The air had not been moving for days. The fireball in the baby blue sky has turned this most vivid tourist attraction mile into a dusty urban desert. Those who can have migrated to the mint tasting freshness of the Brandenburg lakes, those who can’t are attending the Miss Roasted Chicken 2008 awards in the empty brown fields that used to be healthy green parks a fortnight ago.
Only Patrick, Andy and Julia are excluded from the worship of the sun. The university is merciless. However, Julia’s goal for that afternoon is not to finish the university work but to get Patrick to migrate to a hidden lonely lake with her. She likes his long, brown hair, his three day’s beard, his Hawaiian shirt and the imagination of what might be underneath it. Yes, she has a crush on him. Only problem is, Andy wants to join the trip to the lake. Andy is the type of guy who is always well prepared – wearing a suit to university that you would imagine a 60 old history professor to wear, even when it’s 40 degrees outside because he might run into his 60 years old history professor. But he isn’t prepared for spontaneous natural refreshment. “The only problem is I don’t have swimming shorts.”
“No problem, I can borrow you some of mine,” Patrick’s only problem is that he is too nice to everybody. Comparing the body sizes of the two, Andy would look like a 1970’s coast guard in shorts that were very loose around Patrick’s hips. Julia realised that she needs to put an impediment to that: “Or I can borrow you one of mine. I have a beautiful see-through blue two-piece bathing suit. You’d look sexy in that.”
See-through! Blue! Two-piece! Bathing suit! The guys would have not been guys, if they weren’t getting curious. “Why do you have a see-through bathing suit?” “I wore it so often that it became see-through.” “Why do you keep it?” “I keep it to wear it under t-shirts that you tie around your neck.”
That night Julia calls up Patrick with the obvious intention to make a date even though her explanation is that she needs to borrow some papers. The conversation drifts off and of course the bathing suit is mentioned. “You could send me a picture of you wearing it,” Patrick suggests. The next thing Julia does, is to call up her best male friend Robert to ask, if that means that Patrick is interested in her. Of course, Robert wants to know about the bathing suit. He just became member number three of the secret blue bathing suit society.
The next day, Julia and Patrick actually have a date. “By chance” Julia wears a T-shirt to tie around her neck and that bikini underneath it. But Patrick is too shy to comment on it or attempt to take it off.
The morning after that, Julia is late, her flat is in a mess. Where is a bra? There’s the bikini from last night. One can see its strings under the T-shirt, never mind, I gotta go.
Robert is the first to ask her about it: “Hey, are you wearing that see-though blue bathing suit. Turn around, can I see it.” For the rest of the day, he sends her notes that she should take off her t-shirt and sit in from of Patrick in the library, if she is into him for real.
Then, Andy comes along. “Are you wearing that see-through blue bathing suit? Can I touch is and feel the fabric.” He almost takes of her T-shirt in front of everybody. Julia is annoyed, she’s had enough. She decides to demystify that ordinary boring blue two-piece bathing suit. At home, she takes a picture of it lying empty on her bed. She sends the picture to the three members of her secret society. She gets two answers. Robert says: “What a pity, I would have liked to see you in that.” Andy says: “I’m too much of a gentleman to open the file.” Only the person, whose attention she wanted to attract remains silent.
Another day later, she sits in the cafeteria complaining to her female best friend about the male capacity of legend building. What she doesn’t realize is that Max, another good friend of hers is sitting at the next table listening to everything. “I’d love to get those pictures, too.” That’s secret society member number four.
Meanwhile, Robert and Patrick try to convince Andy that there is nothing un-gentleman-like about opening those files. Fabian is with them, he is the one of the clique who is known to have the wildest connections of synapses in his head. It takes about ten minutes until he comes up to Julia suggesting: “You should take pictures of all your underwear and put them on the cafeteria walls.” Yes, Julia has learned her lesson now, sometimes silence is golden and talking is nothing but a blue see-though bathing suit.
