fulbrightjahr

Desert by the Sea

2008-08-08T08:06:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-13T06:18:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-10T06:07:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-07T07:15:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-28T07:02:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-25T04:14:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-23T09:50:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-20T04:12:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-04-03T07:43:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-04-02T22:32:00.000-07:00

"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, ....

2008-03-06T10:04:00.000-08:00

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

2008-03-06T04:03:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-24T00:25:00.001-08:00

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

2008-01-29T22:15:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-18T01:51:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-13T00:53:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-13T00:17:00.000-08:00

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!

Schwarzenau

2007-12-26T01:54:00.000-08:00

In spite of cold and wintery conditions, Schwarzenau emitted an amorphous energy. Peter Gehner, our guide was waiting for us just as he had promised, at the large cross-timbered dwelling. As you enter Schwarzenau take the first left. Drive past the pharmacy and turn left again. You will see a large cross-timbered house. Since we were unable to be there during the regular open hours, the first Sunday of each month between 2-5pm, we had made arrangements. Schwarzenau is somewhat difficult to find even online because since 1975 is has been subsumed into the city of Bad Berleburg. Even Schwarzenau has parts though. We had to drive up the hill to upper Hüttental (where poor huts housed 18th century religious refugees). In the late 17th and early 18th centuries Count Henrich Albrecht tolerated the settlement of refugees of faith from various parts of the German-speaking world here in Sayn-Wittgenstein-Hohenstein County. As we stepped out of the car we were warmly greeted by a black and white cat who stayed with us throughout our visit. Unfortunately the photos I took of our feline friend are all a bit blurred because she was in constant motion but the energy came through. Although most likely Alexander Mack himself didn't live here, the house dates to his era. He came here from Schriesheim near Heidelberg and founded here a movement, baptizing seven adults in the Eder River which snakes through the valley below. As the movement grew it became evident that this high mountainous terrain could not sustain the greater numbers of inhabitants so they were forced to move on to Krefeld and then on to Pennsylvania where they could escape persecution for their heretical practices and beliefs. Not only did they believe that only as responsible adults should one be baptized but that they should return to the ways of the early Christians. It was in Germantown, PA, where they became known as the Church of the Brethren. The name of the denomination is difficult to translate into German since it never really existed as a church on German soil. Working our way through the three small rooms of the museum we gathered information about local history as well as the visits of innumerable Americans, mostly members of the Church of the Brethren, making a pilgrimage back to the place of origin of their church. There was a two-volume scrapbook filled with clippings documenting these visits and other related events. In the 1950's the Brethren had donated a significant amount of "Deutschemark" for the construction of a local elementary school then named "Alexander Mack Schule". Although the building still stands, the school no longer exists. As I sat down to write my parting paragraph in the guest registry our friend the white and black cat came right into my line of activity clearly unconcerned about folks wanting to write in books. Having shut off the lights and exited, all three and a half of us, we noticed the powerful presence of a full moon on this the day before Christmas Eve, 2007. My photo hardly gives it justice but it does serve to convey a bit of the energy emanating from this place in Hüttental.

School Christmas Concert in the Petrikirche.

2007-12-15T05:00:00.000-08:00

Excitement was in the air days, even weeks before the actual event. Grade seven pupils were asking to postpone the big French test because the night before would be the Christmas Concert and certainly what with the length of the concert and the reception afterwards, it would be too much to ask a 12-year-old to take a test the next day. After checking around with various colleagues it appeared that this pupil didn't have a case. And since French doesn't meet everyday, the only other possible day for a test would have to be the day we are assembling our Bûches de Noel (French yule log cakes). So, needless to say, the French test took place as planned and the grade distribution was even better than before. I had been told that to get a seat at the Christmas Concert I would need to arrive about one hour early because most of the parents were delivering their musical offspring at 17:00 for the 18:00 performance. I was fortunate to get a seat at the end of a bench facing the center of the church. Most of the benches faced the center. In fact, music was coming at us from all directions. From my position I could see up into the cloistered interior balcony above where the brass players and the full choir had their seats and from which some performances emanated. At the ground floor level the grade five and the grade six pupils flanked the entire length of the church. The brass choir held us enthralled with music as diverse as Bach and "Friends for life" by Dizzy Stratford. The quality of the playing was superior. These are musicians who far out-play what you might expect from 13-19 year old young people. The tradition of well-polished brass music at Paulinum is long and well-established. We were then treated to a performance by somewhat younger string players, flute, organ and grade five singers. Their songs all hailed from the 16th century. So old music stays young in Germany today. The grade six singers were split into antiphonal choirs, one located in the downstairs alter area and one at the other end of the church up in the organ balcony. The organist from grade 9 and choral directors on each level kept the timing in place. There were no noticeable mistakes. French horn trios by Mozart played by grade 13 virtuosos provided an interlude before the youth choir took over with "Away in a manger" sung in English. This was followed by an Alpine Christmas song, sung in dialect by two boys, one soprano and one alto, accompanied by two of the horn players. You could see the high, rugged mountain peaks as they sang. The full choir which included several of my grade 8 pupils sang several songs in English including "Hark! The herald angels sing". This gave me a bit more courage to sing in English class with the kids. The culminating moment, the finale, came when all the choirs gathered en plenum downstairs and the spectators could join in to sing "Adeste fideles" in Latin, all four verses. It's interesting that German-Latin sounds different than English-Latin. But in any case, the singing, the brass and the high descant of the children's voices brought the house down. The applause was long and rhythmic until finally all the brass players descended the narrow stone steps to join the others on the ground floor. It was perhaps the first time a song in Latin had brought me to tears. From the Petrikirche it is a short walk or ride to Paulinum where we were all invited to an "Umtrunk", literally, a "drink around". I went, I spoke with a few folks, but decided that long lines weren't really my thing and took off into the night. I hear that we are going to have to wait until Easter for the next major music event. Keep in mind that most of this music is prepared outside of regular school time. These groups practice after school. Choir and band are not school classes. I would be singing with them if it were 2009. Apparently the combined adult/pupil choir sings only during alternate years.

