Author: Lucello

Something about me?

Alle, Hopp!

Karneval is one of the more peculiar of German traditions, and this year’s manifestations, as the year before, provided me with no end of amusement. It is a holiday predating Christianity, yet revealing deep-seated religious roots, replete with whimsical customs bordering on the superstitious, and steeped in proletarian mores.

 

The preparations for Carneval begin away back in November, and more precisely, on 11/11 at the 11’th minute of the 11’th hour (makes me wonder what’s in store for 2011). Its mascot is the court jester, the one who could safely make fun of kings and rulers without punishment, and its motto being, “If you are not a fool during Carneval, you will be one the rest of the year.” The festivities typically begin on January 30th and last until Ash Wednesday, with balls, parties, and parades, and children young and old dressed in outrageous costume.

 

In Saarbrücken, the weekend that makes up Carneval begins on Thursday, the day I like to refer to as “tie-cutting” day, that is, the day when anyone, anywhere can take a pair of scissors and cut off a man’s tie (the ultimate symbol of toppling power and authority – I’ve not yet had a chance to do this).

 

This is followed by the childrens’ march through town on Friday, when store owners come out and throw candy at them (conveniently staged in February, the lil lads and lasses often wear coats and gloves over their carneval costumes, and the candy lands in the rain-and-mud soaked streets). For the past two years, the kids marched right under my window, singing and yelling and making a mad dash for the candy. I was in stitches when the woman from the bakery, known for her grouchiness and scowls, came out with a bucket full of bonbons, and suddenly found herself buried under little bodies and snatching hands, which fairly knocked her over. The candy was gone in seconds.

 

Lastly is the parade on Rosenmontag, to which my roommate Michael wanted to go. To save him from himself, my other roommate Roland and I agreed to accompany him. The parade began at… wait for it.. 1:11 in the afternoon and featured the usual marching bands, baton girls, cigarette-puffing nuns, and floats with dancing lunes tossing out candy to the crowd.

 

I am not particularly fond of parades, especially after getting knocked on the head with a cherry taffy, but as soon as I saw that they were handing out cups of glühwein and beer to the adults, I was in. Once I saw a girl carrying a wooden tray on a post with tiny plastic cups, just like the ones they use in church when they serve grape juice and crackers for communion, only these were full of schnapps. Alas, the girl eluded me. I even saw evidence of tiny bottles of brandy and various other kinds of schuss which were thrown out alongside the party poppers.

 

At this point, we became impatient standing in one spot waiting for them to come, and proceeded to take them on through the ranks, passing one group after another in the opposite direction, trying to get them to throw us their bags of chips, popcorn, candy, and even marshmallow-filled kissenkuchen. Everyone sang “Alle, hopp!” and someone hit me with a nice dose of paper confetti, right in my hair. It was a party every time I shook my head.

 

Then it rained. We drearily walked several miles back to the bus stop, and I reflected that perhaps Halloween was much nicer as it takes place in the wind of fall rather than the drizzle of a rainy winter.

Water is Water is Water

One thing they always tell you to pack before going to live abroad is at least one good book in your own language, one that you love and which can help ward off early signs of homesickness. Of course that doesn’t really help much in my case, as I am constantly speaking English, and rarely venture into fanciful flights of the lingua Germanica.

 

So last night, craving some good, homey Mexican food, I found myself in front of the only restaurant in Saarbrücken that could provide it. I didn’t feel like staying there to eat, as the place smelled of old cigars, so I asked the waitress if I could have their taco plate to go. They said it was fine, so I went outside to wander the streets till it was ready.

 

Ten minutes later, I walk back into the restaurant as the waitress heads over carrying a huge foil-wrapped mound in her hands. She apologizes, saying they had no plastic bag to put it in. I look at it rather askance as she sets it down, but pull out my wallet to pay. She walks off as I pause for a moment, wondering if there is any way to stuff it into my backpack, then pick it up.

 

Lo, and behold, there was my dish served in two of their ceramic plates (one would have been too hot on its own), and the whole thing covered in aluminum. I stared in amazement before flagging down the waitress, to whom I helplessly cried, “but.. but.. I can’t, I can’t take your plates!” To which they only shrugged their shoulders, stating matter-of-factly that they had nothing else to put it in.

 

To punish myself (there was no way on earth I was going to march through Saint Johanner Markt carrying such a bundle), I sat right down at the nearest table to eat it.

 

To boot, the waitress asked me if I wanted something to drink, and brought me a glass of sprüdel with lemon when I asked for water. Will I never learn?