Montag, 28. Juli 2008
Sonntag, 27. Juli 2008
Indiana Jones and the Roman Flower Bed Drainage
The cool thing about being 14 and spending all your days at a horse riding school is that you can try all kinds of vocations there. You can practise being a vet, a teacher, a bar tender, even an archaeologist:
Our horse riding instructor had told us to put some pansies in the flower bed at the entrance of the horse riding school. We were bored because the older girls had their lesson and did not want us to watch, and our instructor gave us lessons for free if we helped in the stable. So we said yes and started digging.
We dug several holes to put the flowers in there. Soon, we started to hit a rock. Let’s dig out that rock, it’s not supposed to be in a flower bed. When the rock hit daylight, we saw that it looked big and ancient.
We had grown up in Aachen, always conscious of the fact that we were walking on Ancient Roman foundations. We had learned in school that the Romans had founded Aquae Grani because of the healthy water and had left their traces all over the place. Just a couple of weeks ago, people had found the residues of a Roman villa when they started building a new shopping centre.
Maybe that rock was Roman, too? The hot sources were only a stone’s throw away from where we were digging. Maybe the horse riding school was built on the ground a Roman villa, or even an arena? We continued digging. And indeed, we found more rocks, same size, same ancient look. They were buried next to each other.
Were those the top rocks of a Roman wall? We became excited. But, what if the wall continued underneath the barn? Would they have to tear down the barn if the archaeologists dug up the Roman wall? When we asked ourselves that question we were a hundred percent sure that we had found something ancient and that we were doing the right thing in digging it out.
Then, our horse riding instructor came along, seeing 5 teenage girls all dirty with mud and a flower bed that doesn’t look like one anymore. “What’s your business digging up those rocks? You were supposed to simply plant those flowers,” he told us and we explained him our newest excavations.
“Those rocks are definitely not ancient,” he explained us then, “I buried them myself”
“But why?”
“Because I tried to build a drainage for the flower bed, so that the rain water wouldn’t stay there. So, please put those rocks back where you found them.”
Our horse riding instructor had told us to put some pansies in the flower bed at the entrance of the horse riding school. We were bored because the older girls had their lesson and did not want us to watch, and our instructor gave us lessons for free if we helped in the stable. So we said yes and started digging.
We dug several holes to put the flowers in there. Soon, we started to hit a rock. Let’s dig out that rock, it’s not supposed to be in a flower bed. When the rock hit daylight, we saw that it looked big and ancient.
We had grown up in Aachen, always conscious of the fact that we were walking on Ancient Roman foundations. We had learned in school that the Romans had founded Aquae Grani because of the healthy water and had left their traces all over the place. Just a couple of weeks ago, people had found the residues of a Roman villa when they started building a new shopping centre.
Maybe that rock was Roman, too? The hot sources were only a stone’s throw away from where we were digging. Maybe the horse riding school was built on the ground a Roman villa, or even an arena? We continued digging. And indeed, we found more rocks, same size, same ancient look. They were buried next to each other.
Were those the top rocks of a Roman wall? We became excited. But, what if the wall continued underneath the barn? Would they have to tear down the barn if the archaeologists dug up the Roman wall? When we asked ourselves that question we were a hundred percent sure that we had found something ancient and that we were doing the right thing in digging it out.
Then, our horse riding instructor came along, seeing 5 teenage girls all dirty with mud and a flower bed that doesn’t look like one anymore. “What’s your business digging up those rocks? You were supposed to simply plant those flowers,” he told us and we explained him our newest excavations.
“Those rocks are definitely not ancient,” he explained us then, “I buried them myself”
“But why?”
“Because I tried to build a drainage for the flower bed, so that the rain water wouldn’t stay there. So, please put those rocks back where you found them.”
