meeting before grades. I mostly just ignored him. It gives me a slight feeling of dread leading up to the last ten days of school which take place after grades have been handed in. Why would anyone even come to school? But I have been told that school will go on as usual.

New Years Concert

Much to my surprise there are several hundred Fulbrighters in Germany this year, but only six of them are exchange teachers like myself. Fulbright sent us the complete list and I discovered a young scholar and a school language assistant right here in Münster. From the scholar I learned that there is a German-American Society here and went to one of their events recently. If only I had known of them sooner, I could have enjoyed a full Thanksgiving Dinner. But that was simply not meant to be. So at the New Years Concert I had hoped to perhaps run into an American or two but instead found myself in a senior citizens residential center. The concert performers were pianists from the music conservatory who absolutely soared. The program went from Scarlatti to Siegfried Ochs. What profound beauty! What a privilege to get to sit in the front row on the left, right behind and to the side of the performers. Each of the musicians held me entranced in their own unique way. As the young Korean woman with red-tinted dark hair took us from Scarlatti to Haydn we were impressed by her modest demeanor. The Selbach twins, identical sisters with dark hair pulled back in a small bun, dressed in lacy black tops and dark slacks, played in absolute precision a four-handed Allegro by Schubert called "Life's Storms". It was many pages, in fact a whole book, long and they had to be assisted by a page-turner who turned out to be one of the later performers as well. The program was moving us next into the Romantic era with Brahms and Grieg, contemporaries who each reflected the spirit of their own national heritage. This young woman had an incredible amount of poise in spite of her light brown dreadlocks pulled back loosely to reveal a concentrated face. Then, since an American composer needed to be on the program, we were treated to two Gershwin Preludes followed by Shimkus' Parody Paraphrases of Mozart's Turkish Rondo. These were powerfully presented by the sole male performer. Finally we were treated to a re-appearance of the twins who once again, four-handedly stole the show. It was eleven humorous variations on a familiar German folk melody: "s' kommt ein Vogel geflogen" in the styles of various old masters: Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin, Strauss, Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, Schumann, Verdi, Wagner and a Military March. This was so thoroughly entertaining that people just wouldn't stop clapping. All of this and no entrance fee. There was however a pink ceramic pig waiting for us on the table as we exited and we all knew that the money collected would go to support the activities of the German-American Society which takes care of visiting American students so people were generous. As I signed the guest book, noting who I was, I could see that the officers were interested in making contact. So as we remained behind sipping champagne there were people to meet and contacts to be made. I spoke with several people who had lived and/or studied in the U.S. and it was especially fun to find someone who had lived near Modesto and been involved with the Church of the Brethren. After all, how many Brethren are there in the world? I am amazed how many folks I have run into this year who in some way know about the Brethren. On day after school I was wearing my Manchester College pullover and discovered at the bike rack a student in grade 13 who said he knew about Manchester because he had spent a year in Indiana. Then there is the colleague at school who spent a whole week visiting friends in North Manchester, folks he had met at the U. in Marburg, where Manchester has a junior-year-abroad program. It was definitely an uplifting and joyful evening!

Sternsinger: Star Singers

Epiphany is not just a great idea in this part of the world but a day to celebrate the three kings of the Orient. Though it was January 5, one day early, I had seen a small band of costumed children out and about in the neighborhood, so I wasn't too surprised when the doorbell rang. Mind you, the doorbell might not have been for me since I live in a multiple-family dwelling. It could have been someone wanting to leave a package for someone else, or even a burglar, but as it was, it was children, children who wanted to sing to me. They came bounding up the many flights and out of breath and stood there in expectation. Well, since I had never welcomed Sternsänger at my home before I simply stood there and looked at them as well. I asked them what would happen and they beautifully and carefully explained the procedures. They would sing, I would put money in their tin for the poor children in Africa and sweets in their bag and they would write in chalk outside, above the front door the following inscription: "20 C + M + B 08". In true Münster style, it was raining cats and dogs and yet they didn't seemed the least disturbed. They were ready to explain what it all meant including the names of the three kings which I can no longer remember but I am sure if you think long enough about the C, M and B you can come up with at least one. They said that if you really think hard about it you could come up with the phrase in Latin which means: "God, bless this house!" using the same letters. I was so relieved, at last I had found a place for that huge chocolate Santa which had been given to me a couple of weeks previously and had caused me no end of grief since I just couldn't consume it, nor could I toss it. Which of the many disposal bins would accept a foil covered Father Christmas?? I love chocolate, I love eating chocolate, yet how much chocolate can one personally consume? But of course just looking at chocolate can be rewarding as well.
So I asked the children for a photo op and told them their images would go to America. A far cry from Halloween!