Paradise Deutsch

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 17:57:00 +0000

"You should write about Japan."

"I know but I haven't really got time to blog. I've been knitting a lot."

"But your blogging's better than your knitting."

I don't know if I should take Adam's last comment as kind praise of my writing or harsh abuse of my knitting but, either way, I can put it off no longer and what follows are selected highlights of our Japanese jaunt.

It was hot. Not only hot, but humid, the kind of air that puts my hair into a frizz and and that mosquitoes thrive on. Despite being dosed up on antihistamines, the inevitable happened: I was mercilessly bitten and the familiar yellow blisters sprang up with gusto.

Welcome back, friend

There was nothing to be done; it had to be another round of lancing, which, much like the fairy tales where only the princess's true love can awaken her from a hundred-year slumber with a kiss, only my heart's true love could put himself through alleviating my bite situation. But that didn't mean we couldn't have a little fun first.

Leg bite the first

By the time we arrived in Shirahama, a small beach town popular with the natives but little visited by tourists, my right foot, with a fresh, double attack, was in this shape:

We arrived in Shirahama as the main season was ending and the beach, which apparently sees long queues for entry in peak summer, was relatively empty. We headed down to the beach early as I was anxious to secure one of a few thatched umbrella shelters; the sun was fierce and strong, and shade was essential. Fortunately there was still one unoccupied and we laid out towels and books beneath and I dug a hole in the sand in which to hide my offensive foot.

Shirahama's short-lived beach umbrellas

The beach grew steadily busier as the morning wore on. A short while later I made my way along the sand to the bathrooms, sweating and frizzing in the oppressive heat. On the way back, trying not to look down at my foot, where the twin blisters were staring up at me like a pair of bulging yellow eyes, I saw with a sinking heart that four of the most astonishingly gorgeous Japanese girls, all clad in the wispiest hint of swimwear, were playing a lively and squealy game of volleyball not three yards from where Adam was sitting beneath the shelter, mouth agape and eyes on stalks. Great.

I ducked under the shelter, relieved to be back in the cool shade, and sat down heavily on my towel. I looked at the girls and huffed pointedly.

"Well," I said, "This is just great. Isn't it? Why are they standing right there? There's the whole beach! Adam?"

"Hmm?"

"I said, isn't this great?! They're right in our space!"

"I know..."

I shot him a black look.

"I mean, er....I know! Jeez! Ahem. How's the foot?"

We both regarded it.

"It's hideous!" I wailed. "I'm a monster. A sweaty, frizzy-haired monster, and now these four supermodels and their eight prominent breasts have to play a sexy game of volleyball right here! I couldn't feel more ogrely." I sulked.

"Ah come on baby, it's not that bad! Yes, they're gorgeous but..."

"But what?!!"

"But," he hurried on, "Nothing compared to you!"

"Hmph," I said, placated. "Well. They are quite pretty...but a bit shrieky. I suppose they're only young, probably 18 or..."

The volleyball bounced over and hit me in the face. It landed at Adam's feet and two of the lovelies skipped up to retrieve it.

"Sumasen! Sorry", they trilled, smiling shyly at Adam, whilst I scowled and touched my face gingerly, checking for bruises.

"No problem!" called Adam, tossing them the ball, with a saucy wink. They thanked him in their singsong voices and bounded off.

He stared after them for a moment, then glanced over to me.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What?!"

I lay down and closed my eyes. It was cool beneath the umbrella and with the gentle sound of the rolling waves and the seagulls overhead I began to relax and enjoy the beach. I dozed for a while. Adam got up to go for a swim; I watched him disappear down the sand to the sea and then leaned against the trunk of the umbrella and settled down to read my book.

A few moments later a Japanese man appeared next to the umbrella and peered in. He said something in Japanese and looked at me expectantly. I returned his gaze blankly but then it occurred that he might want payment for use of the umbrella. I reached for my bag but when I looked back he'd gone. He returned a moment later, ducking under the umbrella and attaching a thick metal cable to its base. He disappeared yet again and I leaned out in confusion to see what was going on. That was when I saw the crane. Its engine roared and the ground beneath me began to shudder. The umbrella stand shook and sand spilled up around it, as it was hoiked abruptly out of the ground. I sat staring in disbelief but then had to hurry to grab all our belongings that were being scattered by the hastily unearthed umbrella.

In a matter of moments it had been hoisted out of the ground and dumped on the sand, leaving me exposed and unprotected in the intense midday sun. I looked around for some spare shade before I was burnt to a crisp but there was just the wide expanse of white sand. I saw that the umbrella next to ours was also lying on the ground but all of the others remained intact. The two men were now packing up beside me and wandered off, leaving the crane behind. I was utterly bewildered. And hot.

Adam came hurrying up the beach, clutching his sides and roaring with laughter. "What happened?!" he cried, looking down at the now defunct shelter.

"I don't know!" I said crossly, gathering up our things, "I just wanted a nice day at the beach, with some shade and a sea view but no! Four shrieking Venuses and a crane saw to that! I'm going back to the room, I'M GETTING SUNBURNT OUT HERE!" I stomped off up the beach, back towards the ryokan. Adam followed behind, laughing his head off, and picking up the things that were dropping from the heap of belongings I had scooped up and piled in my arms.

Back at the room, I put 100 yen into the coin-operated air conditioner and had a sleep. I woke up an hour or so later to see Adam holding a newly purchased beach umbrella. I gave him my sweetest smile and a kiss on the lips, and we went back to the beach and wiled away the afternoon on the sand, in peace.

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 17:35:00 +0000

For the past two weeks I have been thinking about what to write about Japan. There is simply too much! Perhaps I should start at the end and say that it was the most amazing trip I've ever had. It was hectic and exhausting and at times overwhelming but it was all part of the fun. At least, I can say that now, retrospectively. There were some points, standing in the baking heat with the sun pounding down after having walked solidly for four hours and insisting that we have to stop for lunch right now or I would die, that were hard work but every minute was amazing.

I arrived in Tokyo after an uneventful twelve-hour flight. My careful beforehand seat schemings were hopelessly in vain as I boarded the plane and saw in the seats next to mine the heart-sinking combination of, God help me, a wide-awake fidgety whiney three-year-old and his inattentive mother who already had her nose so far into a magazine that I couldn't see her face. I almost cried. Fortunately there were two empty seats in the row in front and as soon as the seatbelt signs had been turned off after takeoff I leaped into one, reasoning that although I now had a kid behind me at least he wasn't in my personal space and I didn't have to look at him.

Adam was waiting for me as I came out into Arrivals. It was so wonderful to see him after so long that I wanted to run and throw myself into his arms but of course I had a trolley with two suitcases, a coat, a handbag, and a bag of duty-free, not to mention there were five thousand other people with trolleys between the two of us so instead I inched my way forward until finally I reached him and we were reunited. It was heaven.

Tokyo station was incredible and terrifying. It was chaos with signs that pointed to different areas of the chaos. It was spread over several levels, each looking identical, and with hundreds upon hundreds of people rushing through. You could only go into certain parts of the station with the right ticket and if you had the wrong one you might not be able to get out. Fortunately by now Adam knew the station well enough to find our way around with relative ease and whilst he was buying and charging my electronic travel card I stood and gawped at the scene around me. I was in Japan. Japan!

The next two and a half weeks were to be the most exciting and awe-inspiring I have ever been lucky enough to spend in the company of a devilishly handsome and wonderful man and I'm not just saying that because he paid for everything and carried my suitcase around the entire time.

Next week on Paradise Deutsch: where we went, what we saw, what we ate, who got bitten (any guesses?), who got headbutted, who got burnt, and how many rows we had. With pictures!

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 14:28:00 +0000

I'm packing. I've been packing for four days.

The excitement surrounding my two-and-a-half-week trip to Japan has been quickly building over the past few days, aided greatly by the pictures of the ryokan inns we will be staying in and images of great sweeping beaches of white sand, upon which we shall be relaxing and sweating in equal measure.

After I suggested that perhaps Adam's original itinerary, which took in every city in Japan, stopping for a maximum of four hours in each, and includes a visit to his host family, be revised slightly to accommodate those of us in the party who are likely to deliquesce in the heat and whose pace will deteriorate to an exhausted shuffle, I have been receiving email updates on the amendments of the schedule, of which the following is the latest:

"Hi Soph, had a reply from the host family, saying that on the first Saturday you're here they're free - although the mother isn't, only the dad and the kids. And they don't say whether we should stay the night or not. What do you think?

This the plan so far:

Visit host family on the 29th.
Head to Kyoto on 30th.
Nara on 2nd.
Temple place on 3rd.
Shirahama 4th - 6th.
Then Hiroshima.
Then back to Tokyo on 8th.