Samstag, 26. Juli 2008
The red lipstick glitter disco river bank summer night
Last Thursday I got a phone call from my childhood friend Hanna. She is in Berlin now on a business trip, hitting Hamburg next and then going all the way to Switzerland. “Shall we meet tonight” “Of course” In our youth, Hanna and me have been best friends. When we met in a Pizzaria in one of the most vivid streets of this town, we realize that we haven’t seen each other for almost three years.
Hanna’s look has become much more ordinary than what I remember, a pink cardigan instead of second-hand T-shirts, jeans instead of self-made skirts. I look much more alternative stylish than three years ago with my XL-print T-Shirt, my stylish bangs, ballarina shoes and kitsch red lipstick. Hanna complains about all those London fashion victims here in Berlin, I love their pop iconicity.
We talk about her trips to Taiwan, Laos, Thailand, my trips to Poland, Spain and the Balkans. “Your trips were probably much more exciting because South East Asia is so westernized,” she tells me. Then, about common childhood friends “Elke got married, Lena now works as a secretary,” faded boyfriends, the usual. Hanna gets a phone call from some people from her group going to a pub. She asks me if I want to join. The only obligation I have is to be at work tomorrow morning at 10 – of course I do.
We meet in a bar on a raft on the river Spree. It is a beautiful summer evening – the best way the city can present itself. People enjoy an after-work beer, there is chill techno music in the background. The Berlin mosquitos are the greatest in the world because they don’t eat us alive. Hanna and her friends from work tell me how much they love the city, the openness of the people, the art that is in the air, or rather sprayed on run down buildings. I have to agree, in moments like this, I love this city.
After one beer, most of the group leaves because they are tired. I’m shocked, it’s only 11 o’clock. “You must think we’re those hillbillies who don’t know how to party,” one of the girls tells me. The truth is, yes, I guess I’ve become a metropolitan party queen. How can you go to bed on such a beautiful night? Some of the guys want to go to a place that some street musician recommended to them – the Cassiopeia. I’ve heard about it before but have never been there. I don’t want to embarrass myself by admitting that as a Berliner I don’t know this place, so I suggest something else, but they want to go there.
In the end, that choice was perfect. The Cassiopeia is all that 21st century Berlin is about: the mixture of old and new, poor but sexy. It is a run down factory on the river bank, two floors, the walls painted red, a star spangled mirror ball, a city beach in the patio, antique deckchairs and sofas, a place to play ping pong and climb, cheap drinks. The music is hip hop and techno, just what Hanna and me danced to in our youth because the two discos would play nothing else. The public is a mixture of London glitter style tourist from Spanish provincial towns and Berliners in T-shirt, Jeans and Sneakers. My alternative chique lipstick beauty is right in between all that and even Hanna doesn’t feel underdressed.
Hanna is completely transfixed by this place. “I love it, I love it” she keeps shouting. It’s a mixture between the Sage and Kulturbrauerei, the places I go out normally, I think I have to keep this one in mind. Just like 7 years ago, Hanna and me are the first on the dance floor, the guys from our group follow. They are from the same town as Hanna and me, I find out and they went to the same crappy disco there- the B9. On the floor, we perform the worst B9 dancing moves and the glitter people join us when the place starts filling up at 2 o’clock.
The next day, I’m completely tired when I get to work but after two cups of coffee my red lip stick smile comes back. I love the city of Berlin – thanks to my old school friend I remembered again why I did.
Hanna’s look has become much more ordinary than what I remember, a pink cardigan instead of second-hand T-shirts, jeans instead of self-made skirts. I look much more alternative stylish than three years ago with my XL-print T-Shirt, my stylish bangs, ballarina shoes and kitsch red lipstick. Hanna complains about all those London fashion victims here in Berlin, I love their pop iconicity.
We talk about her trips to Taiwan, Laos, Thailand, my trips to Poland, Spain and the Balkans. “Your trips were probably much more exciting because South East Asia is so westernized,” she tells me. Then, about common childhood friends “Elke got married, Lena now works as a secretary,” faded boyfriends, the usual. Hanna gets a phone call from some people from her group going to a pub. She asks me if I want to join. The only obligation I have is to be at work tomorrow morning at 10 – of course I do.