Visiting Annette von Droste-Hülshoff

2007-12-11T09:05:00.000-08:00

When Hannes came to town I knew it was time to visit the birthplace and the later home of Annette, the well-known poetess, who is some ways reminds one of Emily Dickinson. Annette was of the nobility but lived a rather reclusive, conservative country life. Hannes had driven north from the Odenwald and was on the trail of local history. Hannes and I, we have this nose for history in common. With Hannes at the wheel and me juggling three maps, we set out in his little red Opel with automatic nothing. In fact Rüschhaus, the widow's house, where her mother was forced to live after the early death of Annette's father, and where Annette came to live and keep her mother company, is not that far from Münster. I could have ridden my bike but the Opel was much more comfortable. The first site you see is the back of the house, looking rather like a barn entrance. You must walk about the side garden to the front to see the impressive and noble facade built by Johann Conrad Schlaun, well-known area architect, who had built the house for himself some years previous to Annette's family's stay. We weren't too surprised to find that Annette was on vacation and the interior of the house would remain a mystery to us. The garden was still quite green but the statuary had been put away for the winter in tall wooden sheds reminding the visitor of silent sentinels. The house appears to be built on an island for there is a quiet pond which surrounds much of it and where a diverse collection of ducks have their home. Nearby we discovered a small plot of "Wedding Trees". A couple can purchase a tree and have it planted in their name. Annette never married. The young man who was her muse, influenced her writing significantly and after he married someone else her writing definitely took a turn towards the somber. Just a few kilometers up the road we found Haus Hülshoff the large family compound where Annette had been born. The oldest son inherited it upon the early death of their father and the widow and Annette had to move out. The large fence surrounding the compound was very securely closed so all we could do was gather a few glimpses from afar. It appears Annette's life was dramatically down-sized by the move to Rüschhaus. But perhaps this suited her. She called her room there "The snail house" and her poetry is permeated with images from nature, another reason to consider her in the same frame as Emily Dickinson. From there we decided to explore further to the west and see which sites could be located using our "historical sites map". After a somewhat disappointing stop at the Longinus Tower, the highest point in Munsterland, we happened upon a jewel of an inn called "Marienhof". It was fully top-of-the-line, post-modern interior, interesting works of art displayed for sale, and a fine menu. We decided on the tomato-mozzarella salad, savoy cabbage meal and the prawns in pasta, but of course accompanied by a local dark beer. I was told that one drinks dark beer leading up to and through lent since you are giving up meat. It will tide you over. Of course you don't have to be a Catholic to drink dark beer. In fact, early on, people drank only dark beer. Getting into the car to leave proved to be a problem since the keys were nicely and carefully inserted in the ignition and locked inside the car. The owner of the inn came to our rescue, pulled out his ADAC (the equivalent of AAA), top-level membership card and the call was placed. We knew we could easily have to wait a while since the rescue worker could be called to a more urgent call which would take priority over us, since after all we weren't really in any danger or discomfort. We moved into the room with the fireplace and made ourselves comfortable: coffee, cake, and a fire to tend. Once the ADAC man arrived it took him one minute to open the door and then he was able to sell Hannes a membership which he can choose to keep after a year or not, but it saved him having to pay for the service call. By then it was dark and we had given up the hunt for monasteries and churches and headed back to Münster. The idea was to have one more beer to bring the day to a relaxing end. As Hannes drove and I navigated, we took a couple of turns down very narrow and oddly-angled streets. But what really entertained us was that within a few minutes we stumbled across the same service provider from ADAC, a totally random meeting. He was changing someone's battery. For future historical expeditions, how will I go: by bicycle or by car? Only Annette knows.

Major Wardrobe Malfunction

2007-11-18T03:33:00.000-08:00

A week later it was time to talk to parents once again but this time it was scheduled for a bit later in the day which meant that I could go home, relax and recuperate before hitting the trail for a second time that day. This required multiple layers and forms of clothing. But of course I wanted to look my best for the parents since many of them were there simply to have a look, after all how much can you say in five minutes? So I put on my favorite dangly coral earrings and covered my neck and lower face with a fuzzy warm scarf. Once on the bike path, I realized that something wasn't right. One earring had caught on the scarf, but how was I to untangle it in the growing darkness with gloves on, etc. I was beginning to think that my ear lobe might tear. Oh woe! So after crossing at a major light for which I had to wait the maximum, I pulled the scarf free, only to hear a small object fall to the ground, and I removed what was left of one earring. Although I had heard that wearing just one earring was "in" in Germany, I didn't have the time to consider whether to do anything about earring number two. I simply got onto the bicycle highway (the Pronenade) as quickly as possible and fantasized about arriving two minutes late and not only cutting into the five minute appointment set for me at 4pm but also about a lasting impression someone might have of "late" American exchange teachers. Thirty parents later, I began to muse upon all of the single earrings I have collected over the years. The next morning fortunately was a later morning for me, which meant I could re-visit the scene of the crime in daylight. For the first time, I discovered that scraping hardened, stuck-on frost off of a bicycle seat requires quite different motions than when scraping a car windschild clean. I knew exactly where the small object had fallen and there is where I found it, unscathed. Miracle of miracles, it had not rained in the night and no one else had gone to that spot right next to the advertising column on the corner of Niedersachsenring and Goldstraße, looking for treasure. It was a happy camper who peddled on to school that day. It was also a pleasure to see how many students were handing me work which had been delayed but which the parents had managed to maneuver out of them on the day after parent talk day number two.

Parent Speak Day.

2007-11-10T02:23:00.000-08:00

Many parents feel obliged to come and see the teacher of their child even if for a paltry five minutes and even if it isn't really necessary. Two days for this marathon activity are set aside each semester at Paulinum. The three-hour block is cut into five-minute slots with a couple of breaks for the teacher scheduled. Kids sign-up for slots in advance and the teacher can study the sheet and puzzle-out who is going to show-up. A full time teacher has anywhere from eight to twelve different classes to keep track of. In order to not appear too incompetent, I made myself seating charts decorated with individual photos of my students. In addition I made sure that I had arrived at a "sonstige Mitarbeit" grade for each child in advance of the parents' coming. Basically this grade encompasses everything besides the mandated test scores: oral participation in class, quizzes, homework, and study habits. Teachers here don't work with a point system and therefore there is more room to maneuver. Around mid-semester, students start asking what this grade is. I put it off as long as I can because the whole prospect of figuring this frightens me. Most teachers use it to determine a grade if and when a student's test scores are on the edge between two grades. Back to the parents: this allowed me to communicate to parents that students had failed to hand in various assignments or weren't doing their homework or were more focused on their classmates than on the material taught. I had one parent inform me that according to her child I hadn't actually taught the material properly, having just read through it. She hadn't considered that her child might have been focused elsewhere when the material was presented in different ways repeatedly over a period of weeks. Both fortunately and unfortunately five minutes is a very short length for a conference. For the parents of the good students, five minutes is too long and for the parents of the struggling students (who mostly don't come), it is too short. So what was the really fun aspect to this? First, I was assigned to a chemistry room for which my key didn't work. That got me off to a great start with a parent who was going to lose at least two of her five minutes while I figured out what to do. The littlest visitors I had were two pupils selling UNICEF cards. They walked away with 14 of my Euros. During the breaks I could catch a whiff of the waffles being prepared and sold a floor and a corridor away. The hallways weren't heated and if you really wanted to know what the temperature was outside, all you had to do was walk into the bathroom where the windows are always open. Although a few parents who had signed up failed to appear, others showed up unannounced to replace them. As my watch struck 6pm and it appeared that no one else was going to come, I turned out the lights and shut the door. It was then that I was met by the mother of two pupils, one in grade 7 French and one in grade 9 English. What else was I to do but to graciously return to my post. We took care of business and I once again was glad that I had been privileged to raise two sons but that I could go home at night to a quiet household. As one of the colleagues had said, the smile pasted on your face becomes plastic after a while and oh, were we all tired that evening! This coming week we get to do it again, on a different day of the week and for slightly adjusted hours so that all parents will have a chance to come and see what we look like. I can't wait!

Quest for the Brethren.

