Originally written May 3rd
This is not really how I'd imagined spending this week. Yesterday I was hoping that a good dose of antibiotics would be all I'd need to get back to my regularly scheduled life, and today I'm sitting at a table in a hospital with an IV hookup in my arm and no idea when I'll be able to leave.
My sore throat started sometime in the last night I was in Poland. As I made my way home, sometimes I'd forget it was even there, and sometimes when I'd swallow, it felt someone was poking a knife in the back of my throat. I went to bed convinced that I was coming down with a cold--not a happy thought but manageable.
Yesterday morning the pain was much worse, and I had, besides a headache and chills, no accompanying signs of a cold: no sneezing, stuffy nose, coughing. Guessing it was strep, I trundled down to the nearest general practitioner's in Stadtroda for an antibiotics prescription.
The GP was a bright, cheerful, friendly man with a soul patch, jeans and white Crocs who looked suspiciously like Toby Mac. He asked me how I liked Stadtroda and listened to my description of my symptoms, then pulled out a tongue depressor to take a look.
"Du Scheiße" (something like, "Aw, hell") was his first reaction. He took another, disbelieving look, accompanied by another, emphatic "du Scheiße!" I started to giggle nervously. Then he rolled straight back to his phone; I thought he was going to call an ambulance, but his still-jocular tone told me otherwise. He hung up and scooted back over to me.
He explained that I had a peritonsillar abscess, and he was referring me to an ear/nose/throat specialist in the nearby psychiatric hospital. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do for me; antibiotics wouldn't fix this one.
An hour later, Bethany and I were waiting outside the ENT doctor's office. The doctor was at first brisk and seemed slightly miffed that I couldn't understand all her questions, then she took a look down my throat. Suddenly she was much nicer--not a good sign. She told me that she couldn't help me either; she was referring me to a hospital in Gera, where they'd have to cut open and drain the abscess.
Bethany and I trudged home again. I hadn't eaten anything yet, and was now forbidden to both eat and drink until after the surgery. Stefanie, a student and friend of mine, drove both of us to the hospital, where yet another ENT doctor--this time a friendly young English speaker, thank God--took another look and explained to me what the procedure would look like. They were going to try to fit me in for surgery that night, so I changed into the utterly unbecoming surgery gown and thrombosis-preventing stockings and settled into my bed to wait.
We'd arrived at the hospital at about 4:00 that afternoon; I finally convinced Bethany and Stefanie to leave and get something to eat at about 8:00. I had just pulled out my computer and started to watch Blackadder an hour later when a nurse opened the door and announced that it was time.
Away went my computer, and with my hair stuffed up under a shower cap and my stuffed dog Hamlet under my arm, away we went, me relaxing as much as possible on my wheely-bed and giggling in half-hysterical glee at just about everything. I was nervous for the surgery, yes, but this was, to my understanding, a low-risk procedure; I mean, I wasn't having heart surgery, for heaven's sake. I was happy because the thing in my throat would be fixed and I could start to heal as soon as possible.
The view from that wheely-bed was certainly surreal. We rolled through quiet halls of a stupidly happy shade of yellow to the elevator and came out in a world of white, mint green, and steel. The doctors all cooed over Hamlet; I felt like I was being transported back to when I'd originally had my tonsils out at 10 years old, except someone had messed with the settings and it was all in German now.
They attached sensors to my chest for the EKG so I could hear the nervous beat of my own heart both in my ears and beeping somewhere above my head. Someone took my blood pressure on my left arm while another clipped a monitor on my finger, then both my arms were strapped down. I couldn't seem to start giggling nervously. Then something was administered to the IV hookup. "You'll start to feel burning coming up your arm," they explained to me; this was the pain medication. "And now the anesthetic," someone said, and my last glimpse was of bright lights, a green-tiled ceiling, and the triangular mask descending toward my face.
I woke up sputtering, like surfacing from the bottom of a deep pool, feeling...well, drugged. My doctor was standing nearby. "Did everything go well?" I asked her--or tried to, as my mouth wasn't really sure yet whether we were awake or not--and I hung onto Hamlet, who had been tucked back under my arm by some considerate soul.
"I didn't do the operation," the doctor answered. "It wasn't an abscess. May be a bone."
This puzzled me to no end, but dozed off again, coughing whenever I came to. I was wheeled back into my room, given an IV, and left alone with no explanation.
After the anaesthetic finally wore off entirely at about 11pm, I was wide awake. Originally, I'd only had one roommate in the three-person bed; this woman was now asleep and snoring like a grizzly bear, and a new roommate, another middle-aged woman, and I exchanged exasperated glances. By the time I'd watched some videos and become vaguely sleepy, the second woman was asleep and snoring as well, albeit several orders of magnitude more quietly. I didn't sleep much at all.
Which made it all the more fun when I finally was really asleep and the nurses came in to wake us all up just past 7 this morning. The chainsaw snorer had an 8 o'clock surgery appointment, and she was wheeled away in the same getup that I'd worn last night. I finally had something to eat--the first food down my throat since the hotdog from a gas station in Poland--and went to see the doctor on duty as commanded by the nurses.
The first bad sign was that two nurses came in and asked if they could watch "out of curiosity." Like the others before him, the doctor put on his headlamp and peered down my throat, the nurses squinting in behind him. He poked a bit and then turned to dictate instructions to one of the nurses. I was getting irritated at this point, wondering if anyone was going to explain to me what was happening.
Finally, one nurse did, more or less. The problem is, apparently, they don't know what the hard, swollen lump in my throat is. The next step is to have a CT scan done to determine what, exactly, it is and what they can do about it. I was promised a scan appointment before noon.
I slept the whole morning (trying to make up for my sleepless night), had lunch, and came out to a quiet group of tables to write. Just now a nurse has come to tell me that the CT scanner is needed all day today for emergency/more important and urgent cases, and I'll have my scan tomorrow morning at 8:00.
They originally told me, back when they thought it was an abscess, that they'd want me to stay 3-4 days after the surgery for observation. If I'm not even going to have the scan until tomorrow, it looks improbable that I'll be out of here before my birthday.
I'm trying to be like I've always hoped I'd be under stress: friendly, cheerful, upbeat, positive. The pain is minimal and I can still walk, talk, eat, drink, breathe, see, hear, taste, feel, text, type--I'm pretty much totally normal except that I have an unidentified mass in my throat. That makes me a hell of a lot better off than most people in the hospital, for which I should be and am grateful. But the confinement chafes, especially when there's so much I want to be doing--teaching, going to class, meeting friends, going walking...celebrating my birthday. And the waiting to find out what is wrong is not pleasant.
For those out there reading this: I'd appreciate any prayers and thoughts you send my way. I'll keep you updated.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
A Big Step
This is going to be short, because it's late and I'm tired and I'm going hiking tomorrow, which I am very much looking forward to. Anyway.
