Jumping Rope in the School Yard

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

The Package Which Has Been Around the Block

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

The package from hell!

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

Why go to Magdeburg?

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

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

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

Art as a Political Statement

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

pigs floating across my screen

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