2007-11-04T09:31:00.000-08:00

Sometimes a quest must take a bold turn. Not too many days ago I discovered that there was in fact a group which calls itself Mennonite in the region. After a bit of research I could see that getting there would require some extra effort. I called and asked if anyone from Münster drove there to Sunday worship only to find out that the German verb for "drive" actually means "ride" and yes, there was one woman who occasionally took the train out to Warendorf, home of the "Mennoniten-Brudergemeinde" congregation. Then, after a very embarrassing second phone call during which I said I would come to Wolbeck by train and was reminded that they are not in Wolbeck but in Warendorf, I hung up, totally ready to abandon the whole effort. A few days later it seemed like it might be time to put the key into the car and take a little ride. Sunday promised to be a good day for my first driving excursion since arriving in Germany, 103 days ago. Mapquest came through with accurate directions with an estimated travel time of 34 minutes and a distance of 17.73 miles. Once in the saddle everything seemed fine until I glanced at the fuel level. Oh well, hopefully gas stations are open in Germany on Sundays, even if most other shops aren't. Upon arriving at the church I was impressed with the number of cars streaming into the parking lot. A gentleman in a black suit showed me to a seat among women roughly my age. Only then did I notice that I was fully inappropriately dressed. Oh my God! Would they throw me out? I was the only female of any age in trousers. I also had an exposed head. Only unmarried younger women, men and babies had their hair on display as I did. This house of prayer was equipped quite differently from the typical church I had been in up to this point. There was no cross, no statuary, and no organ. The centrally featured piece of art was a large Bible painted on the wall. In huge letters, written across the front of the worship space was a verse from Jerimiah about "the Word". Seated in a large bleacher like area facing the congregants was a huge mixed choir of 50 and a separate group of 11 men who turned out to be preachers, worship leaders, etc. There was no printed program nor page numbers for songs mounted on the walls. Most folks around me weren't using the song books anyway. Could they read German? All the rows in the front half of the church were reserved for young people. A young married couple walked in together and split up so that he could sit in a row of men and she with the women. Some very young children were with one parent or the other. Right behind me were several babies and a number of pregnant women. The first preacher seemed to have an accent but he held my attention. Preacher number two was definitely repeating himself and had very little to say. Soon, congregants began exiting to use the toilet, one at a time, and I began to worry. Was this a sign that the service was just getting started? Every time the choir sang the piano played and it was truly beautiful but a style I couldn't identify. Then two saxafone players did a song with the piano. The only women I saw up front were musicians. When preacher number three got up, I too, suddenly had to go out. It was enough. Any more preaching would have put me over the top! The same gentleman in black suit was kind enough to accompany me to the door. He answered a few of my questions. I was somewhat surprised to learn that the entire church is made up of Russians who had migrated back to Germany from whence they had originally come, but had forgotten their German language. It is all very complicated but in fact it all rather made sense. Every seat was taken. Another worship with communion was to take place at 5pm. This is a community which prays together and stays together. At one point in the service a young man, probably about 25, got up to tell the story. He said that instead of a story he would introduce us to the nine boys he had worked with during a summer camp back in Russia. The narrative was truly moving; each boy had come from a home where love and care were lacking and the church had stepped in to provide support. Coincidentally we are learning about the Amish in English class grade 8 right now at school and I have been researching their practice of "rumspringa", where 16 year olds are given a year to go off and try out the "real world". Something about the church I visited today felt a little "amish". This much I know, I have a lot more research to do before I understand the origins and the historical development of the Mennonites and the Brethren. Today I barely began.

Animal Magnetism at its Best.

2007-10-28T00:28:00.000-07:00

Some folks might have called it a dreary day due to the lack of sunshine but for me it was perfect autumn weather, an ideal day for a carriage ride in the country, drawn by the most magnificent of steeds. Her name is Florentina and she lives on a farm with her mother, at least three cats, a faithful dog and a few pigs who are waiting to grow up and be sent away. Let's not talk about what will happen when they are sent away. Life on the farm is relatively good for Florentina. On the day we visited she got to practice what she has been trained for, taking folks on a ride in a buggy. Actually I don't know if you would call it a carriage, a coach, or a buggy since this opportunity doesn't come up that often nowadays. So I will have to describe our conveyance to you. The riders are protected from the rear by a windbreak which only partially covers you. The view from the side and the front is still fully open. You sit high and have a vantage point well above the fields through which we traveled. There are two wooden poles which are used to attach the carriage to the horse. She wears blinders as well as assorted leather straps which provide the driver one means for communicating with her. She responds well to the tone of voice and the words of the brother and sister who have trained her over the years. As we set off it is apparent that she is stiff just as I am after sitting for too long and correcting papers. As she catches her stride we speed along. Driver and horse are well aware of possible distractions: a tractor on or near the road, an Autobahn overpass or another coach passing from the opposite direction. At one point she shies from a large piece of straw on the lane. Her trainers accuse her of sloth as she begins to poke along but as we approach our destination, Mia's Backhaus, she hurries a bit knowing there is a treat waiting. We all look forward to Kuchen and Kaffee at Mia's. Florentina is freed of the carriage, covered with a blanket and set loose in a meadow. She even has company, as another horse and goat occupy the nearby pasture. This goat's job is to keep her horse company. Inside we delight to freshly baked gooseberry cake and buckwheat cake. We are sharing the space with the members of the local shooting club who are also enjoying the culinary delights of Mia's and viewing a power point prepared by one of the younger members. I can't imagine too much shooting in this group where the average ago looked to be about 80. In any case, they were seated in a typical Westphalian arrangement with all the men at one end and all the women at the other. Florentina was none too happy to leave the pasture but finally was readied for the return trip. Not only did it seem shorter but it was shorter. Florentina definitely knew we were heading home, no more doddling around. Just before arriving at the farm we encountered a large contingent of hunters packed into a van and a somewhat larger vehicle carrying their bounty: mostly hares and a few pheasants. I don't know the name of this type of hunting but someone makes a lot of noise and a line of hunters pace through the fields as their prey are roused out of their hiding places. I must say, I enjoyed the live animals I encountered that day much more than these poor creatures hanging from the outside of a truck. I had a lovely moment with one of the farm cats who was most affectionate. The dog enjoyed the human hand as well, cozying up to the heater and then freezing out in the barn and having to search for a nest of hay. During our ride I saw many cows who were very curious about our interruption of their tranquility. They would stare and then suddenly spook and all run off in the opposite direction. Horses out grazing, especially the Haflinger (an Austrian breed) with a blond mane, usually came to greet Florentina. They are very social creatures. As I accompanied Florentina back to her stall I saw her mother nuzzle her. This was followed by sugar cubes, treats all around.

300 years, 300 minutes, 300 walnuts.