The point is: today, reluctantly and with much moaning and wailing and general shameful crybabyishness, I purchased my ticket home. My official arrival date in SeaTac is the 25th of July--one year and one month exactly from when this entire madness began last year in Vancouver. (So much for "You're never going to come back!" I was kind of hoping that would come true...)
The only ray of light in this terrible development (except the prospect of seeing my mother, dog, and friends, of course) is that my flight departs from--wait for it--Lisbon.
Didn't see that coming, didja? Turns out there's this psycholinguistics conference in Porto (northern Portugal) in July, and long story short, I'm going. In the two and a half weeks or so between the ending of my Fulbright contract and my flight, I'll be making a small journey through Italy, Switzerland, and France, hopefully stopping to visit Bethany on the way, and end up in Portugal for the conference. Afterwards, I have a few days of cushy leeway to get myself to Lisbon and think about how much I don't want to leave Europe.
For now, life is good. The wind is warm and carries the scents of exuberantly blooming flowers; the days are sunny and the nights clear and quiet. Tomorrow the Bienenmeister is taking me hiking at the Leuchtenburg, which we visited briefly in the snow last November. Now I'm going to see it in the full glory of spring, get some sunshine and exercise, and enjoy the hell out of every moment.
But for now, oyasumi!
The point is: today, reluctantly and with much moaning and wailing and general shameful crybabyishness, I purchased my ticket home. My official arrival date in SeaTac is the 25th of July--one year and one month exactly from when this entire madness began last year in Vancouver. (So much for "You're never going to come back!" I was kind of hoping that would come true...)
The only ray of light in this terrible development (except the prospect of seeing my mother, dog, and friends, of course) is that my flight departs from--wait for it--Lisbon.
Didn't see that coming, didja? Turns out there's this psycholinguistics conference in Porto (northern Portugal) in July, and long story short, I'm going. In the two and a half weeks or so between the ending of my Fulbright contract and my flight, I'll be making a small journey through Italy, Switzerland, and France, hopefully stopping to visit Bethany on the way, and end up in Portugal for the conference. Afterwards, I have a few days of cushy leeway to get myself to Lisbon and think about how much I don't want to leave Europe.
For now, life is good. The wind is warm and carries the scents of exuberantly blooming flowers; the days are sunny and the nights clear and quiet. Tomorrow the Bienenmeister is taking me hiking at the Leuchtenburg, which we visited briefly in the snow last November. Now I'm going to see it in the full glory of spring, get some sunshine and exercise, and enjoy the hell out of every moment.
But for now, oyasumi!
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Whoops.
Apparently my last post was a month an a half ago...oops. I apologize for this, especially for you multitudes that hang on my every word. How have you survived?
I actually see this as a good thing, because I seem to write and ponder more when I have less to do; reciprocally, when my life speeds up, I don't spend so much time whining into the endless echoing chambers of the Internet. What I'm trying to say is...I've kind of actually been busy. Yay!
So, we have a few things to catch up on. First, you haven't heard at all about Amsterdam, which was the first weekend in March; I'll try to get some pictures and a summary up soon. Also, the Berlin conference and our weekend out in Leipzig/Dresden, two weekends later. I've made new friends, started new classes, enjoyed new weather patterns, and sunk deeper into a rut of agonizing indecision about what to do with my life...but more on that later.
For now, I'll talk about the last couple weeks, which have been wonderfully exciting. This is mainly because classes at Jena have started up again after a long month of nothingness. As usual, I was overambitious and tried to take too many, but now I've settled on four: Language and Cognition; Spanish, second year; a Tolkien seminar; and Sociolinguistics.
If any of you just went "LOL, Tolkien seminar," you should know there is an epic story behind this, and it goes back to two years ago in Marburg. I studied for half a year in Marburg as an exchange student, and while I was there, I took a delightful seminar about Lord of the Rings with a wonderful professor named Alan Turner. Dr Turner is one of those people who is just so English--he and Stephen Fry are my archetypes of well-spoken Englishmen. Anyway, the seminar was great, but as Shannon or other people who knew me after I got back from Marburg can tell you, it took me ages to finish writing the paper from that class.
Last week, I had my first class in Spanish. I mentioned that I was American (always a useful thing to do) and one of my classmates invited me to the English conversation group that evening. I met her and her sister for dinner--two very kind young ladies who have both spent time as au pairs in the US--and we went to a small bar to meet a surprising number of enthusiastically chattering students and professors. As a side note, it's such a relief to meet students who are enthusiastic and excited about speaking English; I feel like the apathy in Stadtroda is sinking into my bones. Anyway, imagine my surprise as I'm sitting there enjoying speaking with my new friends when Alan Turner comes in the door! I couldn't help bursting out with "I know you!" in sheer excitement, which I think startled him a bit, but he told me he was giving another Tolkien seminar, and of course I couldn't resist. We're doing The Hobbit and some of Tolkien's minor works, which is a nice change.
As I mentioned, I've started with Spanish again, at least a bit. I feel bad that I've abandoned my Spanish to slowly rot away, so I'm trying to salvage what I can and build it back up again. Although the class is not very helpful--the teacher seems content to just do the textbook exercises, one after another--I have met some new friends, and I get to hear and read and try to speak the language again, which is painful and embarrassing but definitely good for me. The problem is that my brain's default non-English language is now German, so I keep trying to speak Spanish with German grammar...
I mentioned the weather, as well. It's been getting nicer and nicer, warmer and sunnier and brighter, and the flowers are coming up and the wind is warm and it's getting altogether better and more enjoyable to live here. I'm looking forward now, especially that I have only 2-4 classes a week, to exploring more and more of Thüringen's beautiful rolling green hills. We'll see.
Anyway, I'll try to catch up soon. I have so much to acquaint you with!
I actually see this as a good thing, because I seem to write and ponder more when I have less to do; reciprocally, when my life speeds up, I don't spend so much time whining into the endless echoing chambers of the Internet. What I'm trying to say is...I've kind of actually been busy. Yay!
So, we have a few things to catch up on. First, you haven't heard at all about Amsterdam, which was the first weekend in March; I'll try to get some pictures and a summary up soon. Also, the Berlin conference and our weekend out in Leipzig/Dresden, two weekends later. I've made new friends, started new classes, enjoyed new weather patterns, and sunk deeper into a rut of agonizing indecision about what to do with my life...but more on that later.
For now, I'll talk about the last couple weeks, which have been wonderfully exciting. This is mainly because classes at Jena have started up again after a long month of nothingness. As usual, I was overambitious and tried to take too many, but now I've settled on four: Language and Cognition; Spanish, second year; a Tolkien seminar; and Sociolinguistics.
If any of you just went "LOL, Tolkien seminar," you should know there is an epic story behind this, and it goes back to two years ago in Marburg. I studied for half a year in Marburg as an exchange student, and while I was there, I took a delightful seminar about Lord of the Rings with a wonderful professor named Alan Turner. Dr Turner is one of those people who is just so English--he and Stephen Fry are my archetypes of well-spoken Englishmen. Anyway, the seminar was great, but as Shannon or other people who knew me after I got back from Marburg can tell you, it took me ages to finish writing the paper from that class.