Things we could change:

1) Go to host family a day later to see the mother too. This means an extra day in Tokyo at start. We could then either lose a Tokyo day at the end, cut out the temple place, or cut out Hiroshima.

2) Cut out the temple place and have an extra day at the beach.

3) Not go to Hiroshima. This gives us an extra beach day and one extra day in Tokyo to visit Nikko (mountain temples, lake, waterfall) or Hakone (hot springs, Onsen, lake).

4) See host family at end instead and shift schedule back by three and a half days, not counting the beach day, and gain a day and a night extra over the second weekend, depending on whether or not we go to Hiroshima.

Thoughts?"

Thoughts? I have no brain left. I don't know where or what Temple place is. In the end I said he clearly knows best when it comes to these things and I'll happily go anywhere as long as he doesn't try to show me the spreadsheet, which has no fewer than 17 columns.

Adam has requested that I take with me to Japan several items of English culture that will form gifts for the friends from his lab and I was issued with the following list, the majority of which, please note, are not easily and cheaply available in Germany:

Bottle of Musty Ferret real ale
Marmite (in a glass jar, not the squeezy type)
Tin of shortbread
Chocolate orange
Bottle of whiskey in a nice box
T-shirt

T-shirt? What size? For whom? Germans do not eat Marmite, shortbread, or chocolate oranges, and they do not drink real ale. However, they do drink whiskey and wear T-shirts, so I was able to obtain these items easily enough (the latter of which, it transpired, is for Adam -it appears he was so ill-packed that, despite having miraculously struggled through the past three months without one, he now desperately needs me to go buy a T-shirt, in a light colour with a V-neck and no writing on the front, and fly it 6000 miles to Tokyo, where he will leave it three weeks hence. And since I'm going shopping anyway could I get sunglasses and a camera case too please).

The other items were assembled through a combination of the outrageously expensive English shop in Heidelberg (7 euros for a chocolate orange? No thanks) and a short trip to the Homeland last weekend. There are going to be some serious foodmiles on that jar of Marmite.

Total carbon footprint? Best not to think about it.

I hate flying. Or more, accurately, I hate every single passenger on the plane when I'm flying. It is for this reason that I spent 40 minutes choosing my seat, wishing to minimise the number of people within earshot and trying to decide if I would be more inconvenienced in terms of toilet access sitting by the window or in the aisle. By the window I am at the mercy of the fellow occupants of my row, which is indeed annoying and inconvenient when I wish to get out. On the other hand, I don't want to be disturbed by their wishing to get out either, and there will be two of them and thus double the likelihood of occurrence, and to spend most of the flight with someone's crotch or buttocks inching past my face. I chose window.

I have not seen Adam in three dimensions for 76 days. There are three left to go.

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 18:35:00 +0000

Last week brought with it the milestone birthday of the quarter century. This was my fourth German birthday and fortunately the only one I have passed at work. A stark lack of holidays and flight money owing to August's upcoming venture to Japan mean that presently I am confined to the Deutschland.

I awoke early to open my cards and presents in the company of Adam, by virtue of miraculous modern technology. He was sitting in his room in Tokyo at 2 pm, I in my pyjamas at 7 am in Germany, connected by webcams and Skype.

I'd had several presents from Adam and mother piled up on the desk in the spare room for a month. Various others had been arriving in the post during the week and it was finally time for the opening ceremony. Unfortunately for Adam, who had but a lunch hour in which to bear witness to the great unwrap, I like to take my time over the cards and gifts and enjoy each to the full - it's only one day a year after all. What it isn't, as Adam revealed in a burst of impatience when it became just too much to stand, is a spectator sport.

"Ok Ad, I think I'll open this card next! I wonder who it's from, let's open it and find out.....ooh this one's from Grandma! It's got a picture of a teddy holding a balloon on the front and it says "Happy Birthday Granddaughter". Can you see? Let me get closer to the camera, hold on. Can you see that? Wait a sec, I'll zoom in."

"Just hurry up."

"And inside it says "Happy birthday, love from Grandma and Grandad." That's nice, isn't it? There's a lovely verse too, shall I read it out?"

"No."

"Ok, next. I think this present is also from Grandma, I can tell from the wrapping. Look how well it's wrapped! Can you see that on your end, is the sellotaping coming through on the webcam?"

"Dear God, please get on with it."

"I need a pair of scissors."

"Soph..."

"Right, here we go, let's see what's inside! Ooh, it's more wrapping paper! Isn't it well wrapped?! Let me show you...."

"Just open it!"

"Here we go, nearly there....it's a scarf! Oh it's lovely, what do you think?"

Thus I went on until all of the cards were opened, read aloud, and positioned on the mantelpiece, and the presents were each unwrapped, gushed over, and neatly stacked on the table.

Let's take a closer look at the state-of-the-art Comfort Summit hiking socks (which I suspect were generously re-wrapped and gifted to me when the giver discovered they were five sizes too small for him).

I'd have previously doubted that the design and functionality of the humble sock could be improved upon but note how much technology has been knitted into this garment: a warmth and cushion rating of four, no less, and constructed not from wool but from heavyweight coolmax wool fusion. The Comfort Summit socks also feature "a soft, slack-knit cuff, a warm, full terry leg, and double density pads underfoot". These are serious socks.

The back of the packet notes that they were previously called "Ascent" but this name must not have been getting the comfort level of this footwear across; also, hikers of a more literal mind may have assumed that these are monodirectional socks and are not suitable for descent. There is no such ambiguity with the newly branded Comfort Summit.

Now all I need is a mountain to climb.

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 19:10:00 +0000

I would just like to say that I do have several very credible excuses for not blogging these past four months but rather than bore you with trivial detail I shall instead update Paradise Deutsch.

So to begin: is four months sufficient a period to master the cello? Alas no. Is it sufficient to discover that your cello teacher is actually an arrogant egotistical mad pervy bastard with short-man syndrome? Indeed yes.

Unfortunately, following my last post things immediately went sour. He took great delight in mixing up anatomical terms when directing me where to hold the instrument. "Oops, did I say breasts? I meant of course chest, it's my English you know." Sure.

Clearly I am far from being an expert on methods of teaching music but there was a lot more walking around the room, "connecting with the music", touching the piano, and imagining the bow as part of my arm than actually playing the cello.

I already regretted signing the six-month contract as it turned out to contain all manner of sneakiness, the main point of which was that he took money from my account and may or may not feel like "teaching". Several times I arrived at my lesson on time only to find him still with another student and I had to wait almost an hour to begin. It was at this point that I knew I should have listened to Erin, who had said "He's a bastard!" almost immediately after meeting him.

In the meantime, however, Erin and I found a new cello teacher. We went to her house in the sticks for a free trial lesson and I learnt more with her in twenty minutes than three months with Niko, despite it being entirely auf Deustch. I could play a song! I walked out with a light heart -even the cello felt less cumbersome - and was so thrilled to have discovered what it feels like to actually play an instrument and not just absorb the essence of the music and breathe in the spirit of the cello that we missed the last bus and the last train home and had to be rescued in the dark and the rain by Denis, who had doubts about the ability to fit two girls and two cellos in his pimped-out Golf and was right.

The only question was how to cunningly extract myself from the remaining three months of my contract with the prima donna. I had made up my mind to complain that in all the lessons I'd had essentially I could still only bow the open string. As it turned out I needn't have worried as when I arrived at my next lesson he was angry with me, for not going to his concert the night previous. He demanded to know what I'd been doing instead. A row ensued and the contract was cancelled. A perfect result.

Thus is the current cello situation.

I have a great many other events of recent months to relate, most notably the departure of my beloved Adam to Tokyo. We are no strangers to the long distance but a 79-day separation is a new test. However, this has allowed for the occasion of my going to Japan for three weeks at the end of the summer, which is sure to be an adventure, the like of which will keep Paradise Deutsch going until Christmas.

Sundry other news items include two new additions to my ever-growing family in the form of babies: one human, a new sibling courtesy of my father and stepmother, due end of September, and one canine, a Norwegian elkhound puppy by the name of Kizzy, belonging to mother and sister; Brid's wedding in Galway, where I spent most of the day trying not to bawl my head off at how beautiful she looked and how much she and Fred clearly adore each other; a much anticipated trip to the Hay Festival, which included a resistant sister as a last-minute addition, and one fabulous evening in Manchester that was as close to going back in time as I am likely to get, as despite already living in the future there is still no commercial time travel available at a reasonable price.

I hope to expand further on the above instances of interest in future posts but forgive me if I become neglectful once again - it really is remarkable how much of my time is taken up just by working, sleeping, thinking about practising the cello, and worrying about going to the dentist.