2007-10-19T00:28:00.000-07:00

Just a brief 300 year ago both sides of my family migrated from southern Germany/Switzerland to Pennsylvania. Remember there was no "Germany" or "Switzerland" labeled on the political map back then. As proof I have a print-out from a geneological website which has the Blochers and the Minnichs intermarrying even back then, back there. Now, how they got together in the year 1940 and decided to get married again, beats me. My mother told me they met at church camp and, deciding that that was safe territory for finding a spouse, got married. As I was a youngster my father taught me a lot by example. Walnuts are at the kernel of what he taught me. He brought me to the English walnut tree located at the court, a rental property he cared for with great diligence. He showed me the change from bright green hulls to old black hulls which occurs over time. We then took a lug box full of nuts home where we hammered, cracked and sorted them by the hour in front of the fireplace or the television. My father normally couldn't sit still long enough to see a full episode of "Paladin" or "Gunsmoke", but the nuts kept us busy. Next the nut meats were roasted carefully in a slow oven. This was a delicacy at the Minnich house.
Just this week I read in the daily morning column: "Guten Morgen!" in the local paper the story of a reader who bought hazelnuts in the shell and decided to hull them in front of the television in order to make his favorite nut cake. Well, it took much longer than anticipated and the television evening got longer and longer until in the end, the spouse of said nutcracker lost her patience and turned off the tube. The cake did however fortunately get made.
Pulling it all together, I was inspired to purchase a large sack of whole walnuts at the monthly flea market here in Münster not long ago and bring the traditional shelling ritual back to the Old Country once again. You know how it is at the flea market, you stroll along, getting interested in stuff, but mostly not actually stopping to buy things. This young man insisted that I wait while he cracked me a nut and gave it to me to taste and by then I HAD to buy the sackful. The next step was much more challenging however. There was no nutcracker to be found and so I grabbed the hammer. I laid it down again quite quickly once I felt the reverberations in the entire apartment building when I started to pound on a nut on a wooden board on a carpet on the floor. It just wasn't going to work. With the help of an email and a friend I had a real nutcracker in my hands by the next day. I was determined to make an "Engadinertorte", one of my favorite Swiss recipes. I was somewhat hampered by not having a small pick-like instrument which I usually use to pick out the small pieces of nutmeat, but with enough cracks of the nutcracker, we got the job done. All the walnuts which didn't go into the torte went into the slow-roasting pan and success was at hand.
My questions remain: Did my father have this practice, this habit in his genes (his German genes) or did his father teach him to do this, and his father before him, etc.? Will my son take after his grandfather and crack walnuts in his living room?

Finally, Modern Art Up Close.

2007-10-04T23:38:00.000-07:00

The day "Le Musée des Gobelins" was closed became the day to visit "Le Centre Pompidou" at Beaubourg, the Contemporary and Modern Art Museum of Paris. If I knew more I could explain the difference between contemporary and modern to you but I am merely a "babe in the woods". To get to the highest level where the view of Paris is most splendid, you ride up a series of escalators encased in plastic and perched on the exterior facade of the glass building. In summer it can be a sauna-like hot house. Fortunately it was the first day of October and a bit cooler though not crisp. The view is more satisfying than that from the top of the Eiffel Tower, more accessible; no "ants" here. Once in the exhibition hall, I was drawn into the world of modern art. One piece actually consisted of 50 black and white postcard-sized photos of "100 Boots" posed in various locations including Solana Beach, La Jolla, Loma Santa Fe, Leucadia, San Diego, Mission Gorge and New York all taken between 1970-72. Naturally I was fascinated that this work was on display in Paris. Judging from the bits of information I could assemble the artists whose work I viewed were from around the world. But once again I was drawn to the work of yet another American whose neon installation featured 17 different slang terms in French for vagina in a variety of colors. As my feet grew weary I happened upon the collection of art videos available for viewing on the computer with headphones. What fun! Of course I knew the name of none of the artists so I randomly selected female names. Some dealt with difficult subjects such as abuse in creative and disturbing ways. But what impressed me most was the variety. I think if I lived in Paris I would purchase a general museum pass so I could stay as long or as short as I wanted and come as frequently as I liked.

Saturday in Paris.

2007-10-04T10:26:00.000-07:00

An autumn Saturday in Paris with world class rugby in the air. Welsh, Irish and English people in the streets. But two women not in a hurry wound their way through crowds in Beaubourg, les Halles, and St. Germain, roughly the distance of 12 Métro stops. At Beaubourg in the large space outside the Centre Pompidou modern art museum, crowds mingled, artists spread out their merchandise, defenders of causes collected supporters, and men on stilts caught the eye of passers-by. Four of these very tall figures were equipped as African mothers with babies attached and masked faces. Mostly, Parisians do not move out of your way. You move out of their way. Streets are narrow, but sidewalks are even narrower. The only folks who seem not to have a destination are the young teens flaunting their young bodies laden with electronics and metal. There were however plenty of sidewalk café sitters. Most tables were taken. Occasionally you could hear loud cheers as Fiji or Wales scored in Rugby. By the time we settled at a table in St. German the big screen was filled with ex-players making comments about games already won or lost and those to come. At "Horse Tavern" it seems beer was being consumed by the "tapped glass cylinder standing roughly one meter high". A table of young men was rapidly working their way through their second one. My table mate was trying to speak French to the Irish who were responding in something I couldn't make out, but most likely English. She was encouraging the Irish to beat Argentina so things would go well for the French. Returning to the 10th arrondisement by metro was a cramped affair. Saturday nights in Paris it seems most everyone is out and about. Rather recently it became exceedingly easy to rent a bike in Paris. So with trusty computer and credit card in hand you reserve your bike and later drop it off where ever you like. Whatever your means of transport you must be aggressive. Perhaps this is one reason Parisians so like to while away the hours in a café watching the crowds go by.

A Day on the Loire.

2007-10-03T11:08:00.000-07:00

Our day on the Loire would not have been complete without the good friend who lives now in the heart of of Angers but spent many years in Paris and collected copious memories visiting the sights of the Loire as well. Our little French car barely fit through the narrow alleys of the upper city as we approached her apartment. Having her in the car made for easy banter about the route along one side of the Loire or the other, various little riverside villages and frequent detours. It's essential to spend a full day along the Loire for the light changes the way you capture the water with your eye. Along the south bank or is it the left bank, you drive very close to the edge with the houses virtually touching the road and a full open view of the Loire and all its splendor on the other. We all agreed that cars would preferably be forbidden here so the inhabitants could have their peace. Apparently in summer there is a stead stream of cars. The most westerly of the famous castles of the Loire was our first major destination. Saumur and its many high towers dominates the cliffs of the left bank. We could see that major renovations were underway due to the collapse of the foundations and wall closest to the river a few years ago. Since entering the castle was out of the question we viewed the exterior and captured the view over the river and the town. The highlight was lunch of course. We sat ont he terrace with Saumur directly in front of us. Aas the sun played hide and seek with the clouds we alternatively removed and put on our wraps. It was glorious being outdoors knowing winter was on its way. We all had fish and at least one of the plates held tiny little fish of the Loire fried to a crisp somewhat smaller than the French fired served alongside. The creme caramel was a luscious finale to an exquisite repast. Next on the menu for the day was a well-known, oft-visited abbey: Abbaye de Fontevraud, where we would encounter a plethora of visitors speaking a multitude of languages. But before entering the abbey, we happened upon the studio of an artist specializing in stencil illumination as practiced by medieval monks. Examples of his craft were on display. He was very happy to explain the details of his work which include cutting holes in metal templates, preparing paints and dyes made of real substances. It seems, for example, that he uses gold leaf. He emphasized that he doesn't normally take commissions but works on what interests him. There are in fact only s mall handful of such artisans left, mostly in France. His work includes the front plate of an "antique" edition of the "Book of Morman" which he brought to Salt Lake City himself. In fact our chat with him was merely prelude to the visit to the Abbey, which became a series of little surprises. The first delight was saving two euros (three dollars) getting in by flashing my PHHS staff ID. The second surprise was having to go down a series of steps upon entering the chapel. Recently renovated, the effect was a light, almost white stone interior with occasional patches of magically spectral sunshine. What wasn't clear was the gender of the large German tour guide (enigma: low voice, large bust). What became clear as we moved through the extensive complex was that those nuns centuries ago had a life divided between prayer and work. Only one room, the calefactory, was heated. It was there where stitchery and embroidery were practiced. Most unusual was the architectural design of the kitchen. This building consisted of a number of cooking alcoves with smoke holes some 20 meters above. From the outside, the roof had been textured and structured to look quite like an Eastern Orthodox tower. Imagine a light coating of snow on the shingles and the effect is even more pronounced. The well-labeled kitchen herbal garden is rivaled only by the medicinal garden. Final surprise: the apple orchard doubles as a cemetery. When I think of our return route, back to Angers, I will remember the frequent interruption in the stream of traffic by little red lights which forced the traffic into a single lane due to major road work, all caused by the instability of the foundation of the highway due to frequent flooding of the Loire. Think of the Loire as a large flood plain with numerous branches, forks, and islands. Some houses were built on bits of high land so that when flooding occurs the resident can commute by boat. There are even whole villages which are periodically cut off from roads and become island communities It appears that the aesthetic value of living in these places outweighs the practicality of moving elsewhere.