We meet in a bar on a raft on the river Spree. It is a beautiful summer evening – the best way the city can present itself. People enjoy an after-work beer, there is chill techno music in the background. The Berlin mosquitos are the greatest in the world because they don’t eat us alive. Hanna and her friends from work tell me how much they love the city, the openness of the people, the art that is in the air, or rather sprayed on run down buildings. I have to agree, in moments like this, I love this city.
After one beer, most of the group leaves because they are tired. I’m shocked, it’s only 11 o’clock. “You must think we’re those hillbillies who don’t know how to party,” one of the girls tells me. The truth is, yes, I guess I’ve become a metropolitan party queen. How can you go to bed on such a beautiful night? Some of the guys want to go to a place that some street musician recommended to them – the Cassiopeia. I’ve heard about it before but have never been there. I don’t want to embarrass myself by admitting that as a Berliner I don’t know this place, so I suggest something else, but they want to go there.
In the end, that choice was perfect. The Cassiopeia is all that 21st century Berlin is about: the mixture of old and new, poor but sexy. It is a run down factory on the river bank, two floors, the walls painted red, a star spangled mirror ball, a city beach in the patio, antique deckchairs and sofas, a place to play ping pong and climb, cheap drinks. The music is hip hop and techno, just what Hanna and me danced to in our youth because the two discos would play nothing else. The public is a mixture of London glitter style tourist from Spanish provincial towns and Berliners in T-shirt, Jeans and Sneakers. My alternative chique lipstick beauty is right in between all that and even Hanna doesn’t feel underdressed.
Hanna is completely transfixed by this place. “I love it, I love it” she keeps shouting. It’s a mixture between the Sage and Kulturbrauerei, the places I go out normally, I think I have to keep this one in mind. Just like 7 years ago, Hanna and me are the first on the dance floor, the guys from our group follow. They are from the same town as Hanna and me, I find out and they went to the same crappy disco there- the B9. On the floor, we perform the worst B9 dancing moves and the glitter people join us when the place starts filling up at 2 o’clock.
The next day, I’m completely tired when I get to work but after two cups of coffee my red lip stick smile comes back. I love the city of Berlin – thanks to my old school friend I remembered again why I did.
Sonntag, 20. Juli 2008
The blessings and curses of being the youngest
My youngest cousin is three years younger than me. The two of us have pretty much the same life story: we both went to a good school, graduated, went to university, had several relationships, several part time jobs. In all those things, I was always the first. I was the first in the family to have bring home a Turkish boyfriend, the first in the family to enter University, the first to learn Latin.
In that sense, my cousin always had it easier than me. He never had to listen to my grandfather going on about him forgetting another piece of his background with every foreign word he learned. And that, even though his dread locks were meant to be much more provocative than my Oasis T-shirt. When he did those things, my grandparents had already gotten used to the idea of their grandchildren doing things only their class enemy knew about.
When I decided to spend some time in the USA, I got to hear all those worries, concerns and complaints by my family. Why are you leaving, don’t you like it here? What if you get robbed? What if you get lost? Do you hate your family so much that you want to get away from us? Yes, family reunions were getting annoying in those days. The same thing happened when I was about to go Spain.
Why do you have to go to Spain? Can’t you study here? But in Spain, there is the ETA? Do you know how much it will cost to get there, in case something happens to you?
Now, my little cousin has decided to go to Costa Rica and work as a farm hand there. A much more daring and adventurous plan than me staying in a host family or getting an Erasmus scholarship, I think. I really admire his courage for doing that – going to a foreign country without a double bottom consisting of an organisation, scholarship money and a list of cheap student housings.
When he announced his plan to my grandparents, they reacted much different from what I had expected. Instead of giving him thousands warnings, my grandmother just said: “Well, you young people need to have some international experience in your CV now, don’t you?” There was no “but you really have to go?” kind of talk. Instead my cousin could lean back while I had to endure my grandmother’s worries about me not being married at the age of 24.
