Wire Donkey

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

My affair with a Passat

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

Shaky knees in front of grade 8

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

Jumping Rope in the School Yard

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

The Package Which Has Been Around the Block

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

The package from hell!

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

Why go to Magdeburg?

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