Hazebrouck, France: Early Morning Mass.

2007-10-02T11:58:00.000-07:00

Be at the church on time. You are the one who unlocks the door. One or two will be waiting for you: the regulars. You will switch on the lights as you go in. Someone offers to light the meditation prayer candles for you since she knows you have so much else to do. I tag along. I am but a shadow. The Saint Corneille Chapel in the alcove is to be prepared for the 8:30 mass. We hurry into the sacristy passing the door marked "Danger, Do Not Enter!" You open the door to show me the danger: there is literally no floor. There had been an infestation of mildew in this small meeting room and major measures had to be taken. So we wound our way through several very narrow and awkward angles past the space where the priest puts on his robes to the supply cubby. It was there where you collected the makings of the Last Supper and more: pressed and starched linen napkins and a shiny metal basin into which you counted the right number of small pale wafers made by the Good Brothers. You poured white wine into the chalice. In addition you had to fill a tiny decanter with water. You told me it was for the priest to wash his hands in advance but later you explained that a few drops would be added to the wine so that the people too could be part of the transfiguration. You checked the liturgy of the day and carefully moved the ribbons to the assigned pages. You allowed me to carry the consecrated wafers back through the labyrinth to the Holy Table. After all was prepared we sat and waiting quietly for the arrival of the "retired" priest who would set all into motion. Since I have been present at mass very few times in my life, I'm never quite sure what to expect, but I was definitely astounded by the vigor with which this octogenarian preached. From his seated position he sparkled and smiled and spoke with passion. Although I didn't catch every word, it was evident this man is well-read and knows a lots about life. You told me he says mass at the home for retired nuns on days when he isn't in your neighborhood church, that he takes confession on request, and doesn't appear to be retired at all. More than twenty people were there for mass that morning and not all of retirement age.

Lille blooming in the late summer.

2007-09-23T01:13:00.000-07:00

It was the first day of Fall Break and the Sun came out to play. So forget this crazy mixed-up French keyboard and pay attention to the smiles on so many faces, the cute little dogs happy to be in town, and the brightly colored facades of bustling Lille. Was it the fine weather which made the folks walking in the city look so chic and upbeat? The oldest and finest chocolate shop in the city had moved its hand made ice cream operation out onto the sidewalk. There were many happy holders of waffle cones filled with various colored creams to be noticed spreading out in all directions.

Getting Burned!

2007-09-18T06:52:00.000-07:00

Can you imagine getting burned, just handing back some papers?! Well, it can happen. I must be a really slow learner. In 2003 while in the Oden Forest I did learn a few things about handing back corrected exams, but it wasn't sufficient. Pressure, pressure, pressure. In grade 9 English they wrote their first exam the last Wednesday of August and I thought I had done the right thing giving them the exact same exam which had been used a few years earlier. How could I go wrong? I had the same grading criteria, had the exact results calculated by the previous teacher, etc. It seems I underestimated the tsunami of response. All things considered, I blew it. Corrections take hours and hours of painstaking effort. All words must be counted. By grade 9 students must "produce text". Just filling in blanks, marking true/false or circling a, b, or c just isn't good enough. Puzzling out what kind of an error could be significant. Is "a" in front of "apple" a spelling error (1/2 of a point) or a grammar error (1 point)? While most errors are grammatical in nature, they are subsequently to be labeled as to the kind of error: tense, word order, vocabulary, etc. Should I try to use German to describe the error and what symbol is used by language teachers for this purpose (a whole additional language for me to learn). All of this would be taken care of during the the first time through the exam. Then it needs to be reread for content, style and expression. But what perplexes me perhaps the most is what proportion of the total exam grade each of these represents. Judging content is fairly easy if you are just looking for the right answers to reading comprehension questions. But analysis of a poem is a whole different kettle of fish. So, after hours of careful analysis and hair-splitting, I thought I was ready to hand back the exams. But apparently I had skipped a step or two. I needed to have analyzed the grade distribution for the class and think about what would be appropriate for the class as an organism unto itself. And of course I should have run the whole thing by another English colleague before handing them back to the class. I expected a certain amount of restlessness but nothing like what actually came my way.
In my pre-Fulbright years of ignorant bliss I handed back my German and French tests at PHHS without a second thought, never really went over them, figuring the kids didn't really care and that was that. After Fulbright Year Number One I returned to San Diego with higher expectations of my American students and began posting a grade distribution on the board and going over the tests, section by section and taking questions. I even started insisting the students get their parents' signatures on the exam and bring them back to me as a homework assignment. I had heard that once kids got to high school parents never got to see any of their children's work anymore and that went over fairly well. So, I thought I was going to be ready for returning a test here this time, but I was so wrong. Yes, I got burned! The students were up on their feet comparing not only grades but every detail of my corrections. There was chaos. I figured I could keep some semblance of order if I refused to answer questions unless they remained in their seats. That worked for a little while. I was accused of saying something in English was wrong which their previous English teacher had said was right. I was accused of marking things wrong which they said were actually right in the Queen's English. One of the best students in the class attacked me from the get go saying I had been too hard on the whole class. I think it was the mathematical part of the calculations which made me the most nervous. You take the number of errors and multiply by 100 and then divide by the total number of words they produced. This is called the "error index". You then check on a special grid to see what grade that would translate into. Some of the error indices were so high that they went way off the chart. My next mistake was to give some "-'s" and "+'s" which only led to trouble down the road. I had students bringing me two exams with almost identical marks and talking me into removing a "-" here or there. It was frightening. I truly felt put upon. We really didn't even go over the exam questions. We spent the whole period haggling. I even forgot to tell them to write their corrections which is routine here. I was afraid to face them the next time we met and I was praying that the haggling was over.
Since that time, I have given, corrected and returned two more class sets of exams and it is getting better, believe me. In French, they are grade 7, so there is less language production and more straightforward right and wrong answers, although by no means, exact. I got tripped up when a bright little boy pointed out to me privately that there were more than one blank for some items and shouldn't I have perhaps given more points for those correct answers or taken off less for those errors. In the end I gave that boy a point which jumped his grade up a notch, but only if he swore to never tell a soul!! Then, to my chagrin, I discovered that an important verb was misspelled in the text of the exam and therefore misspelled by several students with justification, but by then I just couldn't see re-collecting all the exams and combing through them one more time. What a nightmare! By the time I handed back the essay exams written by the grade 11 English students, there was barely a whimper. I have two classes to go. They are both grade 8 English classes, one this week and one in three weeks, after the fall break. I find myself analyzing how I am going to correct the exams long before I have even designed them. I learned a huge amount observing a grade 6 teacher hand back her first set of exams. She was so poised, so sure of what she was doing. If only I could have a fraction of her aplomb! She had those little squirrels quiet, in their seats, writing their corrections without a peep and didn't take any of their questions until the bitter end. She made them go through the entire exam with her before she began passing the corrected papers back. She didn't put the grade distribution up until the very end. They are required to copy it down on their papers. Oh, I know how I will do it the next time. They say here that you should try to give an exam in each class before Fall Break. I have almost made it. Of course, who wants to spend their vacation correcting exams? Core subjects which include math, German and English meet more hours weekly and are required to give a specified number of exams per semester. All exams are logged into a central book located in the Teachers Room. No class (group of pupils) can be asked to take more than three tests per week. So you need to get your tests logged-in early on. A few of my tests were scheduled centrally because they are courses comprised of pupils drawn out of various classes. I know this may sound confusing indeed and of course I was a overwhelmed by it all in the beginning but there is a reason for it all. Kids take 11 different courses, some meeting more hours weekly than others. That is a lot to juggle. Most teachers teach 26 hours as well. Teachers are expected to teach grade 5 as well as grade 13 (college level). Fortunately the range I was given is only grade 7 to grade 11. German teachers must all have two subjects as well. Ask Flavia, my Fulbright partner. She has three!

