Major Wardrobe Malfunction

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.