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 19:38:00 +0000

My new baby

My new baby's disturbingly penguin-esque case

Friday night's musical beginnings were a satisfying if slightly delayed success. It was cold and snowing when I arrived at the practice room a few minutes early and the cello teacher, Niko, whose name I type with crossed fingers that he isn't in the habit of Googling himself, told me that they were a few minutes behind schedule and he hoped I wouldn't mind waiting.

Niko's wife was at the piano and another student cellist accompanied her (on the cello that is, not the piano). As previously noted, the practice room itself is rather bare (when I have established myself in a few lessons' time I'll get a photo), and I found myself perched on a cushion on the floor, alongside a lady named Tanja whom had finished her own lesson and was staying on for the social scene.

There were thus five of us crowded into the tiny room; Tanja and I drank some of the Japanese tea and listened to the piano and cello music, and Niko shouted words of German encouragement amid much emphatic gesturing.

Eventually, when the few minutes had ballooned into more than an hour, I unpacked my own cello and handed it to Niko for approval. He ran the bow over it. His face took on a look of horror and he cried out "Oh no no! This instrument has had already a great adventure, yes?!"

It was apparently horribly out of tune. He sat opposite me on one of the room's two stools, I upgraded to the other, and spent the following ten minutes turning the fine-tune pegs by minute amounts scarcely visible to my keenly watchful eyes.

"We have a saying in German: 'Somebody already died tuning a cello'."

He handed it back to me and took up his own instrument. He drew the bow across the strings and a low, resonating sound filled the room.

"The cello is tuned in fifths," he said. "Fifths are perfect! Fifths are pure! You know what is a fifth?"

I shook my head.

"Ok, let me put it this way. If it was tuned in thirds, it could be like this."

He grinned hugely, the corners of his mouth reaching up past his ears, and screwed his eyes up tight. He bowed the G string, giving a long, drawn-out note.

"It could have a very smiley sound, like that! Or," he said, in an instant melancholy, with his bottom lip stuck out, "It could have a very sad sound........"

He bowed the G string again, giving out, to my ears, an identical long, drawn-out note.

He looked up. "Still a third."

Most of the remaining lesson was spent with me bowing the open G string whilst he played along with wonderful, effortless music. Though all I was doing was drawing my bow back and forth across the G string and trying to remember to relax my wrist and my shoulder and to move my body in the opposite direction to the bow, it felt rather good to have some small part in creating beautiful sounds in a tiny room in Heidelberg whilst the snow fell outside.

He talked whilst he played, imparting insightful advice and telling me of his student days, at the same time reminding me to relax and move ("don't forget your body").

He told me that he had been taught to play by a very severe cellist. "I think it was because he had a bad childhood. The kind with only bread and water. And punishment."

He also said, as my bow slipped off the end of the string with a horrible clang that grated the nerves, "You should know, noise is the brother of great sound."

Just before nine I packed up and headed out into the snow, trying to avoid banging the neck of the cello case on the roof as I boarded the tram.

I think I shall like learning to play but the trek up to Heidelberg every week carrying one and half thousand euros of cello with me is an inconvenience I would have preferred to be without.

Champagne, Subway, and a String Quartet

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 18:10:00 +0000

...but not necessarily in that order. During my weeks absent from Paradise Deutsch I have been attending my German language class twice a week, sitting in a class of immigrants whose common language is the mime and feeling right at home as one of them.

I have also taken up the cello. I am not, nor have I ever been, musically inclined but I suddenly took it upon myself to learn an instrument, of which the cello has always held a sophisticated, elegant attraction. Within an hour of taking the notion I had secured private tuition with a cellist in Heidelberg and the following Saturday I took the train to a small town outside Heidelberg to visit a cello maker, whereupon I hired a cello, including all the necessary accessories, for the very reasonable monthly price of €30.

This is what the inside of a cello-maker's house looks like

The cello teacher, who is German and has a Japanese wife who plays the piano, is not as severe or bald as his photograph on the website would have you believe. I went to meet him before deciding whether or not to sign up to his course of lessons (though to be honest, the choice of English-speaking cello teachers in the Rhein Neckar delta is not vast). He has a small practice room a few minutes' walk from the main sqaure in Heidelberg. The room has bare walls and contains only two stools, a kettle, and a grand piano.

After introductions and explanations as to why I wished to learn the cello in particular, he asked if I wanted to hear him play. The music that he effortlessly picked out almost broke my heart with its grace and beauty. I took a gulp of the lukewarm Japanese tea I'd been given by his wife and swallowed a jaffa cake so as not to burst into huge sobs of grief and longing - for quite what I'm not sure.

He handed me the cello. "Now you try". He showed me the correct way to hold the instrument.

"Hug him! Hold him like you give him a cuddle, yes?!"

I hugged the cello.

"Right, now you are holding him the right way. Now move the bow from left to right. Move it gently."

The sound that issued forth was somewhere between a foghorn and a choked cat. But it felt good. He was full of flamboyant gestures and big grins and wandered around the tiny room waving his arms and waxing poetic about the beauty of the cello.

I asked, somewhat doubtfully, if he would be teaching from a book.

"A book, ha! I am the book! We don't need a book. I could have written ten books if I had wanted!"

My lessons are to be once a week, beginning tomorrow evening.

To return to the title of this post, Thursday evening brought the lovely Adam over from England; we passed an idyllic weekend (with only one cross word exchanged when he hung his wet towel to dry on my cello) that left me feeling blissfully happy that I am so lucky to be able to spend an idyllic weekend with the man I love, and yet miserably depressed because I wish every weekend were like that rather than the reality of spending most of them in my pyjamas eating dry cereal from the box and listening to Radio 4 on the internet.

Saturday was Valentine's Day and in a infinite improvement upon last year's, we began the evening with dinner and champagne and then went to see a string quartet play in the town hall. We were the youngest people there by forty years. Nevertheless, the music was wonderful and afterwards we walked out into the snow feeling both very uplifted and very hungry.

This is when we stopped into Subway to share a 30-cm chicken-with-everything sandwich, bringing our sophisticated, classy evening down a notch but it tasted pretty good.

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 18:39:00 +0000

I have been back in the foreign for less than a week and the return to work, in combination with the brisk outside temperature and daily there-and-back soggy tramp through six inches of grey slush due to the bike's being frozen stiff to the Hoff's kitchen wall, has made for a bleak commence of the new year.

However, a new year is an opportunity for a new start and in the spirit of such I have signed up to a German language course at the institute in Mannheim, beginning on Monday. I have committed myself for the next ten weeks for two hours a night twice weekly to the cultural endeavour of immersing myself in the mother tongue of my host country. A bold move but after two and half years of Deutsche living and no imminent prospect of escape it can surely only serve as a productive diversion during the dreary winter months ahead.

An unexpected positive that has come from the arrival of Germany's coldest winter in twenty years is that my flat seems to be slightly warmer; this could of course simply be because it is far colder outside than ever before but whilst I am enjoying being down to only three layers in bed and finding just the two hot-water bottles to be sufficient, I'm not going to question it.

I had planned to detail the events of my three-week holiday in England but the fingerless gloves make typing wearyingly cumbersome so for now I shall say good evening, or Guten Abend, as I will no doubt be in the habit of saying ten weeks hence.

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Sat, 15 Nov 2008 18:31:00 +0000

It's been a busy month with visits from Amelia, Mum and sister, and Adam in quick succession, and a trip to the Homeland, which has left me little time to blog, or knit, which were intended to be my chief winter pastimes.

Before my weekend visit to England, I was dismayed to find that my decrepit, cripplingly old toploading washing machine was once again broken.

"This time it cannot be fixed," said the Hoff. "Es ist kaputt, finished".

I wasn't sure I believed her because she hadn't actually had anyone in to look at it and this was her personal verdict. She left a note reminding me yet again that the washing machine does not belong to the flat; it is my responsibility to repair or replace.

The Lavamat 240, circa 1972.

Being escorted from the building.

The space available for the washing machine is in the bathroom and is 45 cm wide. Trying to find a new machine to fit into this narrow gap was not going to be easy, particularly when I was reluctant to spend more than 100 euros. It would surely have to be another toploader. I turned to eBay.

There was one machine being auctioned, located in Karlsruhe, about an hour's drive away. It looked fine, was the right size, and a reasonable price. I put in a bid and waited. Some days later, the auction mysteriously ended early. By this time I was thoroughly fed up of handwashing and had resorted to digging clothes out of the charity bag so I was unwilling to give up when I'd found what I needed.

I emailed the seller, who I was disconcerted to find was called, I kid you not, Trusty Dirk. I don't know about you but I have reservations about buying domestic electrical appliances over the internet from a man named Trusty Dirk. However, these were desperate times. I asked why the auction ended - he replied to say that he'd been offered 25 euros to sell the machine immediately.