On the one hand, I felt envious of him for not going though all the trouble I had. On the other hand, I felt sorry for him because my grandparents didn’t seem to care so much anymore. Before I had gone off to Spain, my grandmother had made me show her on a map exactly where I was going. After that, she spend every day watching the international weather forecast on TV to see if I was about to get hit by a thunderstorm or a drought. Now, her grandchildren going abroad and coming back after a year, seems to have become a normal thing for her. And my poor cousin doesn’t have anybody who worries about the weather for him.
In that sense, my cousin always had it easier than me. He never had to listen to my grandfather going on about him forgetting another piece of his background with every foreign word he learned. And that, even though his dread locks were meant to be much more provocative than my Oasis T-shirt. When he did those things, my grandparents had already gotten used to the idea of their grandchildren doing things only their class enemy knew about.
When I decided to spend some time in the USA, I got to hear all those worries, concerns and complaints by my family. Why are you leaving, don’t you like it here? What if you get robbed? What if you get lost? Do you hate your family so much that you want to get away from us? Yes, family reunions were getting annoying in those days. The same thing happened when I was about to go Spain.
Why do you have to go to Spain? Can’t you study here? But in Spain, there is the ETA? Do you know how much it will cost to get there, in case something happens to you?
Now, my little cousin has decided to go to Costa Rica and work as a farm hand there. A much more daring and adventurous plan than me staying in a host family or getting an Erasmus scholarship, I think. I really admire his courage for doing that – going to a foreign country without a double bottom consisting of an organisation, scholarship money and a list of cheap student housings.
When he announced his plan to my grandparents, they reacted much different from what I had expected. Instead of giving him thousands warnings, my grandmother just said: “Well, you young people need to have some international experience in your CV now, don’t you?” There was no “but you really have to go?” kind of talk. Instead my cousin could lean back while I had to endure my grandmother’s worries about me not being married at the age of 24.
On the one hand, I felt envious of him for not going though all the trouble I had. On the other hand, I felt sorry for him because my grandparents didn’t seem to care so much anymore. Before I had gone off to Spain, my grandmother had made me show her on a map exactly where I was going. After that, she spend every day watching the international weather forecast on TV to see if I was about to get hit by a thunderstorm or a drought. Now, her grandchildren going abroad and coming back after a year, seems to have become a normal thing for her. And my poor cousin doesn’t have anybody who worries about the weather for him.
Donnerstag, 17. Juli 2008
The most successful punk band ever
It was a historical moment. A grey Saturday afternoon in a Western German suburbia. That day, Hannah, Julia, and I decided to form a band. I had been playing piano for about a year, Julia owned an e-piano but didn’t know how to play and Hannah was a passionate singer. What more could you ask for? A guitar player, he was found, when Tommy from across the street agreed to join our band.
The tasks were divided quickly, Hannah would sing and write the melodies, I would write the lyrics and play the bass keys on one e-piano because bass players were always the coolest. Julia would play the keyboard chords, sing the backing vocals and play the synthesizer drums on her e-piano until we found a drummer. Tommy was to play the guitar and look cute but shut up otherwise.
But then, Hannah’s little sister Judith wanted to join the band, too. The problem was, the only instrument she knew how to play was the flute. Who had ever heard of a punk band with a flute? – we said no. She started to cry and ran to her mother. Mum told Hannah that she was grounded if she didn’t let her sister come in our band. What could we do?
During the first band practice we figured out that little Judith knew only how to play “Old McDonald had a farm”. Never mind, we said, so a punk version of “Old McDonald” would be our first hit. I changed the lyrics to sound like a protest song against McDonalds and pro animal-rights. After we decided that, we spend the rest of the band practice to make up our outfits.