Last week, I had my first class in Spanish. I mentioned that I was American (always a useful thing to do) and one of my classmates invited me to the English conversation group that evening. I met her and her sister for dinner--two very kind young ladies who have both spent time as au pairs in the US--and we went to a small bar to meet a surprising number of enthusiastically chattering students and professors. As a side note, it's such a relief to meet students who are enthusiastic and excited about speaking English; I feel like the apathy in Stadtroda is sinking into my bones. Anyway, imagine my surprise as I'm sitting there enjoying speaking with my new friends when Alan Turner comes in the door! I couldn't help bursting out with "I know you!" in sheer excitement, which I think startled him a bit, but he told me he was giving another Tolkien seminar, and of course I couldn't resist. We're doing The Hobbit and some of Tolkien's minor works, which is a nice change.
As I mentioned, I've started with Spanish again, at least a bit. I feel bad that I've abandoned my Spanish to slowly rot away, so I'm trying to salvage what I can and build it back up again. Although the class is not very helpful--the teacher seems content to just do the textbook exercises, one after another--I have met some new friends, and I get to hear and read and try to speak the language again, which is painful and embarrassing but definitely good for me. The problem is that my brain's default non-English language is now German, so I keep trying to speak Spanish with German grammar...
I mentioned the weather, as well. It's been getting nicer and nicer, warmer and sunnier and brighter, and the flowers are coming up and the wind is warm and it's getting altogether better and more enjoyable to live here. I'm looking forward now, especially that I have only 2-4 classes a week, to exploring more and more of Thüringen's beautiful rolling green hills. We'll see.
Anyway, I'll try to catch up soon. I have so much to acquaint you with!
Bin Doch Kein Fan
Originally written on March 19th
I bailed out of the car and hugged my friend, shouldering my backpack. The usually deserted entrance to the Jena West train platforms was blockaded and guarded by six or seven hulking policemen in riot gear, but this didn't surprise me at all. I checked my phone--if there was a train at 44 after, it would be here any second. I wandered up to the blockade and the policemen looked at me expectantly.
"Darf ich bitte durch?" Could I please get through?, I asked, trying my best to look nonthreatening and not at all drunk, which was easy because the champagne was four hours and two bathroom breaks ago.
"Wohin fahren Sie?" Where are you going?, one of them asked me, standing in my way.
"Stadtroda," I answered, taking by the blank looks on their faces that they'd never heard of it. I didn't blame them.
"Sind Sie vom Fußballspiel gekommen?" Are you coming from the football game?, another asked with a laugh. I guess I didn't really look like a football fan, so maybe it surprised them when I answered, "Ja."
"Sind Sie Erfurt-Fan oder Jena-Fan...?" Are you a fan of Erfurt or Jena?, the first officer pressed. I was starting to get irritated.
"Ich bin Fremdsprachenassistentin, ist mir egal," I said, thankful that I hadn't bought a Jena scarf at the game. I felt slightly guilty at disowning Jena so quickly just to avoid trouble with half a dozen armored German police, but only slightly, and that evaporated pretty quickly when they stepped back to let me past. I ran to the platform, where more green- and black-armored police kept an eye on the still-quiet station, to find that there was no 44-past train after all.
This escapade began yesterday, when I took the train out to Apolda to meet my friend Möhre, a now-former student who had organized this opportunity for me to go see a real German football game. Seeing a game live was one of my goals for this ridiculous/crazy/wonderful time here in Germany, and the one we'd picked was Derby--a third-league local game between blood rivals Erfurt and Jena. I spent the night at Möhre's house in a small town outside Apolda and about noon we headed into Jena for the game. On the way, we drank rose champagne out of plastic cups in the car, since the stadium was a no-alcohol zone.
The stadium, covered in Jena's bright blue-gold-white, was surrounded by imposing-looking police. Like I said, Jena and Erfurt don't like each other, and apparently it's tradition for all the hooligans to have a good post-game riot, thus the black-suited police with helmets and unfriendly expressions. All the people making their way into the stadium were Jena supporters, all sporting scarves or hats or gloves or shirts or something in Jena's colors; the Erfurt supporters had arrived earlier, presumably to avoid being mobbed, and were concentrated in a single section on the south end of the field in a rumbling red-and-white mass.
We found our seats and had some time to enjoy the sunny weather before the game began. The hard-core fans next door to Erfurt's block waved flags, screamed, sang and chanted, and when the game began the whole section was drenched in blue, yellow, and white smoke. Erfurt scored once during the first half, which most of the stadium welcomed with stony silence; in the second half, Jena played better and scored to the delight of almost everyone, with screaming, hugging, and high-fiving all around. It was looking pretty good, and then out of nowhere, Erfurt scored two more goals in the last ten minutes. We left the stadium sullen and despondent, with people mumbling "Das gibt's nicht, eh!" bitterly to each other under the watchful eyes of the riot cops. I was pretty happy--sunshine, a game, and time with friends is enough for me. I mean, I'm from Washington--I'm very used to the home team losing.
The game itself (summary, with pictures, in German), although fun, was a bit anticlimactic. From the concerned noises that people made every time I mentioned it, I'd had the feeling that we'd barely be able to see or hear the game over the fans howling team songs and throwing beer bottles and punches at each other. By the number of police, that's what everyone thinks. Despite that, everything seemed to be orderly and civilized--I can't decide if I'm relieved or disappointed.
I was pleased about this game not just because I got to go to a football game (always cool) and spend some time with my friend, but also it took my mind off the fact that the last week for the Winterschule is over and Stadtroda has become even more quiet and empty than it was before they came. You probably wouldn't be able to tell from the last few posts, but I've become quite attached to a lot of my students. We don't always have things to talk about, but just seeing familiar faces and being enthusiastically greeted in the hallway is encouraging.
At the students' Bergfest a few weeks ago, the liberal application of alcohol worked its wonders to get the English flowing, and I had a long, interesting, somewhat broken conversation with a couple of friendly first-year students who kept buying me drinks. One of them, a towering and slightly daft but amiable young man, made me promise to give him an American dollar. On Wednesday last week, I'd received the dollar from another American assistant (I don't actually have any) and I gave it to him at the grill party out the parking lot; he was pretty inebriated by that time and was immensely pleased, stumbling around to everyone in party showing them the dollar and asking if they were jealous. He kept coming back to put his arm around me and thank me, and the group of students I was talking with--from one of my favorite classes--would distract him long enough for me to slip away to the other side of the circle. That night is one of my best memories from this year: standing in the cold drizzle around a fire in the grill made from a broken-up pallet, chatting with Bayer and the Lukases and the Roberts, laughing and rolling our eyes and singing German songs.