You are being watched!

2007-09-09T08:20:00.000-07:00

From Day One in Germany, I knew that I was being watched. It was 1966 and I had just crossed the Rhine from Strasbourg to visit Kehl, Germany and I was being watched. I entered a cafe, discovered the fabulous taste of German coffee and as I was sitting there, I felt eyes upon me. True, I was with another American and she was wearing a kerchief around her hair, a rather noticeably un-German thing to do. A couple of old women were staring at us. I kept thinking I had been taught that staring was rude. But apparently in this hotbed of European culture, staring was just fine. Staring back didn't do any good so I just let it go. Then just recently a friend here told me that people are particularly interested in what you put in your trash. Needless to say it has taken a while to puzzle out how to sort out my debris. In 2003 as my first Fulbright began it must have been six weeks before I felt fairly confident in my discarding skills. Here in Münster I have the book in front of me. There are still a few things which perplex me however: Let's take the typical teabag since I seem to be consuming lots of tea here. There is a small paper tag, fastened perhaps with a metal staple, string (who knows from what material), what looks like biodegradable paper with tealeaves inside (perhaps even a few bits of fruit). Am I prepared to dissect this confused mess of ingredients?! What's more, will my neighbors check the bins? These are the bins you can choose from: the blue paper container: most common paper, cardboard, egg cartons, etc., the brown biodegradable container: egg shells, wilted flowers, Kleenex, cooked meat and napkins; the yellow recyclables bin: for stuff like yogurt cups, styo-foam, aluminum foil, cans, (but be sure these are clean and dry because this stuff is going to sit around for a while in your kitchen), the gray leftovers container for the rest of the stuff such as: leather, diapers, cigarette butts, bits of raw meat..... If you have glass you must make the trip on your bicycle down the street to the big recycling containers where glass is sorted by color and be sure you aren't dumping that noisy glass after 20:00. Believe me, I am timing my trips to the dumpsters not only to coincide with my usual trips down the many flights of stairs but also with the times when I think no one might be looking.
Just the other day, I spied a red squirrel watching me from his perch high up on a tree outside my living room window. We just stared at each other for a while. I have been told this little fellow may actually enter my kitchen window for a bit of fruit.
There is another way that I know that I am being watched. When I am on the bicycle, I often escape unharmed but just barely. People here seem to be very skilled at knowing where you will be one moment from now. I have had cars pull out at full-throttle the very moment I have passed by their driveway on my bike. If for any reason I had slowed down or wavered from my forward progress, I would have suffered greatly. It may be true that on the Autobahn you cannot pass on the right as is common practice on California freeways. But here in the bicycle lane you just may be passed on the right by a fellow cyclist. It is a bit scary. When I hear the little bell ringing behind me I freeze up, slow down and move to the right and just hope they are not planning to pass on the right. Actually I have become especially sensitive to the sound of this little bicycle bell. I can sometimes hear it from blocks away. At school, walking down the corridors or up and down the stairs, people simply instinctively are not in each others way. It is eerie! Fifth graders are especially speedy when they are fooling around during the five-minute break between teachers. They hang around the stairwells, peering up and down, playing tag with their classmates. So far, none of them have knocked me down. There rarely is a collision. This maneuvering oneself around with agility in a crowded land has been fine-tuned by those who've been here for a while, i.e. the Germans. I am beginning to catch on.

Intimacy or Exposure?

2007-08-30T10:59:00.000-07:00

I have gotten so that I can do quite a bit of thinking as I sail along on my bicycle making my way from Piusallee to the Gymnasium and back each day. The route has become familiar, the rules of the road for the two-wheelers are becoming more clear with practice, and the weather has improved somewhat. By the time you read this the weather will have changed, but never mind. Sometimes I get carried away with my thoughts. On a good day I am feeling intimate with the environment both natural and urban. On the next day I may sense an exposure which exhausts me. Or it can be all jumbled up in a sort of a pleasurable thrill at having escaped a scrape, sandwiched between an interminably long bus and a long row of parked cars. Bicyclists have quite a bit of clout here in Münster. There is a lovely long Promenade which forms a large ring paralleling the automobile Ring which circles the old city center. This Promenade is set aside for folks on bicycles. There are relatively few stop lights, there are trees to protect you from the worst of the elements and avid cyclists will go out of their way to ride here just because it is more relaxing. But actually there are bicycle paths and roads everywhere, criss-crossing the city. Sometimes you must share the space with others. My route to school takes me along "Goldstrasse" where bicycles share the space with cars which have business or reside on that street but through traffic is not allowed. I never feel nervous on this street. If a car comes up behind me, it simply slows down and waits for its turn. Many streets are lined with sidewalk space, subdivided into the red zone set aside for bicycles and the other-than-red for the pedestrians. Believe me, I have learned the hard way that red means dead or "rot ist tot". Even in the busiest shopping areas you can get through on your bike. What is perhaps most dicey however is manuvering through the old city cobble-stoned streets sharing the space equally with pedestrians, buses, taxis and delivery trucks. I saw a regular passenger car getting ticketed for driving through there during the morning commute. Granted, it is bumpy, but rather fun. Early in the morning the way is clear, the road is mine. After school however, I must pick my way through unaware tourists, busy shoppers and faster, goal-oriented cyclists.
No place to park your bicycle?! In fact, parking is somewhat regulated. Some sidewalks are so filled with bicycles that there are chains up and signs making it clear where no parking is allowed. At school there is a huge underground parking area for the students' bikes, with an additional locked cellar room for the teachers' wheels. I prefer the bike racks near the school entrance, basically set aside for teachers. Most folks lock their wheel to the frame and some of us put a plastic bag over the seat anticipating the frequent rain. There are paid city employees who patrol the sidewalks for ill-parked bicycles. They maintain a sort of order, adjusting the placement of bikes and basically improving the quality of bicycle life in Münster.
Not only do you see the occasional recumbent man on a sort of recliner bicycle, I have also seen the businessman in a three-piece suit with a back-support, cushy seat and polished frame. These are so rare even "Münsteraners" don't know what they are called. You've perhaps heard of drug pushers placing contraband in baby strollers, well, here they use the attachable baby carrier. These babies are well-designed for all cargo: swap meet booty, organically-grown veggies and strapped-in howling offspring. Don't want to hear them cry, just zip up the rain shield!