When we met for the second time in our "garage" (that is the attic of my parents' house) things became more difficult. Each time Hannah started to sing, Judith blew her flute as loud as she could. In the end, Hannah had no choice but to lock her sister into a closet. Then Tommy decided that as he had nothing to say about the band's artistic development, he might as well listen to football on the radio instead of practising.
The original band members continued with vocals, bass, drums and keyboards until my father came up complaining about the noise. Of course, Judith used that chance to protest against her imprisonment. Discovering that we had locked her in that closet, my father told all of us to leave and as a punishment we were not allowed to use the attic anymore. After being stripped of our garage and one e-piano, which wasn't to be taken out of the house, the band split up even before our first performance.
In the end, I have to be thankful to my father. Since he caused us to split up right in the beginning, we never had the chance to be tempted by commercial success. We never sold out our art. In this way, true to the punk anti-philosophy, we were so unsuccessful that we were the most successful punk band ever.
The tasks were divided quickly, Hannah would sing and write the melodies, I would write the lyrics and play the bass keys on one e-piano because bass players were always the coolest. Julia would play the keyboard chords, sing the backing vocals and play the synthesizer drums on her e-piano until we found a drummer. Tommy was to play the guitar and look cute but shut up otherwise.
But then, Hannah’s little sister Judith wanted to join the band, too. The problem was, the only instrument she knew how to play was the flute. Who had ever heard of a punk band with a flute? – we said no. She started to cry and ran to her mother. Mum told Hannah that she was grounded if she didn’t let her sister come in our band. What could we do?
During the first band practice we figured out that little Judith knew only how to play “Old McDonald had a farm”. Never mind, we said, so a punk version of “Old McDonald” would be our first hit. I changed the lyrics to sound like a protest song against McDonalds and pro animal-rights. After we decided that, we spend the rest of the band practice to make up our outfits.
When we met for the second time in our "garage" (that is the attic of my parents' house) things became more difficult. Each time Hannah started to sing, Judith blew her flute as loud as she could. In the end, Hannah had no choice but to lock her sister into a closet. Then Tommy decided that as he had nothing to say about the band's artistic development, he might as well listen to football on the radio instead of practising.
The original band members continued with vocals, bass, drums and keyboards until my father came up complaining about the noise. Of course, Judith used that chance to protest against her imprisonment. Discovering that we had locked her in that closet, my father told all of us to leave and as a punishment we were not allowed to use the attic anymore. After being stripped of our garage and one e-piano, which wasn't to be taken out of the house, the band split up even before our first performance.
In the end, I have to be thankful to my father. Since he caused us to split up right in the beginning, we never had the chance to be tempted by commercial success. We never sold out our art. In this way, true to the punk anti-philosophy, we were so unsuccessful that we were the most successful punk band ever.
Horses with inferiority complexes
I liked Chocolate from the very beginning. She was attentive and had vivid eyes. She was not like those horses that are used for schooling, who seemed sullen and didn’t care about who is riding them. Chocolate always seemed curious about her rider and she always had her ears turned up in a friendly way.
I liked Chocolate from the very beginning, but I seemed to be the only one. When I was riding her for the first time, the horse riding instructor told me: “Be careful that she doesn’t throw you off. If she kicks and rears, don’t use the riding crop or she will throw you off.” I was surprised to hear that because it didn’t seem to fit to Chocolate’s personality.
The first lesson with her was fine. She was sensitive to the reins, she had a lovely trot and even though we didn’t do much galloping, she was responsive to my leg aids then. There was nothing that gave me the impression that she was one of those evil-minded horses, who would do anything to throw off their riders.
Two weeks later, we switched horses and the girl who was riding Chocolate at that time was having a hard time. The horse seemed completely changed, as if it was going crazy. When we came to galloping, she stood in the middle of the paddock kicking the other horses and rearing on her hinder legs. She girl seemed very desperate on top of the horse.