The night before had been more of a private party; by the end of the semester, Möhre was inviting me up to her room for coffee every afternoon, and that day we just hung out, playing guitar and drinking champagne and chatting, the windows open to let in the unseasonably warm night air and the voices of those around another fire in the parking lot below and let out the endless stream of cigarette smoke. There was a feeling of peace and contentment, of being wrapped up in a warm blanket of easy friendship. Now I'm going through the same terrible transition that I have to make getting out of bed every morning, leaving happy dreams and warmth and stepping into the cold. I'm going to miss coffee with Möhre, and trying to teach each other songs on the guitar. I'm going to miss the cheerful voices calling good morning to me as I walk by the classroom doors on my way to English. I'm going to miss standing on the steps of the school in the sun, listening to the students chat around their cigarettes in the ten minutes before class. I'm going to miss dropping by Marco and Franz's room for a random discussion or singing practice. I'm going to miss the general chaos and ridiculous questions and silliness. But I think what is hardest right now is the thought that although I miss them terribly, there's no reason for them to miss me. They're all I have, what my life has revolved around for the last half-year, but for them I'm just one of a long series of Fremdsprachenassistenten. I guess I can hardly face the fact that I don't have any more chances to make friends, to get closer, to understand better, to learn more; it's over and there aren't any more chances, and I don't feel like I have much to show for it.
I'm really sorry about all this; I need to write it down somewhere to get it out of my head, and this is as good a place as any.
I bailed out of the car and hugged my friend, shouldering my backpack. The usually deserted entrance to the Jena West train platforms was blockaded and guarded by six or seven hulking policemen in riot gear, but this didn't surprise me at all. I checked my phone--if there was a train at 44 after, it would be here any second. I wandered up to the blockade and the policemen looked at me expectantly.
"Darf ich bitte durch?" Could I please get through?, I asked, trying my best to look nonthreatening and not at all drunk, which was easy because the champagne was four hours and two bathroom breaks ago.
"Wohin fahren Sie?" Where are you going?, one of them asked me, standing in my way.
"Stadtroda," I answered, taking by the blank looks on their faces that they'd never heard of it. I didn't blame them.
"Sind Sie vom Fußballspiel gekommen?" Are you coming from the football game?, another asked with a laugh. I guess I didn't really look like a football fan, so maybe it surprised them when I answered, "Ja."
"Sind Sie Erfurt-Fan oder Jena-Fan...?" Are you a fan of Erfurt or Jena?, the first officer pressed. I was starting to get irritated.
"Ich bin Fremdsprachenassistentin, ist mir egal," I said, thankful that I hadn't bought a Jena scarf at the game. I felt slightly guilty at disowning Jena so quickly just to avoid trouble with half a dozen armored German police, but only slightly, and that evaporated pretty quickly when they stepped back to let me past. I ran to the platform, where more green- and black-armored police kept an eye on the still-quiet station, to find that there was no 44-past train after all.
This escapade began yesterday, when I took the train out to Apolda to meet my friend Möhre, a now-former student who had organized this opportunity for me to go see a real German football game. Seeing a game live was one of my goals for this ridiculous/crazy/wonderful time here in Germany, and the one we'd picked was Derby--a third-league local game between blood rivals Erfurt and Jena. I spent the night at Möhre's house in a small town outside Apolda and about noon we headed into Jena for the game. On the way, we drank rose champagne out of plastic cups in the car, since the stadium was a no-alcohol zone.
The stadium, covered in Jena's bright blue-gold-white, was surrounded by imposing-looking police. Like I said, Jena and Erfurt don't like each other, and apparently it's tradition for all the hooligans to have a good post-game riot, thus the black-suited police with helmets and unfriendly expressions. All the people making their way into the stadium were Jena supporters, all sporting scarves or hats or gloves or shirts or something in Jena's colors; the Erfurt supporters had arrived earlier, presumably to avoid being mobbed, and were concentrated in a single section on the south end of the field in a rumbling red-and-white mass.
We found our seats and had some time to enjoy the sunny weather before the game began. The hard-core fans next door to Erfurt's block waved flags, screamed, sang and chanted, and when the game began the whole section was drenched in blue, yellow, and white smoke. Erfurt scored once during the first half, which most of the stadium welcomed with stony silence; in the second half, Jena played better and scored to the delight of almost everyone, with screaming, hugging, and high-fiving all around. It was looking pretty good, and then out of nowhere, Erfurt scored two more goals in the last ten minutes. We left the stadium sullen and despondent, with people mumbling "Das gibt's nicht, eh!" bitterly to each other under the watchful eyes of the riot cops. I was pretty happy--sunshine, a game, and time with friends is enough for me. I mean, I'm from Washington--I'm very used to the home team losing.
The game itself (summary, with pictures, in German), although fun, was a bit anticlimactic. From the concerned noises that people made every time I mentioned it, I'd had the feeling that we'd barely be able to see or hear the game over the fans howling team songs and throwing beer bottles and punches at each other. By the number of police, that's what everyone thinks. Despite that, everything seemed to be orderly and civilized--I can't decide if I'm relieved or disappointed.
I was pleased about this game not just because I got to go to a football game (always cool) and spend some time with my friend, but also it took my mind off the fact that the last week for the Winterschule is over and Stadtroda has become even more quiet and empty than it was before they came. You probably wouldn't be able to tell from the last few posts, but I've become quite attached to a lot of my students. We don't always have things to talk about, but just seeing familiar faces and being enthusiastically greeted in the hallway is encouraging.
At the students' Bergfest a few weeks ago, the liberal application of alcohol worked its wonders to get the English flowing, and I had a long, interesting, somewhat broken conversation with a couple of friendly first-year students who kept buying me drinks. One of them, a towering and slightly daft but amiable young man, made me promise to give him an American dollar. On Wednesday last week, I'd received the dollar from another American assistant (I don't actually have any) and I gave it to him at the grill party out the parking lot; he was pretty inebriated by that time and was immensely pleased, stumbling around to everyone in party showing them the dollar and asking if they were jealous. He kept coming back to put his arm around me and thank me, and the group of students I was talking with--from one of my favorite classes--would distract him long enough for me to slip away to the other side of the circle. That night is one of my best memories from this year: standing in the cold drizzle around a fire in the grill made from a broken-up pallet, chatting with Bayer and the Lukases and the Roberts, laughing and rolling our eyes and singing German songs.
The night before had been more of a private party; by the end of the semester, Möhre was inviting me up to her room for coffee every afternoon, and that day we just hung out, playing guitar and drinking champagne and chatting, the windows open to let in the unseasonably warm night air and the voices of those around another fire in the parking lot below and let out the endless stream of cigarette smoke. There was a feeling of peace and contentment, of being wrapped up in a warm blanket of easy friendship. Now I'm going through the same terrible transition that I have to make getting out of bed every morning, leaving happy dreams and warmth and stepping into the cold. I'm going to miss coffee with Möhre, and trying to teach each other songs on the guitar. I'm going to miss the cheerful voices calling good morning to me as I walk by the classroom doors on my way to English. I'm going to miss standing on the steps of the school in the sun, listening to the students chat around their cigarettes in the ten minutes before class. I'm going to miss dropping by Marco and Franz's room for a random discussion or singing practice. I'm going to miss the general chaos and ridiculous questions and silliness. But I think what is hardest right now is the thought that although I miss them terribly, there's no reason for them to miss me. They're all I have, what my life has revolved around for the last half-year, but for them I'm just one of a long series of Fremdsprachenassistenten. I guess I can hardly face the fact that I don't have any more chances to make friends, to get closer, to understand better, to learn more; it's over and there aren't any more chances, and I don't feel like I have much to show for it.