Grade Seven Sacrificial Lambs

2007-08-21T08:25:00.000-07:00

It seems clear to me now why the word in German for cell phone is "Handy". The cell phones came in handy the other day when two bright and squirrelly seventh grade boys needed to film Ms. Stout in action during French class. Well, just look at her in those funny rolling healthy-looking shoes! Learning French from an American teacher who throws in a bit of accented German from time to time just isn't exciting enough, so let's take a few pictures. So quite unbeknownst to said teacher a bit of filming was going on. As soon as the perps had left the premises, two other really sweet-faced boys informed me what had transpired.
Within an hour, I was mentioning this bizarre episode to my mentor, and an "official response" swung into action. This event was definitely not to be swept under the carpet. In fact, the school leadership had been waiting for just such an opportunity to drive home the consequences of breaking newly-instated regulations regarding cell phones at school. First, it had to be determined which class these boys belonged to because French class is made up of pupils from three different grade 7 classes. Then the lead teacher of their class was asked to intervene. Within minutes, the phones were confiscated and the boys were called individually into the headmaster's office. Calls were made to parents, where they were informed that a letter of apology from their sons would have to be presented to the victim before any phones would be returned.
In this case, one family was quick to respond. One is still thinking about whether they want their cell phone back. The next time this class met the two squirrels were separated with a minimum of fuss and the whole class seemed somewhat subdued. I must add that these 12-year-olds impress me everyday with how well they are learning French. Since English was their first foreign language, they still sometimes want to speak English to me, as a default "second language", not because they stop to think that yes I am a native speaker of English. As a group they are eager to learn and willing to do the work. One moment they are asking when the first exam will be written and carefully copying the date down. But once the bell rings, the room turns into a gymnasium, where mini-recess reigns. The boys will wrestle and throw each other around out in the hall and then possibly ask the next teacher for a pass to the office to get ice for a sprained thumb.
After every two periods (each period lasts for 45 minutes), there is a longer break: die grosse Pause. At this point most go outside into the court yards for a bit of fresh air. Teachers are assigned supervision around the school premises before and after school and during breaks. Most folks, kids and teachers, alike are munching on healthy tidbits. I have seen plastic boxes of cucumber slices, fresh red pepper slices, and fruit sections. I really believe these second breakfasts make a big difference in the ability to focus on learning. On the other hand, grabbing a quick candy bar only stimulates more hunger. I guess you could call that empty calories.

First Week of School--Almost There

2007-08-09T08:39:00.000-07:00

"Apprehension" and "Dread" were two of the vocabulary items which came up in the English 11 class today. Sample sentences were easily at hand since both adjectives described my thoughts about 6am this morning as I listened to the rain pounding on the roof windows of my apartment. I knew that the new rain gear purchased at the REI before my departure was going to be put to the ultimate test today. Plans were made to rainproof the school materials as well. Even the little sun-visor had its role protecting the glasses. Totally unsure of myself I headed out the door well in advance of the time ordinarily necessary for arriving at Gymnasium Paulinum on time. There were few folks in the streets, almost no one on bikes. Within a few seconds I knew that my feet were fully soaked. Other than that the rest of me was well-protected. The downpour was impressive and most cars had on their lights. Take note it is August 9 and midsummer. Claps of thunder had preceded my departure but there was no sign of lightning.
Mine was the first bicycle in the teachers' bike lot. The inside of the wardrobe area was a welcome sight. All of the outer shell came off and I was dry except for the feet. For that I had no solution. I probably will bring a pair of shoes and leave them at school for special circumstances such as today. By the time all of the late arrivals were in my first class, the rain took a rest. I couldn't resist telling the students about Southern Californians who stay home when it rains, how students are frequently absent on such days and my father, the electrician who sometimes didn't work at all when it rained. Well, would you want to risk electrocution?!
This has been a week full of surprises and tests, tests for the teacher, not for the students. There was the printer which didn't want to print until Markus, the tech guru from school came and touched it. Then there was the visit to the public library where many fees are assessed. For one month for 5 Euros I have a sort of trial membership where I can check out as many books, CD's, DVD's, copies of sheet music, as I can carry for mostly no extra fee. Designated items such as current or popular DVD's cost €1 to check out. After that I must pay €3 each time I check out anything. Therefore it is worthwhile to check out as much as you can carry each time. For €20 you can have unlimited check-out privileges for a year. Not really knowing how much time I am going to have for such pursuits, I will wait and see when my month is up. The central library is beautifully designed and located in the core of the city where I pass through daily. Out in front is one of the many current sculptures on display as part of a once every 10 years public art event. This specific piece consists of three large cages which reference three well-known cages dating back 500 years when renegade anabaptist leaders were cruelly executed and put on display in cages which still hang on the tower of the Sankt Lamberti Church.

New School, New Teachers' Room, New Friends

2007-08-03T08:34:00.000-07:00

Although it is all new to me, the teachers' room is new to everyone. This is a space which holds a special significance for German teachers. You might call it a communal office where all kinds of activity transpires: catching up with old friends after the weekend or the break, discussing problematic pupils over coffee, collecting money for a field trip, debating politics, hiding behind a newspaper, etc. Each teacher has a cubbyhole and a lockable cupboard. But perhaps the most important space is the wall devoted to announcements of all ilk. If it's important, it's posted there: class coverage(and this might change more than once a day), exam schedules, meeting announcements, scheduled use of special rooms and facilities, and the list goes on. Tradition indicates that teacher X sits in a specific chair at a designated table. God protect the newly arrived who sit in the wrong place by chance. Today, however, was Day One for the newly renovated and enlarged room and claiming territory was a priori. You could see in some peoples' eyes the urgency to settle into the "right" seat.
Sandwiched in among the grade level meetings held this morning was a lovely late morning break celebrating the "round" birthday (50 years) of one of the colleagues. She produced champagne, orange juice, onion cake and vegetable quiche. This was a truly welcome surprise.
On the way home I decided to stop off at a bank and exchange the bulk of the dollars which were burning a hole in my wallet. My first attempt was foiled by the fact that what looked like a bank turned out to be a rather large indoor automated cash access center. Eventually I found a large bank where they were happy to charge me €5 for the privilege of exchanging my dollars at the rate of 1,417. No, it's not good for Americans living in Europe.
Back at the flat, I am enjoying the sunshine which appears between overwhelming clouds. Sitting on the balcony, I am reminded that I am living among the birds in the tree tops. It is splendid to be surrounded by such beauty. Flavia says that in winter the feel is quite different because many of the trees are bare. I hear morning doves cooing, occasional trains passing and children playing in their gardens. For now I have plants to water, something common in Germany, where their pots often line the broad window sills. It promises to be a relaxing weekend with three social occasions and a first visit to a local church.