The week after that it was my turn with Chocolate again and she was doing the same things. She was great during the lesson, but as soon as one horse in the paddock started to gallop, she went crazy. But I managed not to fall off. I took it as a challenge to make her gallop correctly and since I was the only one who would take up the challenge, I could ride her every lesson.
For the next few weeks, I found out a couple of things: Chocolate only did the mounting when galloping on the left hand, on the right hand, she was fine. When using too much leg aid, she felt confused and wouldn’t comply. Therefore, the leg aid when starting to gallop had to be very light. If she was about to rear, I had to use the crop lightly and then she would start running like crazy. After half a lap she would slow down and react to my aids again. Thus, I always needed a lot of empty space ahead of me. If there were other horses, she would try to bite them.
Soon, I found out why Chocolate was rearing. Bully, one of those evil-minded horses, who deserved his name because of his size and shape, started kicking. Chocolate and I happened to be behind that horse and the hooves were flying in our direction. We were lucky not be hit. For the rest of the lesson, Chocolate was panicking. Whenever Bully passed us by, she jumped aside and mounted. She was clearly afraid of him.
Chocolate was one of the smallest horses in the stable and as I had just found out, she was afraid of taller horses, especially when they galloped by her. Therefore, she reared to make herself seem taller and intimidate them. A solution to her behaviour was found easily: stay ahead of the taller horses and start galloping before they do.
As soon as I stuck to those things, Chocolate was the best horse in the stable. There was only one problem. As soon as the other riders saw, how well she doing when I rode her, they wanted to ride her as well.
I liked Chocolate from the very beginning, but I seemed to be the only one. When I was riding her for the first time, the horse riding instructor told me: “Be careful that she doesn’t throw you off. If she kicks and rears, don’t use the riding crop or she will throw you off.” I was surprised to hear that because it didn’t seem to fit to Chocolate’s personality.
The first lesson with her was fine. She was sensitive to the reins, she had a lovely trot and even though we didn’t do much galloping, she was responsive to my leg aids then. There was nothing that gave me the impression that she was one of those evil-minded horses, who would do anything to throw off their riders.
Two weeks later, we switched horses and the girl who was riding Chocolate at that time was having a hard time. The horse seemed completely changed, as if it was going crazy. When we came to galloping, she stood in the middle of the paddock kicking the other horses and rearing on her hinder legs. She girl seemed very desperate on top of the horse.
The week after that it was my turn with Chocolate again and she was doing the same things. She was great during the lesson, but as soon as one horse in the paddock started to gallop, she went crazy. But I managed not to fall off. I took it as a challenge to make her gallop correctly and since I was the only one who would take up the challenge, I could ride her every lesson.
For the next few weeks, I found out a couple of things: Chocolate only did the mounting when galloping on the left hand, on the right hand, she was fine. When using too much leg aid, she felt confused and wouldn’t comply. Therefore, the leg aid when starting to gallop had to be very light. If she was about to rear, I had to use the crop lightly and then she would start running like crazy. After half a lap she would slow down and react to my aids again. Thus, I always needed a lot of empty space ahead of me. If there were other horses, she would try to bite them.
Soon, I found out why Chocolate was rearing. Bully, one of those evil-minded horses, who deserved his name because of his size and shape, started kicking. Chocolate and I happened to be behind that horse and the hooves were flying in our direction. We were lucky not be hit. For the rest of the lesson, Chocolate was panicking. Whenever Bully passed us by, she jumped aside and mounted. She was clearly afraid of him.
Chocolate was one of the smallest horses in the stable and as I had just found out, she was afraid of taller horses, especially when they galloped by her. Therefore, she reared to make herself seem taller and intimidate them. A solution to her behaviour was found easily: stay ahead of the taller horses and start galloping before they do.
As soon as I stuck to those things, Chocolate was the best horse in the stable. There was only one problem. As soon as the other riders saw, how well she doing when I rode her, they wanted to ride her as well.