I'm really sorry about all this; I need to write it down somewhere to get it out of my head, and this is as good a place as any.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Utah sunrises and taking the trouble to practice
It's been very very cold here in Stadtroda this week; there's a light coating of snow on the ground, and every now and then we have flurries of tiny flakes, like God's sprinkling the world in powdered sugar. It's clear and wonderfully sunny and just above freezing now, but it feels like it's below. Still, it's quite lovely, and the temptation of the rolling hills was too strong yesterday, so I took a walk up one of Stadtroda's many valleys. I found a guest house among the trees along the half-frozen river most of the way to the next town, and was thoroughly frozen by the time I found my way back.
The days have gotten long enough now that the sun has risen before my first class starts, which goes a long way towards making that first 8am class better. Sunrises always remind me of one of the last days of the RV trip that I took with my mother and some friends many years ago--I was maybe 14 or so. We wanted to make good time, so before sunrise, while our friends still slept, my mother and I unhooked the RV and started off. I remember clearly pulling out onto a canyon road, with the sky neon yellow and orange, that rich fiery color that makes you think that if you could dip a goblet into it and drink it, it would taste like mead, warm and sweet. We turned on John Denver and sang "Take Me Home, Country Roads" and watched the sun rise, alone on the road. That song may be a bit cheesy, but it still is close to my heart.
In a mostly unrelated note, I was (finally!) asked by one of my students to help him with his English homework. As far as I can tell, this guy is kind of a teddy bear; he's smiley and friendly and laid-back and, heaven forgive me, farmer-y. I'm not sure how else to phrase it, but there it is. Now, I'm sure this guy is good at what he does, but English, at least, is not his forte. He's consistently lost and confused in English class and struggles to put even basic sentences together. Part of the problem is the aforementioned mixing of English levels, so that it's almost impossible to try to explain something to him without losing control of the rest of the class. I'm sure it's equally frustrating for both of us.
Now, school has always been my thing. I love being in schools, I love teaching and learning and studying and discussing things and I have trouble understanding why some people...don't. For me, a life of learning and scholarship sounds pretty darn good, whereas a job like, say, farming, would be like death sentence for my soul.
Anyway, after I helped him translate what we'd done in English, he had to pull out his computer and show me pictures of his tractor. They all inevitably do this, and I'd never understood it; how interesting can pictures (and video) of tractors possibly be? But listening to him talk--about how he was so glad that school was almost over, and how he couldn't wait to get back to work--I started to understand, just a bit. As far as I can tell, farming is his calling. It's what he loves, it's what he does best, and my kind of life would be just as strange and distasteful to him as his would be to me.
I've wondered a couple times--with, I must admit, insufferable arrogance, so I beg your forgiveness--why some of the intelligent, strong-willed, ambitious students who study here would ever want to spend their lives working on a farm. Is it because they have no other options? Not enough money to do something else? Is it just easier? The more I talk to them, though, the more often I hear that they simply love to do what they do. This guy yesterday, I could hear it in his voice. And I should know by now that everything is more complicated than it seems; if I've learned anything at all from Bienenkunde, it's that taking care of even the smallest animal is an exhaustive undertaking, demanding time and patience and skill and practice and years of dedication. My students--for very many of them, it's the same thing. Their craft is more complex and takes more acquired and natural skill than I'll ever be able to appreciate. It's what they want to do; it's what they love. I desperately don't want to sound condescending here; it's hard for me to comprehend the attraction of a passion different from my own, but I'm learning to appreciate their own feelings about their work and, by extension, the true worth of the work itself. I may get frustrated with them for their lack of enthusiasm for what makes my heart flutter and my soul leap, but the least I can do then is have respect for the calling that does the same for them.
It's still hard, nevertheless, to sympathize. I don't share their classes, their cares, their interests, their lifestyle; and this makes it hard(er than normal) to connect with them on a meaningful, personal level.
Part of this is that one facet of myself that is and continues to be a frustration and hindrance to me is my stunted ability to make conversation and, by extension, to get to know people that I want to make friends with. I have a blind terror of intruding on other people's private lives and thereby making myself obnoxious to them. As a result, I generally refuse, out of pure insecurity, to take the risk of seeking out others, and make friends instead with those who choose to come to me. If no one manifests the courage that I so markedly lack, I don't know how to bridge the gap to make a connection with another person.
I've been thinking about this a lot recently, because this painful and humiliating process seems to take, for me, about half a year. It takes me that long to get accustomed to other people, to get to know them a bit and to slowly gather the courage to knock on their door for no other reason than needing someone to talk to. Half a year--sound familiar? That was the duration of my exchange in Germany the first time, and how long the AUAP students stayed at WWU, and how long the Winterschule students stay at the Fachschule before they return to work. This means that consistently, I have gone through the long fight to make myself make friends, only to have them leave just when I finally am getting comfortable with them.
This is ridiculously frustrating, and I wonder sometimes if it's even worth the trouble; but I simply can't just sit in my room and Internet all day. I have to have other real people to talk to, to hear other voices besides my own, to be in proximity to other humans. It's like having a deadly thirst that can only be slaked by drinking molten lava.
This all reminds me of a conversation from, somewhat oddly (although appropriately), Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth Bennett is sitting at the piano and engages in a witty repartee with Mr Darcy on the topic of the reasons behind Mr Darcy's failure to dance with some of the ladies at the last ball:
Elizabeth's reproof is the solution to this problem: if you want to get better at something--piano, underwater basketweaving, or making conversation--you have to practice. In other words, there's no way to learn to do it other than doing it. This is exactly the last thing I would want to hear. As I learn the guitar, my fingers are clumsy and uncoordinated, and the strings buzz and twang and make all sorts of awkward noises. It's embarrassing and frustrating and it makes my fingers hurt, but there's simply no other way to learn.
I know this very, very well. I realize it and understand it and comprehend it but still catch myself hoping, at least a few times every day, that somehow I will find an easier way and suddenly I'll go from being quiet and awkward to being eloquent and brilliant and everyone will like me. Not likely...