 

Ah, homesickness. You win this time.

Amethysts and Pearls

Last Saturday, my sister and her fiancé married in the charming coastal town of Carmel, California. The ceremony was held in a hall across from Sunset Center instead of the sandy beach, so that our grandparents could attend and grace the front row seats. It was an amethyst and black pearl wedding, lush with sterling roses and white carnations, baby’s breath, and silver hearts. The tables were draped with black and violet linen, and topped with centerpieces of tall, slender white candles floating amid inky black quartz and moonstone pebbles. All in all, just as a wedding should be.

 

I was part of the bridal party myself, one of three bridesmaids wearing a long purple satin dress with silver heels. Jenean’s own dress was lovely; bare-shouldered with a princess cut, it was of white tulle with purple satin trim, and just a wee bit too long. We had to rent a hoop skirt from a costume store in the city, and it made the gown boop up and down as it would on any southern belle from Gone with the Wind.

 

We were afraid of rain, December weddings can be so finicky, but it did not rain. The day was calm, if not entirely blue sky and sun. Jenean was not the most conventional of brides, insisting that the photographer snap a picture of her and the maid of honor chain-smoking behind the hall, but much work and love was put in to make it special for her. The groom’s mother offered to cater the wedding with her staff, who, out of respect for her, volunteered their time at the event. Claire, a close friend of the family, scoured the Monterey Bay with my mother in the hunt for sterling roses, surprisingly difficult to find, and stayed up almost the entire night on the eve of the wedding designing the floral arrangements. And my mother worked tirelessly, in the one month they had for preparations, on everything else.

 

As for me, I was not the maid of honor (yes, yes, slight bitterness), but I did all I could to uphold traditions and ensure she got all that a bride deserves. On the day before the wedding, I quickly hatched a plan for a bachelorette party, since none had been planned before, and we kidnapped the bride-to-be shortly after the rehearsal dinner.

 

We blindfolded her, adorned her with long cleopatra earrings, a white feather boa, and a mini veil, and stole her away to Carmel beach where we drank cheap white wine from a purple plastic penis and howled at the moon. We didn’t stay long; she was the one fitting our dresses (she has the degree in costuming, after all), and there were still corsets to be altered and a veil to be made.

 

To be sure, she stayed up all night the previous evening working on our dresses, since both I and another bridesmaid did not arrive until two days before the wedding. Unfortunately, we let her sleep long the day of, and the gaggle of girls who had come over early to do her hair, ended up missing the ceremony entirely because they had no time to dress themselves.

 

As for another tradition I pulled out,

Something old, something new,
something borrowed, something blue.

I never was able to find something old, but my aunt kindly furnished us with a borrowed black and white pearl bracelet; Vicki gave her a pink-feathered blinking garter (which Daniel, the groom, cheerfully pulled off with his teeth to throw for the groomsmen); and I ran off to Long’s for a pair of blue cotton underwear. I was just a bit too hasty in picking those out, however, and as we were dressing, she unrolled what turned out to be giant granny panties, cocked her head to the side and demanded, “Jen, what is this??” as the other girls laughed in hilarity. So it was not to be.

 

Still, the rest of the ceremony went off without a hitch and I almost broke down in tears as my little sister walked down the aisle on my father’s arm. There was a short bonfire on the beach after the reception, after which Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Morales got into their limousine and betook themselves to the Highlands for their little honeymoon. It was a bittersweet day, for who knows when and if we will all be together again, but I wish them all the best, and in my heart I send them off with this blessing,

 

May you always have work for your hands to do.
May your pockets hold always a coin or two.
May the sun shine bright on your windowpane.
May the rainbow be certain to follow each rain.
May the hand of a friend always be near you.
And may you each fill the other’s heart with gladness to cheer you.

Curieuse Guide to Skiing in Verbier, Switzerland

A collection of useful information for the skieur or skieuse wishing to spend a few days in the Swiss alps.

  1. Don’t eat the yellow snow.
  2. When taking the egg lift down to Le Châble, be sure to raise the window to avoid snowballs in your face, launched from the hooligans on the balconies below. At least until you get into the trees.
  3. Taking a tumble in the powder is the perfect time to sneak a snow angel.
  4. When ordering the plat du jour from a resto on the mountain or in the valley, ask your waiter for a “petit supplément” to get a small refill of your pasta bolognaise or poulet émincé. And use all of the parmesan cheese on your pasta; after all, it’s free calories.

