Sara was the first girl in her class to have breasts. She was 11 years old. Puberty had not yet sunken in with her when her mother tried to have that mother and daughter talk about soon you’ll be a woman, you’ll get your period and personal hygiene is very important now etc. Sara didn’t really listen, she had been reading teenage magazines in secret for about two years.
But when her breasts started to grow, this put her to a problem: how to dress? Her mother had always bought her long and wide T-shirts, and with the first dents appearing she looked completely out of shape – she thought that she looked fat in those.
She tried a sweater that was really tight and made her blooming chest appear bigger than it was. For the first time, her friends noticed her breasts and were envious: “You’re breasts are too big. You need to have surgery to make them smaller or you will have problems with your back for the rest of your life.” Yes, Sara didn’t feel comfortable with her breasts at all. She couldn’t understand why other girls envied her and put socks in their empty bras.
When boys started to play an important role in her life, her breasts were in her way again. She had the feeling that boys were only looking at them and not at her. She had a hard time making her first boyfriend understand that she did not appreciate him opening her bra in public.
By the time puberty ended, she had gotten used to the fact that her breasts were bigger than those of her friends – she tried to use them as weapons and started to wear T-shirts with a very low neck-line. But after a party pictures of her neck-line started to circulate around her school. She felt embarrassed and took more care to dress decently.
Sara’s self-image in her early twens was that of a rather curvy woman with big breasts which attracted a certain type of men - not necessarily the type of man she wanted to attract. But when she was 24, she had to learn the hard way that self images are sometimes far away from the reality. She was in a disco with her best girlfriends wearing a T-shirt that highlighted her curves and hid the problem zones, she had started to feel really comfortable with her body and she was on the hunt. That night all her friends were talked to, but she wasn’t. That’s because they all have bigger breasts than I do, she thought bitterly and it occurred to her that her breasts weren’t that big at all, in comparison to her friends quite ordinary. That was what she had always wanted during puberty, but could the ordinary compete in a world of plastic surgery?
Montag, 30. Juni 2008
Sonntag, 29. Juni 2008
Americans are different
A bar full of international students in some university town: The walls of the bar are painted red, there is Indi Rock music on the stereo. The table is full of empty glasses. One hears laughter and creative English with different accents.
We might have been in Poznan, in Gijón, in Turku, or in Utrecht, Osijek, Liverpool or Aachen, it didn’t really matter. The bar, the drinks, the people and the music could have been everywhere across Europe. We had gone through a lot of drinking games so far that night. We played what the Germans call Mäxchen, the Czechs Mahaček and the English Cheating, we played something that has to do with flipping coins which is well known in Asturias, Palatine and Lanchester, and the backpackers from New Zealand taught us a game that was called card race.
It was about 2 am in the morning and we had known each other for about 9 hours. The boys from England ordered another round of Cuba Libre for all of us, even though one of them was already passed out on his chair. It was time for the Never-Ever game.
For those, who don’t know Never Ever, it’s quite easy. One person in the group says a sentence including ‘never ever’ (e.g. I’ve never ever been to Romania) and the people who have done that (in that case been to Romania) have to drink. Usually, the sentences involve sex, so ‘I’ve never had sex on the beach’ would be a more suitable example. The goal of the game is to reveal things about the other people in the group and get them drunk.
So, I found myself raising the glass to the sentence ‘I have never made out with a Spaniard.’ The game went on: “I’ve never had sex in a car.” Five of us drank. “I’ve never had cheated on my boy/girl friend” Only two were drinking, “I’ve never had a one night stand” everybody except for two American girls drank. Then it was the turn of the American girl. Her statement was “I’ve never had sex with more than one person in my life.”
8 Europeans and New Zealanders, all between 21 and 24 years old, started to laugh and drank the rest of their drinks. The glasses of the American girls were still almost full. The two American girls seemed quite shocked. They asked us: “So, how many people have you slept with?”