The days have gotten long enough now that the sun has risen before my first class starts, which goes a long way towards making that first 8am class better. Sunrises always remind me of one of the last days of the RV trip that I took with my mother and some friends many years ago--I was maybe 14 or so. We wanted to make good time, so before sunrise, while our friends still slept, my mother and I unhooked the RV and started off. I remember clearly pulling out onto a canyon road, with the sky neon yellow and orange, that rich fiery color that makes you think that if you could dip a goblet into it and drink it, it would taste like mead, warm and sweet. We turned on John Denver and sang "Take Me Home, Country Roads" and watched the sun rise, alone on the road. That song may be a bit cheesy, but it still is close to my heart.
In a mostly unrelated note, I was (finally!) asked by one of my students to help him with his English homework. As far as I can tell, this guy is kind of a teddy bear; he's smiley and friendly and laid-back and, heaven forgive me, farmer-y. I'm not sure how else to phrase it, but there it is. Now, I'm sure this guy is good at what he does, but English, at least, is not his forte. He's consistently lost and confused in English class and struggles to put even basic sentences together. Part of the problem is the aforementioned mixing of English levels, so that it's almost impossible to try to explain something to him without losing control of the rest of the class. I'm sure it's equally frustrating for both of us.
Now, school has always been my thing. I love being in schools, I love teaching and learning and studying and discussing things and I have trouble understanding why some people...don't. For me, a life of learning and scholarship sounds pretty darn good, whereas a job like, say, farming, would be like death sentence for my soul.
Anyway, after I helped him translate what we'd done in English, he had to pull out his computer and show me pictures of his tractor. They all inevitably do this, and I'd never understood it; how interesting can pictures (and video) of tractors possibly be? But listening to him talk--about how he was so glad that school was almost over, and how he couldn't wait to get back to work--I started to understand, just a bit. As far as I can tell, farming is his calling. It's what he loves, it's what he does best, and my kind of life would be just as strange and distasteful to him as his would be to me.
I've wondered a couple times--with, I must admit, insufferable arrogance, so I beg your forgiveness--why some of the intelligent, strong-willed, ambitious students who study here would ever want to spend their lives working on a farm. Is it because they have no other options? Not enough money to do something else? Is it just easier? The more I talk to them, though, the more often I hear that they simply love to do what they do. This guy yesterday, I could hear it in his voice. And I should know by now that everything is more complicated than it seems; if I've learned anything at all from Bienenkunde, it's that taking care of even the smallest animal is an exhaustive undertaking, demanding time and patience and skill and practice and years of dedication. My students--for very many of them, it's the same thing. Their craft is more complex and takes more acquired and natural skill than I'll ever be able to appreciate. It's what they want to do; it's what they love. I desperately don't want to sound condescending here; it's hard for me to comprehend the attraction of a passion different from my own, but I'm learning to appreciate their own feelings about their work and, by extension, the true worth of the work itself. I may get frustrated with them for their lack of enthusiasm for what makes my heart flutter and my soul leap, but the least I can do then is have respect for the calling that does the same for them.
It's still hard, nevertheless, to sympathize. I don't share their classes, their cares, their interests, their lifestyle; and this makes it hard(er than normal) to connect with them on a meaningful, personal level.
Part of this is that one facet of myself that is and continues to be a frustration and hindrance to me is my stunted ability to make conversation and, by extension, to get to know people that I want to make friends with. I have a blind terror of intruding on other people's private lives and thereby making myself obnoxious to them. As a result, I generally refuse, out of pure insecurity, to take the risk of seeking out others, and make friends instead with those who choose to come to me. If no one manifests the courage that I so markedly lack, I don't know how to bridge the gap to make a connection with another person.
I've been thinking about this a lot recently, because this painful and humiliating process seems to take, for me, about half a year. It takes me that long to get accustomed to other people, to get to know them a bit and to slowly gather the courage to knock on their door for no other reason than needing someone to talk to. Half a year--sound familiar? That was the duration of my exchange in Germany the first time, and how long the AUAP students stayed at WWU, and how long the Winterschule students stay at the Fachschule before they return to work. This means that consistently, I have gone through the long fight to make myself make friends, only to have them leave just when I finally am getting comfortable with them.
This is ridiculously frustrating, and I wonder sometimes if it's even worth the trouble; but I simply can't just sit in my room and Internet all day. I have to have other real people to talk to, to hear other voices besides my own, to be in proximity to other humans. It's like having a deadly thirst that can only be slaked by drinking molten lava.
This all reminds me of a conversation from, somewhat oddly (although appropriately), Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth Bennett is sitting at the piano and engages in a witty repartee with Mr Darcy on the topic of the reasons behind Mr Darcy's failure to dance with some of the ladies at the last ball:
"I certainly have not the talent which some people possess," said Darcy, "of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done."
"My fingers," said Elizabeth, "do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault--because I will not take the trouble of practicing."
Elizabeth's reproof is the solution to this problem: if you want to get better at something--piano, underwater basketweaving, or making conversation--you have to practice. In other words, there's no way to learn to do it other than doing it. This is exactly the last thing I would want to hear. As I learn the guitar, my fingers are clumsy and uncoordinated, and the strings buzz and twang and make all sorts of awkward noises. It's embarrassing and frustrating and it makes my fingers hurt, but there's simply no other way to learn.
I know this very, very well. I realize it and understand it and comprehend it but still catch myself hoping, at least a few times every day, that somehow I will find an easier way and suddenly I'll go from being quiet and awkward to being eloquent and brilliant and everyone will like me. Not likely...
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Hidden histories
Over the river and through the woods,
It's srsly five below
The wind's blowing strong
But I'm coming along
Because I promised to gooooo...
Over the river and through the woods
The snow is drifting down
My legs have gone numb
And I can't feel my thumb
How I'd love some Glühwein now!
Uh, so, I went on a hike today. Some very kind fellow members of the choir invited Bethany and I to go to celebrate a birthday, but Bethany came home from her skiing trip yesterday with a cold, so I went alone. Yes, it was five below zero, and quite windy, and I had lost feeling in my legs entirely by the time we got to their garden, where we summarily failed to light a fire but did get some nice warm Glühwein. Luckily we managed to see some nice snow-dusted vistas and quiet forests on the way, and I met some very nice people that I will hopefully be able to meet again for more hikes when it's not, y'know, subzero outside.
On the way, it was explained to me (twice) that there are remnants of old medieval towns out in the fields and valleys that for various reasons--bad agricultural results, lack of water, burning and pillaging (I assume)--were abandoned and left to rot. Not all of them are utterly forgotten, but for many of them, only their names remain in old records; their locations and their ruins have been forgotten. Frau Rode, who had invited me to come and whose husband had the birthday, was explaining this to me and mentioned that one of the other hikers who had come always carried something with him to look for the disappeared towns, but I didn't know the word she used. Having spent the last year of my university life with a few geology nerds, I assumed this was one of those magnetic thingies that can tell you what's in the soil, although that didn't sound too portable. I was finally introduced to the man, who was carrying what looked like a ruler with a hinge partway down, a screw in one end and a plastic handle on the other. Seeing my curious look, he explained in English: "Dowsing rod." I smiled and nodded and was luckily too cold to giggle incredulously.