What's a good trade name that'll show customers I'm honest and reliable?

I emailed back and offered 50. My limit for the auction would have been 100 so I considered this a bargain. In another suspicious twist, Trusty Dirk, who I was beginning to suspect was less than completely trustworthy, replied to say that ok, we had a deal but I need to hurry because there's a lot of interest. I doubted that but wasn't in a position to argue. He asked me to call him to arrange collection.

Later that evening I hesitantly dialed the number and waited. A male voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Hi, is that, er, Trusty Dirk?"

"Look, if you're the one calling about the fertiliser you can forget it ok, I'm hanging up!"

"No, no!" I managed to cry, "I'm calling about the washing machine, I emailed you earlier?"

There was a pause.

"Are you the one that's going to pay 50 euros?"

"Yes."

"Good. You can pick it up Saturday morning. You just need to bring 50 euros cash."

"Erm, ok."

He gave me his address and hung up. I had a bad feeling about the whole thing.

I drove to Karlsruhe with Tim. Shortly before we arrived I had a text from Trusty Dirk, asking if I was coming alone.

"NO", I texted back. "I am with ten male friends, eight of whom are policemen and the other two are in the army."

Disappointingly, or not, depending how you look at it, Trusty Dirk turned out to be a skinny ginger economics student at the University of Karlsruhe - even more disappointing, for Tim at least, was that he lived on the fifth floor of the building. Happily though we were soon on our way back with a new old toploading washing machine that is at least twice the height of the old one but fortunately the same width.

I have so far used it twice; it seems to only respond to the D program ("Buntwashe") and it periodically makes alarming clanging noises but it works and the spin is quiet. I try not to touch it if possible.

The newly ensconced Washmaschin; not the most aesthetically pleasing appliance but for 50 euros I can live with it.

As to what happened to the old one I cannot honestly say. Guido hauled it down the stairs and put it out on the street. Twenty minutes later it was gone. As Adam observed, in Germany even the scroungers are efficient.

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 18:40:00 +0000

It is the middle of October and time to begin the winter knitting. The most ambitious items I've created so far are hats and mittens. I've decided to expand my range and knit a Christmas jumper. Sleeveless, to begin with. Nothing too complicated.

Whilst incapacitated with the overzealous allergic reaction I practiced the shaping and pattern of a Christmas jumper. I found a reindeer pattern online and knit it into a green-and-white trial run.

I made two enormous errors. Firstly, I misread the chart and only knit the legs on the knit row rather than both knit and purl rows so they came out rather thin and spindly. Having realised my mistake but unwilling to rip the legs out I then moved onto the body. This time I was careful to include the pattern on the purl row but now I erroneously doubled every line of the pattern.

So, rather than elegant reindeer leaping gracefully across the jumper, I got something more akin to llamas. Robot llamas.

Spindly legged robot llamas: not a good look.

I frogged it all out and started again. Fortunately, I got reindeer the second time round and so I began the Christmas jumper proper.

I've been threatening to present Adam with an outrageous hand-knitted garment for some time. He has solemnly promised to wear it on Christmas Day but severely doubts that he'll ever be persuaded to don it on any other occasion (fancy dress does not count).

I started it last weekend and have knitted all the way to where I'll begin the armhole shaping. I added in a row of snowflakes for extra naffness. I've taken it off the needles now as I'm taking it with me to England at the weekend and I need to measure him before I continue. In the meantime I've started on the back.

Essential German Vocab for Knitters

Knitting needles: stricknadeln
Circular knitting needles: rundstricknadeln
Wool: wolle

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Sun, 05 Oct 2008 16:25:00 +0000

A webcam, I thought. Why haven't I got one? I'm an expat, I have the internet, and I have people to see back home. All living-abroad types have webcams.

I went to a digital-things shop and and bought the first I found that was under 20 euros and said Vista on the box. Upon opening, I was shocked to find that it looks disconcertingly like an eye. A wild, manic eyeball that is staring, threatening, and thinking dark thoughts. It's the PC equivalent of Edvard Munch's The Scream.

Tell me I'm imagining it?

Trying not to look at it, I plugged it in; nothing happened but I loaded up MSN Messenger nonetheless and called Mum into a conversation.

"I've got my webcam," I typed.

"Ooh good," she replied.

"Can you see me then?" I asked, waving at the Eye. It stared unblinkingly back.

"No," she typed. "Can you see me?"

"No. But you haven't got a webcam have you, Mum?"

A pause. Then "No."

Clearly something had gone wrong.

"Have you taken the lens cap off?" asked Mum, helpfully.

"I don't think it's got one," I said, picking it up to make sure.

After lengthy investigation of all the buttons on the Messenger toolbar I gave up. When it comes to computers, if the instructions suggest anything more than Take Out Of Box, Plug In, Click Go I instantly despair.

I may make a brave attempt and wade part way through the "Wizard" ("Bastard" would surely be more apt), convinced I'm being tricked, frustration steaming out of my nostrils and fogging up the screen, before picking up the whole lot and dumping it in the cupboard under the stairs and refusing to look at it for a week.

With much concentration and three glasses of white wine I eventually got it working and can now have successful jerky robotic video links with Adam. The rest of the time I keep it covered with a tea towel and turn it to face the wall. I don't like the way it watches.

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Fri, 03 Oct 2008 15:03:00 +0000

It's back. Not three months after the last attack I am once again host to an overly theatrical allergic reaction to an insect bite.

On Monday night as I lay in bed I heard the unmistakable high-pitched shriek of a mosquito fly past my ear. Furious, and half asleep, I struck out in the direction of sound and pounded myself about the ears several times before settling back down to sleep, the ache in the side of my face assurance that I must have got him.

The next morning, however, I spotted him languishing on the wall, too gorged and heavy to fly away. I picked up a slipper, which has seen a heavy death toll this summer, and splatted the greedy monster all the way back to its maker. It's October, for goodness sake. Where did it come from?

By Tuesday afternoon itchy bite marks had appeared on the side of my face and on my nose (nose!) and by Wednesday morning I was back in yellow-blister territory. I won't go into further detail but so horrified was I at my own reflection in the mirror that I called in sick at work and crawled back into bed to swear out loud and try not to touch my face.

I spent the following two days housebound, listening to the radio, reading, staying in bed, and periodically looking at my nose in the mirror for prolonged periods. In the evening my sister called and demanded a look over the webcam and had such sympathetic words as "Eerrghhh! That's disgusting! Do you feel like a witch woman?!"

As I swallowed another antihistamine, feeling as attractive as the Elephant Man on a bad-hair day, I thanked God that the love of my life, who is the most handsome and good-looking man I have ever been lucky enough to share a sauna with and has never looked less than completely gorgeous apart from once when he had his hair cut really short, is doing an Outdoor Thing with his friend Ridders in the Dolomites and isn't witness to my facial plague. Small mercies.

I told him over the phone.

"Oh God, again?! Jesus! Ridders, listen to this!"

"I'm glad you're not here to see it."

"You'll have to take a photo for me, I can't miss this!"

"No way! It's horrible. It's on my face. It'll turn you off me sexually."

"Of course it won't! Please. For me."

He absolutely insisted. I think he's starting a collection.

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Mon, 01 Sep 2008 18:55:00 +0000

"Arghh! Where are you?!"

"I'm at the meeting place, at the escalators, like we arranged. Where are you?"

"I don't know!"

"Are you in the station?"

"Yes! I can see a Burger King."

"Ok, wait there, I'll come find you. See you in two minutes."

I don't know why Mum and I had bothered to arrange a meeting point the night before as I knew that as soon as she arrived at Piccadilly Station she would get into a panic and phone me. I spotted her looking anxiously around and glancing at her watch. When she caught sight of me she gave an excited wave and hurried over to pull me into a hug.

"Hi! Ooh I'm excited!" she said. "What platform is it? Have you got the tickets?"

We were going to the Edinburgh Book Festival and were rather excited, in a geeky, bookish sort of way. We made our way over to platform 13, which was a long walk because, as Bill Bryson mentions in Notes from a Small Island (unnecessary and pretentious quotation of the modern authors is all the rage at these things), it is actually in another county, and boarded the overcrowded train to Edinburgh.

"Did you bring the picnic?" I asked Mum once we'd found our seats, which thankfully weren't in the same carriage as the hen party.

"I did," she said, pulling out two bananas, a Capri Sun carton drink, and a packet of cigarettes. "Can't smoke these in here though, have to wait till we get there. God, I haven't been on a train in years!"

The delicious and nutritious picnic that was to sustain us throughout the four-hour journey.

Edinburgh was wet and grey when we arrived but there was something in the damp air that said the city was excited; the Book Festival was confined to one site in Charlotte Square but the Fringe had spread itself out in every direction.

