We didn’t quite jell…

Fabiana and I went grocery shopping in Tengelmann last night, and I found something that surprised me a little bit: Jell-O cups.  They weren’t Jell-O brand, of course (Dr. Oetker brand Götter Speise, actually), but really, gelatin is gelatin.  I was tickled by this, and bought four cups.  Fabiana, on the other hand, was a little bit horrified, particularly when I suggested she try one.  She said she’d wait until I’d eaten one and see if I was still alive.  We ended up having a lively debate over the pros and cons of gelatin in the dairy section, much to the amusement of an elderly lady shopping for cheese.  Fabiana argued that the gelatin was made from chemicals, and was therefore unhealthy, and icky to boot.  My argument was that it was only sugar, water and gelatin (which is a natural product), and was therefore no worse for you than the average sweet snack.  In point of fact, it’s actually healthy in some ways.  Eating gelatin products strengthens your bones, teeth, and fingernails.  At any rate, we had to agree to disagree, so now I’ll let the majority rule, democratic-like.  Please do me the honor of participating in my first blog poll.  Gelatin: good or evil?  Cast your vote below, and Fabiana and I will “crow or eat crow” depending on the results.  Make your voice heard!

FYI

For those of you who don’t already know, I’ve decided to extend my stay in Munich.  I won’t be home until the end of January, and I’ll be remaining here over Christmas break.  When I began my course, I realized very quickly that two months would not be nearly enough time to learn as much as I’d like.  Three months probably won’t be either (one requires 30 years according to Mark Twain), but I’m going to run out of money eventually.  The more I learn, the more I realize how much there still is to learn, and I want to make the most of my time here.  I’ll miss being with my loved ones for Christmas more than I can say, but learning a second language is important to me, and this trip is such a wonderful opportunity.  So, when you’re carving your roast beast this year, remember me, and know I’ll be thinking of you.

Drat.

As my regular readers (I’m so happy I can say that!) may recall, I was informed a few weeks ago that I’d have to make a presentation, and I wasn’t wild about the idea.  After that, no more was said about it for a couple of weeks, and I thought maybe I’d dodged the bullet.  No such luck.  I’ve been assigned a presentation date.  My teacher had, in fact, forgotten about the presentations (permanently, I’d hoped), but he remembered last week.  I have to present on December 7th.  Bitte!  Nein!

Update

I’ve finally chosen a topic (until I change my mind, that is).  I’m going to talk about Handel’s Messiah.  I’ve had it stuck in my head for the last two days, and I regret that I wasn’t able to participate in the community choir’s performance this year.

“Beans, beans, beans, beans, all kinds of beans!”

The thanks for that title go to my darling nephew, who learned a song about beans in school last year, and was kind enough to sing it for me.  Love you, C!

Mom, I have good news for you.  The other night, I ate more beans in half an hour than I had in the previous year.  The “restaurant” (re: “bar”) I went to with the other students on Saturday night was Mexican.  I ordered tacos which, as I gathered from the menu, had something to do with pork.  As it turned out, they had a great deal more to do with beans.  I’m not a fan of most beans.  For the most part, I limit myself to those of the green or jelly varieties.  I hate all the ones with the starchy, mushy textures:  pinto, navy, kidney, lima, butter, etc.  When my tacos arrived, they were littered with a soupy mixture of kidney and pinto beans.  I was too hungry (and had paid too much) not to eat my meal, and it was so dark I couldn’t see well enough to attempt picking them out, so I just dove in.  I managed to eat all of the first taco, but the texture of all those beans just did me in; I ate very little of the second.  I’ve now had my quota for the year, so I beg you:  no soup beans when I get home, ‘kay?

I’m so cool, too bad I’m a loser…

That’s the first line of the Barenaked Ladies song, “Falling for the First Time.“  I’m normally not into popular music.  My iPod is filled with what Harvey Reid calls un-pop:  a mixture of classical, folk and musical soundtracks, with a few other oddities thrown in here and there.  But while working at Bath & Body Works and being forced to listen to the same annoying CD on a repeating loop every day until the next one arrived, I fell in love with “Falling for the First Time.”  The lyrics of that particular song just really struck a chord (har!) with me.  After hearing it maybe half a dozen times, I had the whole thing memorized and had worked out a harmony part for myself.  Every time it came on, I sang along, provided there were no customers in the store (which in the Logansport Mall was usually the case).  I eventually wound up buying the CD.  I just love the lyrics; they’re a perfect metaphor for how I’ve felt most of my life, which is to say out of place, out of touch, and utterly misunderstood within the realm of my peer group.  It’s a wistful song of contradictions and confusion:  of sometimes feeling helplessly out of control.  But in some strange way that’s difficult to pinpoint, it’s also a little hopeful.  Just like me.