Settling in.

2007-07-31T11:58:00.000-07:00

In one short day what a swing of emotion! The day started out with a bit of fear and trepidation as I launched myself into officialdom. With trusty map in hand I bicycled my way to the Ludgeriplatz where foreigners must register their residence here in Münster. I asked a few questions, drew a number and waited with the Russians, Turks, Africans, etc. When my number finally appeared on the electronic sign I was swept away in a flourish by a friendly, smiling bureaucrat. For a moment it appeared there might be a delay while they sent to Erbach for the records of my previous residence in Germany, but in the end, it was decided to just take care of matters today. That was a relief since I couldn't open a bank account until I had the residence permit. From there to the post office bank was a direct route. The gentleman there noted we were both born in 1946 but went ahead and set up the account anyway. Now, all I have to do is wait for the account number to be mailed to me. When that happens in a few days I intend to take care of most of the financial matters online.

Then on to Edeka, the local supermarket. On the way I ran across a delightful bakery with the most delicious raisin rye bread. Not until today did I think I could enjoy bread so much. This loaf is a winner. Later in the day Irmhild picked me up by bicycle and took me to her house to meet the English colleagues over coffee. Well, it turned out to be champagne, coffee and two different kinds of cake: just delightful. Simone brought along the little black schnauzer which she is babysitting. It even wore a diaper. Elizabeth brought her two young sons who definitely knew how to enjoy cake as well. During this time together I began to feel much more at home here and by the end of the day most fear and trepidation had dissapated. Renate reminded me that new colleagues are supposed to bring treats to share on Thursday so I began planning to bake oatmeal cookies. On the way home I bought most of the necessary ingredients at Edeka on the corner. I found a recipe online and plan to bake tomorrow after the PHHS group visits me. So in fact I was at the market twice today. It seems it is easier to buy a small amount whenever I ride by. Only two more days until my school duties begin!

First Day as a Fulbrighter in Münster

2007-07-30T11:14:00.000-07:00

So many new sensations! Arriving in Münster by car, driven from Wittenberg in my own Passat Diesel Stickshift by Tina, and making it up the 2 & 1/2 flights of stairs, I can now say: "I am home"! At least for a year, I will call this comfortable, light-filled abode my home. The sun is out and I hurry to Bui Zweiradfachgeschäft to pick up the bicycle which Flavia had lovingly dropped off for repairs before her departure. Everything about this bicycle will be significant to me this year for I intend to become a typical Münsterian and ride regularly. I will learn to keep the seat covered with plastic in case of rain. I will stay in the bicycle designated lanes and hold to the right so that the speedsters can get by quickly.
I hear children in the nearby garden playing in between rain. I got to listen to a bit of a CD but then couldn't figure out how to turn it on again. I finally figured out the television and thereby entertained myself during a rice dinner, my first attempt to cook on Flavia's stove. It's cold enough for a sweater although it is mid-summer. Tomorrow I will find the office where I must register as a resident, something a bit strange for an American. Then I will be taken for coffee and cake to an English teacher gathering, something I am very much looking forward to. I am not supposed to talk shop and I will try my best.

Return to the Year 1970

2007-06-30T07:57:00.000-07:00

Just a short 37 years ago I was a Hausfrau and student living in the little corner of Baden-Würtenberg known as Wiesneck, part of Buchenbach. Today was my day to return and see if the house was still standing and if my memories were correct. Milica, a colleague from Serbia, joined me in my quest. We took the train in the direction of Titisee, getting off in Himmelreich (heavens realm) and walking through the farmland toward the ruins high on the hill. Various people guided us including a gentleman wielding a scythe and an old woman and her dog. Each step of the way held new delights. The pathway went right through a farm where indeed there were red cows just as I had remembered. There were several new institutions as well as new houses in Wiesneck: a clinic for the mentally ill, a Waldorf school and meeting center for political issues. The exact house number eluded me and I had to take a close look at each house until finally I found #15 and recognized the house. The color had changed but the basic structure was right. No one answered the door so I walked around to have a good luck at the garden as well as the bay window where I had spent many happy moments reading and studying. It would have been nice to go inside but somehow even this exterior visit was very satisfying. I thought of the red currants we had harvested in the backyard and trying to make wine from them. There was the Sunday afternoon back then when I had been caught beating my rug in the backyard and been told that there were rules against making that much noise at that time of day. We had had deer visit us in that backyard. Just fifteen minutes up the slope there were 14th century ruins.
From there we returned to the train in Himmelreich and continued on to Titisee. Soon after arriving there we ran into colleagues from Korea and Estonia. We wound our way through the tourist area ambushed briefly by a beauty-product pusher who pushed "free" products on us until she finally handed over one product for which we would have to pay and then she wanted money from us. We were truly overwhelmed, not actually expecting such an agressive swindler in such an idyllic location. We were only too happy to get out of there and away from her.
Lunch was relaxing in a large Biergarten under a tree listening to alemannisch and various other dialects. On the way back we ran into colleagues from Sweden, India and Hungary. During the train ride back to Freiburg we tried to catch a glimpse of the deer up on top of the cliff at Hirsch Sprung. This was not my day to see it. I must be content that 37 years ago I had seen it and it still had not gotten across to the other side of the narrow gorge.

Teacher Seminar in Freiburg

2007-06-28T10:10:00.000-07:00

We, all 22 of us, all German teachers from 15 different countries, are gathered together to learn more about regional life in the EU (European Union). Most days we are sent out to discover what we can and gather impressions in the region. First we were taken to Strasbourg, just a short 75 km away in France, across the Rhine Bridge and set free to find out what we could speaking German. We discovered right off that the place is overrun with German tourists and school groups as well as tourists of all stripes. But also, that many of the place names are German and that this region has been back and forth German several times. It just happens to be French right now. We were also given a tour of the European Parlament and learned that the Council of Europe is not the same as the EU. There is only one European country which is not part of the Council of Europe and that is White Russia. No one knew why. A very knowledgeable gentleman guide took us through the Strasbourg cathedral and told us much about the history of the city as well. I pumped him for information about the Jewish history since I had lived at 1, rue des juifs, 40 years ago when I studied in Strasbourg. The cathedral bells still ring for a full 15 minutes beginning at 10pm every evening. If you read a z where a y should be that is because this is a German keyboard and I am a slow learner.
There is much to write but that can wait. Do leave a comment is you were able to read this and if you please.

2007-05-05T17:33:00.000-07:00

Preparations are underway for the Fulbright Exchange. I know that in Münster I will be bicycling much of the time. Apparently this is THE way to get around in Münster. There are special bike ways everywhere. I am imagining myself bicycling through the pedestrian zone of the city on my way to Gymnasium Paulinum. I most definitely will acquire raingear. Flavia could bicycle to Patrick Henry High School. Andy will see that she has a bicycle.
Wouldn't it be fun to shop by bicycle as well. No more parking hassles!

Vom Anfang an

2007-04-30T09:46:00.000-07:00

Allmählich sammle ich Einzelheiten über meine Austauschpartnerin. Wir lernen uns kennen. Sie verbringt im Augenblick ein lange Wochenende auf einem Nordseeinsel. Das heisst daß sie dort Klassenarbeite korrigiert aber wahrschneinlich nicht ans Internet kommt. Bis bald, Judy