We trundled through the rain to the B&B, which had this lounge

and these books.

I would have been happy to spend the evening ensconced in one of the luxuriously deep and squishy couches nosing through the encylopaedias and wishing I lived here but instead we headed straight out to the festival.

Mum and I have been to a few book festivals together and one striking point of note is that there's always a lot of very posh people with their very posh, overly privileged offspring.

"Mummy, may I go to the Freedom-of-Expression-Through-Interpretive-Dance and Young-Pampered-Poets' Workshop? Oh please, Mummy!"

"Not right now, Timothy darling, come and finish your brie-and-seedless-grape wheat-free organic pannini whilst Papa and I sip this carafe of '87 Chateau d'Yquem before the afternoon readings."

It rather gets up the nose after a while and it is grating to see these self-important upperclass types swanning about, their well-behaved and good-looking infants dressed in Baby Oshkosh fairtrade cotton being carried behind by their eastern-European nanny.

I was standing in the queue in the cafe (called "The Cafe", which was next to "The Bookshop"; not very inspiring considering these are meant to be the literati) listening to a man with an Eton accent explaining to his sympathetic friend why he's glad that this festival isn't any bigger as he just can't bear the crowds; "I mean, the carnival in Brazil just isn't the same any more, it's absolutely overrun, it really is. I used to go every year but I just don't anymore because I can't cope, I absolutely can't cope. It's just too much."

His friend nodded along in agreement whilst I thought about stabbing the Eton chappie in the eye with an environmentally friendly wooden cake fork to see if he could cope with that.

Around the festival site were several pieces of large art, which I didn't really understand, even after reading the label.

Is what?

Wonky Shed: A post-modern, pseudo-idealistic socio-politico contemporary figurative juxtaposed representative metaphorical expression of the degradation of the gardening classes.

.
And these bins, which were a bit German.

The main reason we were at this festival was to see Terry Pratchett, of whom Mum is an especially big fan and owns at least two copies of all his books. Two years ago we were at the Hay Festival in Wales; we were about to go into a talk by Margaret Atwood when we spotted a miniscule sign that announced in very small writing "Today, Extra Event: Terry Pratchett".

Apparently they do not usually put him in the programme as it otherwise turns into a Pratchett Festival but if he turns up they'll squeeze him in. We therefore immediately turned around and hurried back to the box office where we, sorry Margaret, exchanged our tickets and spent the rest of the day feeling particularly chuffed.

My lovely mama, waiting to see Terry (I can call him Terry, I've met him twice).

This time he talked about his forthcoming book, Nation, and was generally entertaining and witty, and a bit pervy, and gave a lively and interesting talk. It was, however, rather marred by the fact that I couldn't take my eyes off the bloke chairing the session, for he absolutely could not sit still. He was a nervous wreck and was constantly touching his hair, scratching his head, crossing and uncrossing his legs, adjusting his collar, sitting up in his chair, rubbing his arm, checking his watch, wringing his hands, and generally displaying an unceasing array of agitated movement for the entire hour. Terry Pratchett didn't seem to notice.

Afterwards he did a signing session in The Cafe. Our usual technique at book signings is to go last, which allows for a bit more conversation with the author as there is no impatient huffing and puffing issuing from the queue behind.

However, in this particular case there were two million people in the queue and we had to catch our train back to Manchester in four hours so we joined the masses.

We got progressively excited as we neared the front and eventually it was our turn to step up to the table. He looked up with a friendly smile.

"Ah. Hello!" we said.

"Hello!" he replied. "Oh! Are you the lady with the black boots?" he asked, turning to me.

Oh my god, I thought. He remembers me! He remembers me from the book signing in Hay!

"Yes!" I cried, looking excitedly at Mum and then down at my boots, only narrowly resisting the urge to hoist one leg up on to the desk to present the evidence. "Yes, I am! That's me!"

"Ah good. I picked you out as a marker in the queue; I'm just seeing how long it's taking people to get round." He took our books, signed them, and handed them back with another smile.

We made our way outside and wiled away the rest of the afternoon discussing what a thoroughly nice chap he is and wondering who'll be at the Hay Festival in May.

We were on our way out and had just about made it to the exit when, I couldn't help it, I rushed back to The Bookshop and bought twelve books. They were a bugger to drag back to Deutschland the following day but surely worth it.

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 17:43:00 +0000

I’ve been back from Konstanz for two weeks and it hasn’t stopped raining. This hasn’t helped my bout of post-holiday blues, which came on during the train journey home. I thought about how much fun it’d been, which cheered me up, but then I remembered that it was over and that depressed me again.

I tried not to think too much and instead read my book for four hours straight, which made my head ache and my eyes blurry but at least it gave me something to think about other than the fact that I was no longer on holiday and my friends and boyfriend had all left the country that morning.

I had arrived in Konstanz about twenty minutes after everyone else. Adam met me on the platform and we walked out of the station and crossed the road to a café, where everyone else was sitting outside sipping the first beers of the trip. After exchanging details of each other’s journeys and Adam explaining that he’d been ripped off twice in Zurich (couldn’t use his German rail card to pay for the train ticket to Konstanz and they gave him his change in Swiss francs) we made our way over to the apartment on Münsterplatz.

They say you learn a lot about a person when you go on holiday with them. It was on holiday that I learned that Cassie can’t be expected to drink two bottles of wine and then go on a camel ride without being ill, and that she prefers to not have her veganism questioned when at a Chinese restaurant she is trying to explain in English to a seventeen-year-old Chinese Spanish waiter that what she wants, instead of anything on the menu, is a vegetable dish of her own design composed of an amalgamation of all the vegan elements of the items on the specials page.

Things I learned on holiday in Konstanz:

Aneesh has a summer look.

Modelling the winter 07 and summer 08 collections.

and is worried about the notorious German towel thieves (Deutsche Handtuchdiebe).

You can't be too careful.

Jenko is, as we suspected, a perv.

Helen is the boss of Johnny.

Johnny did enjoy watching the Südwest Philharmonik’s last performance of the season out by the lake whilst eating croissants, sipping champagne, and paddling in the water, but he wouldn’t want to do it two days in a row. Things would be different if this was Boys on Tour, which, as Helen and I reminded him, it wasn’t.

Adam is…I don’t want to say “a slob”….Adam is untidy.

We shared a room for a week.

I am tasty. Having barely recovered from the recent foot incident, I was dismayed to find that by the second night word had got round and several vampire insects had visited (and brought straws), leaving me with swollen patches of oversized bites anew.

Nice.

Monday morning saw me banging irritably on the door of the chemist, swallowing half a packet of antihistamines and sellotaping the rest to the window as a warning to the mosquity bastards.

Stew feels alive on a bike.

Like every other holidaymaker in Konstanz, we had the idea to hire bikes. However, it soon transpired that only Adam, Stew, and I had been on a bike in the last ten years and no-one else wanted to go.

As this was a holiday, and not the Tour de France, I was looking forward to a bit of a tootle round the lake, perhaps wearing a floaty cotton frock and perching side saddle on a bike with a basket, stopping every now and then to sit on a bench and gaze elegantly out over the tranquil waters, remarking to Adam that this is quite the pleasant town, what?

We needed a route. We were in tourist info, looking at maps. Or, more accurately, Adam and Stew were looking at maps -I was sitting on a chair fanning myself with a leaflet about ferry companies and looking at a tank of tropical fish.

“Where shall we go then?” I eventually asked.

“We thought we’d go to this island,” said Adam, pointing at the map. “It’s got a castle.”

Oh good. Another castle.

“How far is it?”

“Not far.” Over the years I have learned that Adam’s idea of not far differs greatly from mine by several orders of magnitude.

“How far?”

“15 k.”

“There and back? I can’t ride 30 kilometres in a day! It’s 30 degrees outside. And it’ll be further than you think. Are you sure we can get to it?” I said, peering over at the map.

“Of course!” cried Stew. “It’s not that far, we can easily do it in a day if we set off soon and go at a fair pace.”

This is the trouble with boys. They want to “do” things. They had hardly been out of the water since we’d arrived. I’d dangled my feet in over the side of a pedalo and was more than content, as was Helen, who had briefly considered going in but decided against it as she’d just put sun cream on.

They're a bit short, Stew.

In the end, caving to weighty peer pressure, I did dip myself in for a few minutes so that in years to come I can say that the majority of me has been in the Bodensee.

However, I soon regretted the decision as I began to foresee a problem with getting back into the pedalo. I won’t go into detail besides saying that it was a rather undignified moment involving Adam hauling me up me under the arms and Jenko steadying the boat from the other side. I seemed to have taken on the grace and dimensions of a very pregnant elephant and have since tried to erase the incident from memory.