We learned a charming little concept in 7th grade science:  “Diversity is normal.”  It’s a nice thought, and when asked, anyone would tell you they agree.  Das stimmt.  But in reality, I fear most people rarely think on such terms.  They believe they do, but they don’t.  Everyone, to some degree, has personal biases and opinions that they define as “normal.”  If you don’t conform, you’re weird.  Crazy.  Abnormal.

I bring all this up because these thoughts and feelings I’ve always mulled over to myself were prominent in my mind this past weekend.  Fabiana took a long weekend and went home.  She invited me to go, but I would’ve had to miss school for a couple of days, so I decided to wait and visit her over Christmas break.  I was so desperate for companionship after my lonely Thanksgiving that I wound up spending both Friday and Saturday night with large groups of other students.  I tried to like the smoky bars.  I tried to like the music so loud you couldn’t hear yourself think, let alone converse with anyone.  I really did try, but I just couldn’t.  The other students may well think I’m nuts (or anti-social), but I simply can’t enjoy myself in that kind of environment.  Everyone is so kind; they always make every effort to include me.  I genuinely  appreciate their thoughtfulness, but I just can’t get into it.  Every time someone invites me somewhere along those lines, I think, “How bad could it be?”  And every time, I wind up sitting quietly and miserably with my own thoughts, which are usually along the lines of “I’d so much rather be in bed with a good book right now.”  I’m just going to have to stick to quieter activities; that’s all there is to it.  Or maybe I should have my head examined.  Think any of Freud’s descendents are still practicing?

All-American: Thanksgiving and Peanut Butter

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!  I am so thankful to have all of you in my life, and I wish we could be together today, but I’m also very thankful for the opportunity to learn German, and I’m deeply grateful to everyone who played a part in making this trip possible, especially my family.

Last night I did a little baking in the school kitchen (I don’t have an oven in my apartment, unfortunately).  I made peanut butter cookies and lemon bars to share with my class, and today we talked a little bit about the origins and traditions associated with Thanksgiving while we ate them.  We always have fun talking together.  I couldn’t have hand-picked a better group or teacher for myself; that’s such a huge blessing.

Shopping for my baking project was a little stressful.  Everything I needed was in the store; the problem was recognizing it.  I’ve always taken for granted how very easy it is to shop for groceries when I’m home.  I don’t have to stare at each item for ages, reading every word (sometimes consulting a dictionary), and wishing the manufacturer had thought to put pictures of the contents on the package.  I recognize what I want immediately, usually by the logo of whatever my preferred brand happens to be (the marketers got me, Dr. R!), and I just grab it and go.  In and out.  Not so Tuesday night.  I spent about an hour and a half shopping for 15-20 items.

The only product I had no trouble  identifying was the peanut butter.  I’ve bought peanut butter twice now (in Germany, that is), and I find it endlessly amusing that the German marketers/manufacturers go to so much trouble to make the packaging scream “American!”  It’s as though they want to be absolutely certain everyone knows they bear no responsibility for the creation of such a product.  The labels are invariably some combination of red, white and blue, and sport a U.S. map, or flag, or both.  One jar had the Statue of Liberty and the New York skyline on it.  As far as I know, New York has no more to do with peanut butter than any other city  (George Washington Carver certainly wasn’t from anywhere near there, and while he didn’t actually “invent” peanut butter, he is certainly responsible for improving the recipe and popularizing it), but for some reason Europeans seem to associate all things American with New York.  Whenever I tell someone I’m from the U.S., they’ll say, “Ah; New York!” and ask me how far away I live, and whether I’ve been there.  Fabiana is dying to go.  New York was a nice place to visit, I grant, but there are many other places I would visit before I’d go back.  I’m not sure what all the fuss is about.  Certainly not the peanut butter.