There is no denying that Stadtroda is pretty darn boring. There is simply no community that I can see; there is nothing to do, nowhere to go, after dark and the shops close. But every now and then I find something amazing. Like these disappeared towns that are lying out there, worn away almost to nothing, long-forgotten. Course, that doesn't provide me with anything to do on a quiet Friday night.
Another something awesome: Take a look at this picture of the Fachschule. See the whitish pink building to the left of the main red-tiled structure? That's the addition, with a bunch of offices and classrooms, including the Sprachkabinet (Language Lab) where I spend all my time. It's kind of hideous because it was built during the GDR time, and although the school desperately needed more space, they couldn't get a building permit from the government. So, being practical, no-nonsense Germans, they just shrugged and built it anyway, on their own. They couldn't get the materials they needed to build the thing (it being, as mentioned, the GDR), so they stole them from wherever they found them in the town. To this day, that addition doesn't have the proper permits, but it's a government building now, so I guess they just all decide not to notice. Apparently they're all going to have to move out of the entire complex next year because it's not up to fire code or something, and I know at least one person who believes that the school will "accidentally" burn to the ground and have to be rebuilt. Holy criminy, the Germans are a bit devious, eh? So much for being rule-followers...
Anyway. That's really all for today. It's Sunday night, which means where will be life and sound and movement in the Wohnheim again, which is nice. And Bethany's back! Hooray. Tomorrow I'm starting my kids on telephone conversations...yippee.
Happy Sunday, everyone.
It's srsly five below
The wind's blowing strong
But I'm coming along
Because I promised to gooooo...
Over the river and through the woods
The snow is drifting down
My legs have gone numb
And I can't feel my thumb
How I'd love some Glühwein now!
Uh, so, I went on a hike today. Some very kind fellow members of the choir invited Bethany and I to go to celebrate a birthday, but Bethany came home from her skiing trip yesterday with a cold, so I went alone. Yes, it was five below zero, and quite windy, and I had lost feeling in my legs entirely by the time we got to their garden, where we summarily failed to light a fire but did get some nice warm Glühwein. Luckily we managed to see some nice snow-dusted vistas and quiet forests on the way, and I met some very nice people that I will hopefully be able to meet again for more hikes when it's not, y'know, subzero outside.
On the way, it was explained to me (twice) that there are remnants of old medieval towns out in the fields and valleys that for various reasons--bad agricultural results, lack of water, burning and pillaging (I assume)--were abandoned and left to rot. Not all of them are utterly forgotten, but for many of them, only their names remain in old records; their locations and their ruins have been forgotten. Frau Rode, who had invited me to come and whose husband had the birthday, was explaining this to me and mentioned that one of the other hikers who had come always carried something with him to look for the disappeared towns, but I didn't know the word she used. Having spent the last year of my university life with a few geology nerds, I assumed this was one of those magnetic thingies that can tell you what's in the soil, although that didn't sound too portable. I was finally introduced to the man, who was carrying what looked like a ruler with a hinge partway down, a screw in one end and a plastic handle on the other. Seeing my curious look, he explained in English: "Dowsing rod." I smiled and nodded and was luckily too cold to giggle incredulously.
There is no denying that Stadtroda is pretty darn boring. There is simply no community that I can see; there is nothing to do, nowhere to go, after dark and the shops close. But every now and then I find something amazing. Like these disappeared towns that are lying out there, worn away almost to nothing, long-forgotten. Course, that doesn't provide me with anything to do on a quiet Friday night.
 |
| Pictured: firewood. |
Anyway. That's really all for today. It's Sunday night, which means where will be life and sound and movement in the Wohnheim again, which is nice. And Bethany's back! Hooray. Tomorrow I'm starting my kids on telephone conversations...yippee.
Happy Sunday, everyone.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
The Ongoing Adventures of Amazon's Idiocy (among other things)
Have I done the Kindle rant yet? I'm too lazy to go look so I'll just assume I haven't.
As you probably already know, my mother bought me a Kindle for Christmas, the Internet on which worked for a month and then spontaneously gave up the ghost. The friendly but incompetent customer service lady said the poor thing was defective and sent me a new one, which had the same problem. (The one I sent back still hasn't arrived, as far as I know, so...eeurgh. Damn you, Deutsche Post!) When we called customer service again, another stubbornly incompetent lady told me that the 3G network is only for the Kindle store (and, apparently, Wikipedia, which still works too) but the rest of the Internet browser comes from a different Internet service that doesn't work in Germany.
This is clearly bullshit. I used the Internet easily for a month before it mysteriously cut out. The customer service woman claimed I was using a WiFi internet connection without knowing it, despite the fact that (1) it said "3G" in bold print at the top of the screen and (2) I was using the Internet in places where I know for a fact there is no WiFi connection, thereby implying that I was a technological retard, which I didn't appreciate. Also, if this is true, why does Amazon.de sell a 3G version of their Kindle? Which is the same that you buy from the American site? ARGH.
Anyway. Kindle II worked fine until England, when I charged it overnight and it subsequently refused to turn on. Sure that the damn thing was broken, I was getting all psyched up to call Amazon again, until I charged it again in Germany and now it works fine again. So I didn't get to test the Internet in Britain like I wanted to either.
More recent insanity: I've been using the $100 gift card from my grandparents to buy music and books, so I went on my account to check the remaining balance which was--ready for this?-- $298.58. What. Also, Amazon had mailed me a gift card for $142.04 for no reason as well. Why are they trying to give me money?! In any case, I e-mailed them today and they took away the $400 or so that their madness had credited to me by accident.
I considered not reporting the credit, but I didn't want to have used the money to buy merchandise only to find out that I would have to repay them for it. Also...it's like stealing. So I am now back to my original balance, trying to convince myself that doing what I believe to right makes me feel good when I'm really thinking, "I could buy so much music with $400!" Ah well.
Right, so, other news. This week was hard--in places, miserable; just loneliness and homesickness and angst and other unpleasant things that happen to people who spend far too much time thinking about their lives. Remedies are hard to find because everyone in the building but me has real work to do (studying), so I can't go knocking on doors, and there is literally nothing to do that doesn't involve an hour-long journey to another city. Sure, I can read books or practice guitar or write stories or write e-mails or read webcomics or whatever, but what I really want to do is talk to real people and make friends.
If you're a keen reader of this blog (hah), you will be thinking, "But wasn't Tuesday the day that she was going to have Englischnachhilfe?" Yes, it was, and I did. Now, the worst didn't happen; three people did show up, two of which hadn't told me that they were going to come. But all but one of the people who told me they were going to come, didn't. I shouldn't be too upset about it, since it's not a party that I'm throwing but like a homework thing, but...still, it was frustrating.
That's why Wednesday and Thursday were much better. I'd made cookies for the Nachhilfe, so I took them to people I like in the Wohnheim and bought myself some actual conversation time. Yes, I'm still at the point where I feel like I need to give people stuff to justify me talking to them. Headdesk.