A pedalo not unlike the one the I struggled to reoccupy.

I’d thus had quite enough of “doing” and was planning on spending the rest of the day lying in the shade wearing a big hat, drinking warm beer, and trying to not get sweat on my book. I certainly didn’t want to do anything at a “fair pace”.

In the end a compromise was agreed; Stew departed for the island and Adam and I set off along the lake. We didn’t tootle but neither was it a time trial. Bench rests were less frequent than I would have liked and I spent most of the afternoon trying to make out Adam as a distant blot on the horizon but it was very pleasant and energizing, if a little hot in the midday sun.

We retuned to the apartment at lunchtime to find Jenko asleep in the lounge and Aneesh watching CNN. Apparently Stew had been back earlier. He’d followed the route to the island but come to a point where he could either go across the Swiss border or go on the motorway so he’d turned around. He’d now gone to buy a hat.

One evening we came across a wine and food festival and spent the rest of the night being jolly in the German way, which involves sitting on long wooden benches in a tent, swigging beer from large, heavy-bottomed glasses, and wondering exactly how many sausages is an indecent number to consume in one go.

Lovely German dead thing on a spit.

On the way back we saw this Leeds sign in a shop window, which we were all very excited about and was very fitting as we all met at Leeds University six years ago.

In a result that is quite the reverse of what I'd have predicted at the outset, I would love to go on holiday with everyone again (even Jenko) and I am in no way glad to be back.

Luckily the next trip is never very far off, which is possibly the reason I have managed to save not a euro in the entire two years of earning a living.

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 15:24:00 +0000

Tomorrow morning I'm taking an early train to Konstanz in the south east of Germany, where I will meet Adam, Johnny, Helen, Stew, Jenko, and Aneesh for our jollies. I am almost packed and have narrowed it down to these three pairs of shoes:

They will almost certainly appear identical to the untrained eyes of a colour-blind boyfriend but they are each subtly different enough such that I can sacrifice none. I am thinking of adding in a cream pair but it depends on space, which is already at a minimum.

See you in a week Paradise Deutsch, when I shall return with tales of raucous adventure, cultural life experiences, drunken commaraderie, Stew's irrepressable enthusiasm, and Jenko's unavoidable vegetarianism.

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 18:18:00 +0000

During the below-mentioned pampering at a hotel in Bad Durkheim, I had the misfortune to be bitten by a viscious mosquito from the Devil's own backyard.

If I am outdoors in clement weather for a duration for more than five or so minutes I invariably meet with such an event; it was therefore of no great surprise to awaken the following morning with no less than five itchy red bite marks, one of which was on my right foot.

As usual I cursed the little insectoid bastards that had taken the liberty of having a bite out of me, but thought little more of it. It was only after Adam and I had deplaned at Birmingham airport that evening, on route to his mother's 50th birthday party, that the itching on my right foot began to drive me nuts.

I was standing in the customs queue hopping from foot to another, scratching my arms, and neck, and whispering to Adam about how awful it all was, and, I imagine, generally displaying all the signs of a Suspicious Person.

However, I soon discovered that my behaviour was well founded on the fact that the bite on my foot had swollen such that the itchy redness had extended well beyond the radius of the bite and that my foot was twice its normal size. Not good. Not diastrous either though as it's happened before - I whacked on a blob of antihistamine cream and went to sleep.

The next morning I felt as Jack must have felt when he awoke to find his seeds were now a giant beanstalk. Whereas the night before there had been an itchy red mark there was now a yellow (yellow!) blister the size of a marble sitting boldly in place. Oh God.

Actual size.

After lengthy consultations with the household Adam and I were dropped at Warick General Hospital's A&E, where, including me, there were exactly three people to be seen but the wait time said 90 minutes. I wished I was back in Germany. Yes you pay 300 euros a month health insurance but at least you're seen on the same day.

There wasn't much else to do in A&E other than photograph It.

I would have been horrified by the appearance of this monstrosity on my body if I hadn't seen it before: please refer to "My first trip to casualty was in Rome, aged 18". Note the description: "...the bites began to swell into yellow marble-sized blisters".

Thus it wasn't a complete shock to me but everyone else was simultaneously fascinated and disgusted, including the doctor, who agreed that it was indeed quite horrid.

He gave me some antihistamines and antibiotics and I hobbled out the door. By the evening, and the birthday party, it had grown to twice its size (and was now being referred to as The Boil) and provided much entertainment for the guests. We all agreed it would be dangerous to board a plane with such a pressurised body part and so the next day Adam bravely volunteered to do the deed.

We sat in the bath, my foot resting on his lap. Using a needle sterilsed via the well-known medical practice of boiling it in a pan, I covered my eyes and he drained ("burst" is so much more gruesome) the unsightly blighter. That, in my book, is true love.

These pictures were taken two days later; my foot was still swollen and red but the blister had gone. It tried to reform but I kept it at bay with a plaster.

This picture was taken five minutes ago. It's now three weeks since I was bitten but the mark will persist for weeks to come.

On Saturday I am going on holiday and will have to keep it covered for the duration so as not to frighten the locals. I have sworn no mercy if anything, insectoid or otherwise, tries to bite me. This is war.

The Big Two Four

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 17:41:00 +0000

Last week was my 24th birthday and the third I have spent in Germany.

Adam flew to Germany and I went to meet him at the train station. He said he was arriving at 2.15 so I arrived in plenty of time to reapply lipstick and to practice a suitably alluring greeting.

Not wanting to be spotted before I’d achieved the desired level of poise I snuck by the main entrance and took the left stairs down to the lower level of the station. I checked the timetable to see which platform his train would arrive at and thus which direction he would be coming from. I walked along to the right and came up the escalator at the opposite side of the station. I headed back out towards the main entrance and saw Adam standing outside, holding what looked like a huge cushion.

He was in fact holding flowers that he had purchased a few minutes earlier and that, to his dismay, the florist had completely sealed in a paper bag such that none were visible. He said he’d arrived fifteen minutes ago and snuck across the entrance and down the right-hand stairs, bought the flowers, and come up the left stairs. I smiled to myself.

A pile of pressies, which contained nine books, a handbag, a cardigan, a purse, a box of chocolates, make-up, and an invitation to pampering in a hotel.

First edition! And it's signed! This calls for a "WHOOP!"

Mum bought me a signed first edition of Connie Willis’s To Say Nothing of the Dog, which occupies the number one slot in my Top 5 (of which, until recently, there were only three, the logic of which makes perfect sense to me but sent every man I know into a fit).

Other books in my Top 5 are Joseph Heller’s Catch 22 and works by Douglas Adams, both of which appeared in the birthday books. Catch 22 is auf Deutsch, a gift from Zoran and Janine. I think it fitting that I read at least one book in German whilst I live here. It will be slow going, with some heavy dictionary intervention, but I will take it a bit at a time. I have so far read (and successfully understand) the first line.

Adam absolutely outdid himself on the present front with, happily, not a practical joke in sight. Perhaps it was last year’s leftover guilt or last week’s severe warning that prevented a similar event but later that day I found myself lying by the pool of a five-star hotel in the nearby spa town of Bad Durkheim (nicer than it sounds). The weather was glorious – hot, sunny, and perfect for thinking how good life is when you're lying next to your boyfriend on a beach towel on a Wednesday afternoon.

We had dinner in this wine-barrel-shaped restaurant, which served delicious and pleasingly large usual-German-type food.

Usual German-type food

The following morning we went to the thermal baths; we changed into swimwear and walked down towards the pool, where we were confronted by a hundred old people being led in a rather lacklustre aqua aerobics session by an even older person. Not ideal for a saucy birthday weekend away but nevertheless Adam and I managed to unwind in the jacuzzi, where the density of pensioners was somewhat lower, though unfortunately not the preferred zero.

In summary it was a fabulous birthday that I managed to extend over a period of about a week. I'm already looking forward to the next one although if it turns out to be German Birthday 4 I will have to have a serious rethink!

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 19:13:00 +0000

No excuses, I’m a bad blogger. I think it’s the weather; it’s hot in Deutschland.

Tomorrow night Germany are playing Turkey in the semifinal of Euro 2008. I decided a while ago that, much to the horror of many back home, in particular my dad, in the absence of England I would throw my wholehearted support behind the German national team.

Last week we watched Germany against Austria in an underground stone room at the Hausbrauerei (that’s where we were, not the game), which looked something like this:

It was a long thin room with the big screen at the far end, behind which was a huge silk flag. The walls and tables were decorated with red, black, and yellow, and patriotism was rife. Germany had to win to stay in and it was just about sweaty and airless enough down there to make a rather dull game quite tense.