A Tragedy

When I arrived at school today, I was informed that a student here was killed in an accident Friday night.  I wasn’t well acquainted with him; we’d only met once on the school trip to Salzburg, but he’d been studying here for several months, and it’s been a shocking blow to the whole school.  Please remember the students, teachers, and his friends and family in your prayers.  Rest in peace, Carlos.

Students in Salzburg. Carlos is the second from the right, next to me.

Cultural (Con)Fusion

As I may have mentioned previously, I’m having a great time now that I’ve gotten used to being here.  My teacher is fantastic.  He’s always patient and thorough, and has a great sense of humor.  Class is always fun, and I’m learning a great deal.

One of the most interesting things about studying abroad (obviously) is the opportunity to learn about different cultures:  in my case, not only German culture, but so many others.  There are students in my class from Ireland, Italy, Switzerland, Albania, France, Brazil, Mexico and New Zealand (I think), and whenever we discuss a topic, we get to hear different perspectives and learn how things are thought about/done/said in other countries.  It’s really fascinating.

I’ve become fast friends with another student from Italy named Fabiana.  She was so sweet and helpful to me my first few days, and now we might as well be joined at the hip.  We go almost everywhere together, and we always have a great time.  Our friendship is full of laughter, partly because an Italian and an American speaking German together creates so many opportunities for comical mistakes and misunderstandings, and partly because we often find different aspects of each others’ cultures so amusing.

Our friendship is a cultural exchange program unto itself.  We correct each others’ pronunciation of Italian and English words, and we entice each other to try things we normally wouldn’t have.  Fabiana taught me that I’ve been pronouncing the vast majority of pasta types wrong my whole life, especially gnocchi.  She also got me to try heisse maroni (roasted chestnuts) for the first time.  I’m sorry to say I wasn’t impressed.  When I bit into one, the texture reminded me strongly of Lima beans, which I hate.  Oh well.  As for American culture, Fabiana is eternally amused at the correct pronunciations of various American things and places, especially Cincinnati.  I also introduced her to peanut butter and banana sandwiches, which she loved.

Next week I’m going to hunt up some cottage cheese so she can try it with canned peaches (a favorite snack of mine; thanks, mom!), and Fabiana is bound and determined to see to it that I’ve eaten “real” Spaghetti Carbonara (one of my all-time favorite meals) before I return home.  Cultural exchange rocks.

A Few More Photos

I’ve got over 500 now; it’s getting harder to narrow them down!  These pictures were taken in Regensburg, Dachau, and Salzburg, and there are also a couple from Neuschwanstein Castle.  They’re out of order for some reason; I haven’t yet learned to bend WordPress to my will.

The Hunt for the Perfect Yogurt

Grocery shopping in a new place is a bit of an adventure.  Many of the products (and nearly all of the brand names) with which I’m familiar are not to be found in German grocery stores, so it takes time to try new things and figure out what foods are similar to those I normally eat, and what foods I like and don’t like.  Thus began my quest for the perfect yogurt.  I’ll confess; I’m a yogurt snob.  When I’m home, I only buy Yoplait.  I’m not a fan of Dannon, and I’ve never bothered to try other brands, but I love Yoplait.  It is soooo good.  Alas, Germany has not yet realized this fact, so I’ve been systematically trying out all the brands stocked by the three grocery stores within walking distance of my apartment (Penny Markt, Tengelmann, and Aldi).  To date I have tried four different brands in three different flavors, but none of them really impressed me.  One even tasted much too sour, even though it was nowhere near the expiration date.  Then, at last, I visited Tengelmann one evening and came upon the Holy Grail of yogurts, the only one able to meet my high standards.  Drumroll, please.  The brand, Ehrmann Almighurt. The flavor, Birne mit Schokoraspeln. That’s pear with chocolate shavings in English.  Now, before those of you who know me altogether too well assume that my liking for this flavor is due to the word “chocolate,” let me clarify:  the chocolate isn’t sweet, but it’s not bitter either.  It’s just solid, smooth and soft.  It adds texture, but no flavor to speak of.  It’s the sweet, creamy flavor of the pear yogurt that I love.  I’d only had pear-flavored yogurt once before (Yoplait, of course).  It’s not a common flavor in the states, but trust me, it’s delicious.  So, if you ever have the opportunity to try pear yogurt, be sure that you do.  Thus endeth my quest.  Fair thee well, my friends, ere we meet again.