On Thursday, I went to Erfurt to have some pizza with some of the other assistants. I think we need to get together and talk more often, not just for companionship but for the very simple reassurance that we aren't crazy. All four of us talked about the awkwardness of trying to talk to large groups, the embarrassment of not being able to express ourselves, the frustration of struggling to make friends, the loneliness of being an outsider. I can't express the relief I felt at hearing that I wasn't the only one feeling ignored, awkward, and lonesome. We are really going through the same thing, but it seems harder because we're going through it alone.
While still in Erfurt, I got a call from one of my students inviting me to a birthday party at the Wohnheim, which I eventually attended after I staggered back into town. I'm still not sure whose birthday it was, and I'm pretty sure half the people crammed into that tiny dorm room either didn't know or didn't care. At the Wohnheim, "it's Monday" is considered sufficient reason to drink, smoke, and shout into the wee hours of the morning; a birthday is almost overkill. Anyway, I spent some time standing awkwardly by the door, trying to hold conversations with the people around me over the pounding music in German and breathe in the smoke-laden air simultaneously (not easy, I tell you) before I was comfortable enough (and there was enough space) to sit down. I ended up having a very nice conversation with a student--the same who'd called me--who has been consistently friendly, proactive, and generally wonderful, and we discussed me going home to visit her family again and driving a tractor. So it was all okay in the end.
Except that it's not over; life goes on. Friday came around and everybody left, guitar class was canceled, and I found myself with a whole evening with nothing to do, again.
I'm very sorry that you're sitting through all this griping about loneliness, genuinely. I don't like writing about it but I want to remember it because it's an important part of my experience here. I've had so much time to myself to think that my brain has worn tracks in the wilderness, and I always seem to drift down the same well-worn paths that don't lead anywhere. I need input from another mind to wander off in new directions, and I just feel stuck.
So. Life is terrible, and life is wonderful; one day is endless silence and the next day is deafening laughter. I'll probably never get used to it.
As you probably already know, my mother bought me a Kindle for Christmas, the Internet on which worked for a month and then spontaneously gave up the ghost. The friendly but incompetent customer service lady said the poor thing was defective and sent me a new one, which had the same problem. (The one I sent back still hasn't arrived, as far as I know, so...eeurgh. Damn you, Deutsche Post!) When we called customer service again, another stubbornly incompetent lady told me that the 3G network is only for the Kindle store (and, apparently, Wikipedia, which still works too) but the rest of the Internet browser comes from a different Internet service that doesn't work in Germany.
This is clearly bullshit. I used the Internet easily for a month before it mysteriously cut out. The customer service woman claimed I was using a WiFi internet connection without knowing it, despite the fact that (1) it said "3G" in bold print at the top of the screen and (2) I was using the Internet in places where I know for a fact there is no WiFi connection, thereby implying that I was a technological retard, which I didn't appreciate. Also, if this is true, why does Amazon.de sell a 3G version of their Kindle? Which is the same that you buy from the American site? ARGH.
Anyway. Kindle II worked fine until England, when I charged it overnight and it subsequently refused to turn on. Sure that the damn thing was broken, I was getting all psyched up to call Amazon again, until I charged it again in Germany and now it works fine again. So I didn't get to test the Internet in Britain like I wanted to either.
More recent insanity: I've been using the $100 gift card from my grandparents to buy music and books, so I went on my account to check the remaining balance which was--ready for this?-- $298.58. What. Also, Amazon had mailed me a gift card for $142.04 for no reason as well. Why are they trying to give me money?! In any case, I e-mailed them today and they took away the $400 or so that their madness had credited to me by accident.
I considered not reporting the credit, but I didn't want to have used the money to buy merchandise only to find out that I would have to repay them for it. Also...it's like stealing. So I am now back to my original balance, trying to convince myself that doing what I believe to right makes me feel good when I'm really thinking, "I could buy so much music with $400!" Ah well.
Right, so, other news. This week was hard--in places, miserable; just loneliness and homesickness and angst and other unpleasant things that happen to people who spend far too much time thinking about their lives. Remedies are hard to find because everyone in the building but me has real work to do (studying), so I can't go knocking on doors, and there is literally nothing to do that doesn't involve an hour-long journey to another city. Sure, I can read books or practice guitar or write stories or write e-mails or read webcomics or whatever, but what I really want to do is talk to real people and make friends.
If you're a keen reader of this blog (hah), you will be thinking, "But wasn't Tuesday the day that she was going to have Englischnachhilfe?" Yes, it was, and I did. Now, the worst didn't happen; three people did show up, two of which hadn't told me that they were going to come. But all but one of the people who told me they were going to come, didn't. I shouldn't be too upset about it, since it's not a party that I'm throwing but like a homework thing, but...still, it was frustrating.
That's why Wednesday and Thursday were much better. I'd made cookies for the Nachhilfe, so I took them to people I like in the Wohnheim and bought myself some actual conversation time. Yes, I'm still at the point where I feel like I need to give people stuff to justify me talking to them. Headdesk.
On Thursday, I went to Erfurt to have some pizza with some of the other assistants. I think we need to get together and talk more often, not just for companionship but for the very simple reassurance that we aren't crazy. All four of us talked about the awkwardness of trying to talk to large groups, the embarrassment of not being able to express ourselves, the frustration of struggling to make friends, the loneliness of being an outsider. I can't express the relief I felt at hearing that I wasn't the only one feeling ignored, awkward, and lonesome. We are really going through the same thing, but it seems harder because we're going through it alone.
While still in Erfurt, I got a call from one of my students inviting me to a birthday party at the Wohnheim, which I eventually attended after I staggered back into town. I'm still not sure whose birthday it was, and I'm pretty sure half the people crammed into that tiny dorm room either didn't know or didn't care. At the Wohnheim, "it's Monday" is considered sufficient reason to drink, smoke, and shout into the wee hours of the morning; a birthday is almost overkill. Anyway, I spent some time standing awkwardly by the door, trying to hold conversations with the people around me over the pounding music in German and breathe in the smoke-laden air simultaneously (not easy, I tell you) before I was comfortable enough (and there was enough space) to sit down. I ended up having a very nice conversation with a student--the same who'd called me--who has been consistently friendly, proactive, and generally wonderful, and we discussed me going home to visit her family again and driving a tractor. So it was all okay in the end.
Except that it's not over; life goes on. Friday came around and everybody left, guitar class was canceled, and I found myself with a whole evening with nothing to do, again.
I'm very sorry that you're sitting through all this griping about loneliness, genuinely. I don't like writing about it but I want to remember it because it's an important part of my experience here. I've had so much time to myself to think that my brain has worn tracks in the wilderness, and I always seem to drift down the same well-worn paths that don't lead anywhere. I need input from another mind to wander off in new directions, and I just feel stuck.
So. Life is terrible, and life is wonderful; one day is endless silence and the next day is deafening laughter. I'll probably never get used to it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)