Having made it through the group stages, we went to watch Germany’s quarter final match at the Schlosshof (nicer than it sounds) in town. This is a gated, open-air area of the park and there was a big screen and a bar; it was crowded. In a good way.

This was my view for most of the game. I heard and felt all of Germany’s goals—every time beer splashed in my face and my toes were jumped on I knew they had scored---but I had to watch them on the news the following morning as my vantage point offered almost nothing in terms of live viewing.

I wore my half-England half-Germany scarf that I got at Wembley last year with the England half subtely covered until everyone was too drunk and too busy celebrating the 3-2 win over Portugal to notice. It looked to be close; Portugal fought hard to find the third goal and Denis nearly had a fit when four minutes of extra time were added but fortunately it wasn't enough.

It was a very different, and more enjoyable, experience to watching England play. I didn't spend the entire first half watching through my fingers and the second half worrying about penalties.

Sadly for Guido, who until Saturday had the air of superiority wafting around him after Holland's performance in the group stages of the tournament and would take it upon himself to dispense patronising advice and snide comments to those of us whose teams didn't qualify this time, Holland crashed out of the Euros at the weekend.

We watched the game at Zoran's house, where Guido spent much of the evening quite literally on the edge of his seat, muttering to himself and suggesting at regular ten-second intervals that the ref really ought to recognize when a yellow card should be issued.

Not a happy Dutchman

But they got beat, he sulked for two days, and has now decided to wear his Holland shirt to tomorrow night's game: a bold move.

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Sun, 25 May 2008 17:44:00 +0000

To continue (I was interrupted for a reason that I shall shortly relate in a separate post): after Bingen we took the boat to Koblenz, stopping off at Boppard on the way. What I found particularly striking about Boppard was that all the shops and bakeries were open and doing a brisk trade, which you may expect in a small and popular tourist town, and yet it was Sunday. I had to double check.

I was disappointed to subsequently find that many such places have Sunday opening hours; my town does not. Somehow, despite being but 60km from Frankfurt and 80km from Stuttgart, this is the sticks.

Another memorable feature of Boppard was the chairlift, a concept in which I have not indulged since the onset of my fear of heights, though more through lack of opportunity than cowardice.

The chairlift rode to the top of a great hill, from which was promised the remarkable “Vierseenblick”, where the Rhein curves in such a way as to create the illusion of four individual lakes.

I was a little tense on the journey to the top but fortunately the path of the chairlift, which was really nothing more that a couple of metal bars and a plank of wood, which did little towards easing the nerves, followed the curvature of the hill itself so for most of the ride we were only about 20 feet from the ground.

I couldn't help but think of the spikey death below should the lift break.

Holding on tight - like that'd help.

At the top, the Rhein was indeed remarkable in its meandering, actually doubling back on itself more than once. This was also a popular spot for hang gliders to launch themselves into the air and waft about over the river.

The Vierseenblick is supposed to look something like this:

Not what we saw

You have to be standing in precisely the right spot to see it correctly but the view was spectacular nontheless. We saw something more like this:

Two images (almost) seamlessly spliced together. Boppard is the town on the far right.

Next stop: Koblenz, where I bought a leather bag, Adam had a fit of temper in a shop, and we ate the most delicious dinner in a restaurant occupied entirely by drunk Glaswegians (is there any other type?).

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Mon, 12 May 2008 11:21:00 +0000

Paradise Deutsch, it's been a while, I apologize. But I have been away, with Adam, on a fabulous boating jaunt along the Rhein Valley.

We began in Mainz, which was as lovely as I remember; this time I made it into the Gutenberg Museum, which contained, among hundreds of examples of seemingly identical giant bibles, a goat skin stretched on a frame that looked, if you’re into that sort of thing, exactly like Cassandra from the first series of the new Dr. Who (which I have recently borrowed, watched, and returned to Jill, which is hopefully the reason it immediately sprang to mind).

The following morning we went down to the river to catch the boat to Bingen. We were informed that unfortunately, due to the “Rhein in Flame” (whatever that is) up in Cologne, there would be no 11.30 boat leaving from Bingen today (information that is just about visible on the timetable). The ticket man helpfully informed us that there had in fact been an extra boat service on the previous Thursday to make up for today’s shortage. We took the train to Bingen.

Could they have made it much smaller?

In Bingen there was a national flower show held along the banks of the river, which looked (and smelled) very much the colours of summer; Bingen was thus very busy and bustling and we had time for some pleasingly German bratwurst and flammkuchen before it was time to catch the "paddle-wheel steamship Goethe" on to Bacharach.

It cost €1.50 extra apparently

Bacharach was every bit the idyllic German village, with cobbled streets, half-timbered houses, and spärgel on every menu. We were staying in a castle converted into a youth hostel, which looked immense and impressive high in the hills as we stepped off the boat. Unfortunately the path leading up to the castle was not much more than a dirt track with some wooden posts nailed in every now in then to point the way to Jugendherberge in the vague direction of up.

Neither the cobbles nor the path were conducive to my wheely suitcase so Adam heroically hauled both his own and my luggage all the way up whilst I strode ahead taking photographs and calling back brightly “Nearly there! I think I can see the top!”

He'd always hated that suitcase. Now he had good reason.

But the view from the top was worth it!

I was very excited about staying in a castle and was even looking forward to the youth-hostel aspect. I have just begun to get used to staying in hotels, rather than camping or not going on holiday, so the communal accommodation was a novelty. Admittedly the bunkbeds were a bit of a surprise but I remained enthusiastic and kept clapping my hands together in a manner that I hoped was robust and practical and said things like “We don’t mind roughing it, do we?!”.

It was a bit commune-like in that there seemed to be hundreds of children roaming about unattended and people sitting about eating packed lunches out of paper bags; I tried to reassure myself that the noise would have quietened down later and anyway, I didn’t mind roughing it.

Down in the town we strolled through the streets whilst Adam examined the menu board of every restaurant in town. A few glasses of local Riesling made the hike back up to the castle in the pitch black a bit hairy but we arrived safely to collapse into our respective creaky bunk beds.

Morning began at around 6.30 with such an astonishing menagerie of noises issuing from the surrounding rooms and corridor that it was almost as if the other guests were intentionally making as many different but equally annoying sounds as possible using any aid available.

I was looking forward to getting back to a hotel that night in Koblenz.

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 17:31:00 +0000

At the weekend I rode the new bike to the Penny Market. So excited was I at the thought of zipping along in the cycle path and not having to trudge home with armfuls of groceries that I actually looked forward to going. Usually on a Saturday morning I skulk around the flat despising the very thought.

Afterwards, the bike laden with shopping bags, I arived neatly back onto the drive to find the Hoff fully occupying the doorway, arms folded, grim stare hammered onto her face.

"Guten Morgen!" I chirped brightly, flicking open the bike stand and unloading my shopping. I always try to be friendly. She doesn't like it if I try to best her in a surly grump match.

"Ist das your bike?"

"Yes it is!" I said, patting it proudly and knowing what was coming.

"Well you can't leave it there. It is too close to the street. It must be moved."

My new bike now has a new Hoff-approved parking spot down the side of the house, behind the bins.

Still full of enthusiasm I took it out for another trip on Sunday afternoon when Guido and I rode to the lake. We went to the beach bar, ordered two cocktails, and sat in the sun where Guido spent the next fifty minutes complaining about the price of the cocktails.

I rode back, parked the bike in its new spot and went upstairs, satisfied with my Sunday exercise and pleased that my decision to not attend the gym proved wise.

This morning I rode the bike to work for the first time, hit the curb, crashed, and fell off.

I am not so keen on it anymore. It needs overhauling.

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 19:45:00 +0000

After eighteen months of it idling in the cellar, I released my bike onto the open road and finally took it to the repair shop last Saturday. I asked that they return it in a state fit to ride. In excited anticipation of gently cycling through the summer months and reduced-effort trips to the Penny Market, I went to collect it last night.

A sharp sleek racing machine with razor-thin tyres and a shine so high I could see my own startled face in the paintwork was wheeled out.

For a few moments I actually thought it might be mine; I had simply asked them to make it rideable – did that involve changing the handlebars, replacing the seat, adding a crossbar, and painting it black? I wasn’t sure.

There was also the fleeting idea of not acknowledging the mistake and claiming this superior model as my own, a thought that was swiftly dismissed if not for the slack scruples but because my daily route to work takes me past the very front door of the bike shop.

The repair man looked rather baffled when I said that this was not in fact my bike. Did he not remember the aged and rusty bicycle I had handed over to him not four days ago?

“Das it nicht meine,” I said.

“Nein?!”

He asked me the make of my bike. I didn’t know. I hadn’t paid much attention to the details when I purchased it in deep December 2006 and I didn’t recall any markings when I was parking it in the cellar for the next 18 months. All I know is it’s blue.