Sonntag, 13. Juli 2008
Multicoloured Advertisement Dilemma
It’s a Thursday afternoon. Valery is sitting in the bus coming home from work and she is very hungry. She is thinking about dinner. What could she have? She has a fridge full of food at home but things don’t seem appropriate there. She bought a kilo of potatoes last week that is rotting away on her kitchen sink. She has to eat those potatoes soon, or she will have to throw them away.
But she doesn’t feel like eating potatoes with curd cheese. She wants something fancy, something colourful. She could stop by at the supermarket on her way home and buy deep-fried camenbert with cranberry sauce. It’s colourful and it tastes sweet. She could also bring along some chocolate pudding and some soda for desert while being at the supermarket. That sounds like a plan.
The bus continues and she is looking out of the window. It passes an advertisement poster of a fast food restaurant praising their new low fat full taste tuna sandwich.
Actually, she doesn’t feel like having camenbert anymore, Valerie decides all the sudden, she’d rather feel like having a tuna sandwich. She remembers that she has can of tuna at home, as well as a glass of prickles and some lettuce that is about to rod away in her fridge. But she doesn’t have the right bread to make a tuna sandwich. She could stop by at the bakery and get some bread, but at 5 in the afternoon they probably won’t have any left. But two bus stations from her home there is this fast food place – she could just take the bus there before even going home, get a sandwich and next door there is this coffee place, she could get some caramel flavoured iced cappuccino there. That sounds great. She has coffee and milk at home, but at home it never has this sweet, artificial taste that’s so addictive.
Or maybe, she could eat something with ketchup – it occurs to her all the sudden. But actually she doesn’t like ketchup. How did she come up with that idea anyway? Then, she notices the advertisement for a ketchup bottle hanging on the inside of the bus, right in front of her eyes. Is that the only reason why she feels like eating ketchup now? Is it so easy to manipulate her?
She decides that she doesn’t let herself be manipulated that easily. She decides to say no to consumerism – at least for today. She is not going to spend any money that day. Instead she will go straight home and make herself the potatoes sitting in her kitchen and be happy. She won’t let herself be terrorized by advertisement anymore. After all, she likes potatoes much more than fried cheese or tuna sandwiches.
But she doesn’t feel like eating potatoes with curd cheese. She wants something fancy, something colourful. She could stop by at the supermarket on her way home and buy deep-fried camenbert with cranberry sauce. It’s colourful and it tastes sweet. She could also bring along some chocolate pudding and some soda for desert while being at the supermarket. That sounds like a plan.
The bus continues and she is looking out of the window. It passes an advertisement poster of a fast food restaurant praising their new low fat full taste tuna sandwich.
Actually, she doesn’t feel like having camenbert anymore, Valerie decides all the sudden, she’d rather feel like having a tuna sandwich. She remembers that she has can of tuna at home, as well as a glass of prickles and some lettuce that is about to rod away in her fridge. But she doesn’t have the right bread to make a tuna sandwich. She could stop by at the bakery and get some bread, but at 5 in the afternoon they probably won’t have any left. But two bus stations from her home there is this fast food place – she could just take the bus there before even going home, get a sandwich and next door there is this coffee place, she could get some caramel flavoured iced cappuccino there. That sounds great. She has coffee and milk at home, but at home it never has this sweet, artificial taste that’s so addictive.
Or maybe, she could eat something with ketchup – it occurs to her all the sudden. But actually she doesn’t like ketchup. How did she come up with that idea anyway? Then, she notices the advertisement for a ketchup bottle hanging on the inside of the bus, right in front of her eyes. Is that the only reason why she feels like eating ketchup now? Is it so easy to manipulate her?
She decides that she doesn’t let herself be manipulated that easily. She decides to say no to consumerism – at least for today. She is not going to spend any money that day. Instead she will go straight home and make herself the potatoes sitting in her kitchen and be happy. She won’t let herself be terrorized by advertisement anymore. After all, she likes potatoes much more than fried cheese or tuna sandwiches.
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