Powder to the People

Just days before I arrived, a bumper snowfall in Verbier ensured a solid base of vast, glittering alpine slopes for many sunshiny days to come. Compared to the years before, the skiing here has been incredible. So much so, in fact, that I can only wonder that more people aren’t out here to enjoy it.

The air is cold, much colder than last year, but no one seems to mind, not least the brave Scotsman who faced the slopes in a kilt, exposing the curly hairs on his bare legs to the elements (and let’s not wonder what else besides).

My skiing, I am happy to report, has improved considerably this year. From those first tremulous plough turns, to skidding sideways across the slope before stopping to make a grand turn, and shooting back the other way, reaching the lift below some forty minutes later, I now fly down the slope with skis straight (as opposed to the plough formation), making turns when I intend to make them, and even managing to get on edge once in a while. I can even keep up with my party for once (when I’m not stopping every few meters to take pictures), even if I am still the last one down. And I am getting better every day.

And as I continue to hone my skills, I often watch other skiers and notice their form. Interestingly, modes in skiing exist just as much as in fashion. I used to think that the best skiers were those who sped gracefully down the mountain, standing straight atop skis held closely together, turning with the hips and using the back ends of their skis as breaks when needed. Gentleman skiers, I call ’em. Apparently, this is the old-school, 70’s style of skiing, back when women wore purple and lime green snowsuits and men wore blue spandex jumpers, and all had thinner, longer skis. These days, modern-day skiers use their full body, bending their knees to make harder turns and getting on edge with their skis, carving the slope of the mountain as they go down.

I think the hardest thing to learn about skiing is that, the steeper the slope, the more you have to lean downwards towards it. This is like telling someone at the top of a high building that the best way to get down is to jump. It’s a good thing I wear a helmet.

In Switzerland

The first time I came to Switzerland, in 2002, the Swiss Franc (CHF) was roughly two to one against the dollar. This meant that I could simply divide the price of Swiss goods in half (more or less) to get an idea of its worth, instead of converting to the Euro, which was at an odd value, 1.28€ to every $1.00.

This year, I’ve found, is even easier, as my request to withdraw 100CHF cost me $97 and change. At roughly one to one, this made it especially convenient when figuring out the actual cost of a single hamburger at the airport in Geneva, which was 7CHF or 10CHF with cheese.

Man, I Love Christmas

As a student, you tend to discover certain aspects of your surroundings which you might not notice as a salaried adult. Like the herb garden on the south side of campus, because spices and herbs are so expensive. Or the flammkuchen at Canossa, because after 8 on campus, everything else is closed. Or the silverware with no pfand attached at the Mensacafe, because you lost all your forks in the grass after several rounds of ‘schwenker’ nights.

Okay, I was only kidding about the last one 😉

In any case, the longer you spend on campus, the more you become aware of these interesting tidbits and keep them in mind when future needs arise. Still, the one thing I have always regretted, living in Saarbrücken, is not having found my ideal place to study.

Different people have different needs when it comes to studying. Some students require absolute quiet, some are lucky to have offices as part of their hiwi positions, and still others like to bring flashcards into the forest. For me, none of those options suffice. My ideal study place is in a loud, busy cafe, with a cup of coffee or tea by my side, and a fast internet connection for my laptop. It may seem strange, but the louder the chatter, clanging and banging, the more focused I am in my work, and the more work that gets done.

Nevertheless, this bizarre need is surprisingly difficult to satisfy in Saarbrücken. As I do not have my own office on campus, and the lab is full of scary linux boxes, and my own bedroom is a disaster for distractions, I have searched high and low for a spot that I might call my educational haven. I’ve tried Grandma’s, where the coffee is good, but the grumpy Grandma always comes to shoo anyone with a laptop away from the power outlet. I’ve considered Ubu Roi, the cafe downtown, but like all cafes in Germany, there is no free wifi (or any wifi at all). And in the end, I have often settled for the Mensa cafe which has an abundance of coffee, campus internet, and power outlets galore.

Which works, for the most part, except for Friday afternoons, like today, when you are kicked out at 3:00 so they can close early. Then where to go?

Luckily this holiday season has been good to me. Out of a lack of better options, I finally found myself at the AC, the foreigner’s cafe on campus, which is open until 8pm, where I can access the campus network, but which typically has no power outlets available. Except at Christmastime, where, if you look carefully, you can find a nice power strip behind the Christmas tree connected to the outlet in the ceiling.

Man, I love Christmas.