“Mein ist blau,” I said helpfully. He returned the gleaming sports bike into the workshop and came back out.

“Die Name war….?”

“Sophie,” I said for the third time. He disappeared into the back only to come out again. He strode over to his colleague and they conducted a low conversation in swift German that involved looking at and pointing to the row of bikes for sale outside the shop and consulting the computer.

I began to worry that they had sold my bike, or perhaps when I wheeled it in on Saturday, tyres wheezing and puffing with the effort, rather than “Please fix this,” I’d mistakenly announced “I’ve brought this in for scrap”.

A few moments later, however, I was reunited with my bike and we rode home together. It really is much quicker with a bike.

At the weekend I will take it for a spin to the Famila, where I will buy a wire basket for the back and truly embrace German living.

It really needs overhauling but as a great philosopher once wrote,

“There are two ways you can get exercise out of a bicycle: you can 'overhaul' it or you can ride it.”

I prefer to ride mine so the rust can stay for now.

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 18:02:00 +0000

For comparison, this was Easter Sunday last year.

This year, in England, was rather different. I woke up at 6am on Sunday and, for no reason, looked out of my bedroom window. Saturday evening had been damp, cold, and drizzly so it was with some surprise to see that snow, lots of the best fluffy, crisp kind, had arrived overnight.

Later that morning as Adam and I were sitting at the dining table eating breakfast and trying not be stuck on the Guardian crossword, I suggested it'd be nice to go for a walk. The garden backs onto hills and a farm, which is ideal for the kind of winter-wonderland lovers' stroll I pictured.

"Great idea!" cried sister, appearing from nowhere and pulling on her coat and hat.

"Ah well..." I pointlessly began.

"I'll get the sledge, meet you outside!"

The eagerly constructed snowman, wearing a rather smashing hat, and sister hiding from the snowball Adam tried to sneak up on her.

So five minutes later, Adam, sister, sister's friend Lewis, and I went up the lane past the farm, some walking, some being dragged higgledy–piggledy on a sledge (as above), and found a suitably big hill down which to hurtle at high speed. We also found a small quarry of water frozen over that we took turns throwing sticks and snowballs onto, the kind of thing that's fun when you're playing in the surprise snow.

My brother and I used to play up here when we were sister's age; it felt like being a kid again.

"Good shot, whose turn is...LEWIS GET BACK HERE, YOU DO NOT GO NEAR THE EDGE!!

Perhaps not.

Two big kids, one tiny sledge

Snow angel

Snow Jesus-on-Cross. I think it's the camera angle.

By the following morning it had all but melted; the snowman's midriff remained resolutely steadfast in the middle of the lawn, getting steadily grubbier and decreasing in radius until it too had disappeared.

It was one of the most enjoyable Easters I've had, even though my egg count is now down to two. It's a sad indication that you've achieved adulthood when you're the one buying the eggs for the children in the family. Luckily my baby sister needed *help* eating her Milche chocolate bunny (though she was surprisingly more capable than I'd credited a one-year-old. She gave me several meaningful stares that clearly indicated she could manage.).

The thing is, if it hadn't been for my sister (the one old enough to drag me out of bed to go sledging) we'd have gone for a walk instead, which would no doubt have been very pleasant but not quite as much fun as we had.

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 17:52:00 +0000

A momentous event: may I present my first ever completed cryptic crossword!

Note how the grid is fully occupied with correct answers rather than swear words penciled in in frustration. Note the patient solving of the clues in the margins and at the bottom of the page, and the absence of evidence of screwing up the page and setting fire to the crossword. I am proud indeed.

Admittedly it was a combined effort between myself and Adam and it was only the Manchester Evening News but I have since managed to wade, unaided, three quarters of the way through the Observer and have now moved on to the Guardian.

They do say that success is 99% perspiration and 1% ripping the newspaper to shreds and kicking the sofa in bitter defeat; it's taken eight months, but Zoran is finally getting his money's worth from that subscription he bought for my birthday.

noreply@blogger.com (Sophie) — Sun, 16 Mar 2008 18:47:00 +0000

My recent visit to the Homeland did much to revive the spirits, despite a troublesome and traumatic journey to England brought on, I’m convinced, by my own doing. For no reason that I can think of, apart from perhaps a desire to give my new German credit card a test run (rather than wait until I find myself entangled in the next financial crisis), I purchased, two days before my trip home, travel insurance.

It did occur to me that perhaps I was tempting that bitter and mildly sadistic mistress Fate by doing so; having taken upwards of seven hundred identical journeys between Here and There the most grievous problem experienced to date was when the Lufthansa drinks trolley passed me by.

I left my flat and set out into the eye of a hurricane, battling my way onto the tram through horizontal rain that whipped across my face and undid everything nice I’d done to my hair five minutes earlier. The horrendous weather caused my train to the airport to depart ten minutes late. This wasn’t too disastrous but as I’ve now got my flight-catching procedure (catch train, arrive at airport, board plane) timed to the minute there is little room for error in the thirty-minute train ride.

The train went progressively slower until we had stopped entirely and the train began to rust. My flight was due to leave at 11.25. At 10.30 I was anxious. At 10.45 I was out of my seat with anger and impatience. I already had my boarding pass and no luggage to check in; if we arrived now I could make it. At 11 o’clock I pressed myself up against the door and began the process of forcing myself through the glass one atom at a time to speed up my exit when we eventually arrived.

At 11.10 when the train finally crawled into the station I had resigned myself to the embarrassing situation of, for the first time ever, missing a flight. I strolled wearily through to departures, busily working on the lie I would tell Mum and Adam, who would be awaiting my arrival in Manchester, that would free me of blame and responsibility, when I saw that my flight was also delayed, allowing me just sufficient time to hurtle through to security, who searched my bags and I painstakingly slowly while the sound of the clock on the nearby wall ticking off the seconds to departure thundered in my ears.

I ran as fast as my legs would co-operate to passport control where the passport officer leisurely scrutinised my photograph for any resemblance to Bin Laden, and arrived at the gate with a comfortable ten seconds to spare before it was announced that the flight was delayed for a further three hours.

As always happens when you are saved from a catastrophe only to be presented with an new inconvenience, relief immediately gave way to annoyance and I sank back in my sticky plastic seat to begin a long, uncomfortable wait.

At Frankfurt airport, passengers flying to England are subject to two security checks; the inference that somewhere between the first and second checks I may have somehow fashioned a weapon made only from objects either smuggled through the first check or available in the airport Bistro is most bizarre but the worst part is that after the final check there is nowhere to buy a drink.

Maybe it’s psychological but I instantly feel paralyzed by thirst and have to go back out to buy a an exuberantly priced beverage, drink it in one go under the glare of the eagle-eyed security people, go through security, and immediately have to come back out again to use the toilet. This charade continues until it is time to board.

Once on the plane and in the air after a shaky and violent takeoff, and I had chosen to direct the entire force of my bad mood towards the man across the aisle for having a permanent smirk on his face, things got worse when I spilled my miniscule Lufthansa glass of juice, which I had been sipping at an almost invisible rate so as to make it last, all over my boots and the trousers of the air hostess.

There was a teenage boy sitting next to me, who kept calling out to his friend “Lucas” sitting three rows in front, and then ducking down to hide as his friend called back. After the third time I was ready to stab them both, and realised that this is the real reason they don’t let you bring sharp objects on board. Had I a knitting needle and a pair of tweezers at that point they would be looking at each other’s speared necks from beneath a pair of severely plucked eyebrows.

We came into land just as the storm was really getting into its stride. The aircraft jerked around and dropped and tipped such that it felt like being on a rickety roller coaster that’s been on the news for being mechanically unsafe. I was scared for my life; I gripped the arms of the chair and cursed the travel insurance again. I looked over to the man across the aisle; he was still smirking. I concentrated on planning to use his leg to springboard me to the emergency exit when the time inevitably came.

The ground suddenly loomed up from below and in an instant we crashed heavily onto the runway. I had got part way through an utterance of thank God before we shot back up into the air, the plane almost vertical and the sound of high-pitched hysterics and heaving issuing from the front.

The captain’s voice appeared on the intercom to inform us that it was too windy and unsafe to land so we would make a “go around” and try again. The second time, thankfully, we landed safely, and a pair of shaky legs carried me off the plane.

An interminably slow passport-control queue completed the nightmare journey and I emerged into the arrivals lounge to the greetings of a wearied pair of mother and boyfriend, who had been waiting for four hours and had all but given up on me ever appearing.

It might have been worth it if I could have claimed for anything on the travel insurance, which was the source of all that went wrong- it seems weakened nerves and being extremely pissed off aren’t covered - and I had but 48 hours to recover before I had to make the whole trip again in reverse.