The average number of sexual partners in our group was 7, it turned out. One American girl then told us that she had only slept with one man in her and that she had thought that she was going to marry him until he left her. A sad story and the alcohol made it even sadder. She went on giving a movie like speech that she only would sleep with someone who she really loved and whom she would marry, she hoped that her future partner would do the same thing. Otherwise she would always wonder about all the other women her guy had slept with before her, if they had any diseases, if he had felt anything for those women. She couldn’t understand why we were not concerned about those things, she had known us for half a night and she knew we were quite decent people.
One of the girls shut her up: “Man, it’s just sex, don’t make such a fuss about it.” The Polish, German, Belgian and English students all agreed. I don’t want to know how many of us had sex that night, but nobodywas planning to get spend the rest of his/her with that person, in the end.
We might have been in Poznan, in Gijón, in Turku, or in Utrecht, Osijek, Liverpool or Aachen, it didn’t really matter. The bar, the drinks, the people and the music could have been everywhere across Europe. We had gone through a lot of drinking games so far that night. We played what the Germans call Mäxchen, the Czechs Mahaček and the English Cheating, we played something that has to do with flipping coins which is well known in Asturias, Palatine and Lanchester, and the backpackers from New Zealand taught us a game that was called card race.
It was about 2 am in the morning and we had known each other for about 9 hours. The boys from England ordered another round of Cuba Libre for all of us, even though one of them was already passed out on his chair. It was time for the Never-Ever game.
For those, who don’t know Never Ever, it’s quite easy. One person in the group says a sentence including ‘never ever’ (e.g. I’ve never ever been to Romania) and the people who have done that (in that case been to Romania) have to drink. Usually, the sentences involve sex, so ‘I’ve never had sex on the beach’ would be a more suitable example. The goal of the game is to reveal things about the other people in the group and get them drunk.
So, I found myself raising the glass to the sentence ‘I have never made out with a Spaniard.’ The game went on: “I’ve never had sex in a car.” Five of us drank. “I’ve never had cheated on my boy/girl friend” Only two were drinking, “I’ve never had a one night stand” everybody except for two American girls drank. Then it was the turn of the American girl. Her statement was “I’ve never had sex with more than one person in my life.”
8 Europeans and New Zealanders, all between 21 and 24 years old, started to laugh and drank the rest of their drinks. The glasses of the American girls were still almost full. The two American girls seemed quite shocked. They asked us: “So, how many people have you slept with?”
The average number of sexual partners in our group was 7, it turned out. One American girl then told us that she had only slept with one man in her and that she had thought that she was going to marry him until he left her. A sad story and the alcohol made it even sadder. She went on giving a movie like speech that she only would sleep with someone who she really loved and whom she would marry, she hoped that her future partner would do the same thing. Otherwise she would always wonder about all the other women her guy had slept with before her, if they had any diseases, if he had felt anything for those women. She couldn’t understand why we were not concerned about those things, she had known us for half a night and she knew we were quite decent people.
One of the girls shut her up: “Man, it’s just sex, don’t make such a fuss about it.” The Polish, German, Belgian and English students all agreed. I don’t want to know how many of us had sex that night, but nobodywas planning to get spend the rest of his/her with that person, in the end.
Samstag, 28. Juni 2008
In between cultures
The young woman came home for a Sunday dinner with her parents. She didn’t like the idea of going there because her parents only asked her one question: “Why don’t you get a job?”
She has been unemployed for 6 months by now. After she graduated from high school, she did not start a job training in the company where her father worked, the way her parents had wanted her to do. Instead, she enrolled in a university and studied some kind of humanities. Her mother always struggled to explain what her daughter was actually doing. At first, the parents had been okay with the choice because they thought any university degree might do her daughter good.
But tensions had increased during the studies. The father had often accused his daughter of intellectual talk and once she graduated her parents began to realize that ethnologists were not searched for in the local newspaper.
After graduating, she remained unemployed. Since she didn’t make any money on her own, her boyfriend paid her rent. She had met him at a law school party and his parents were loaded. But her parents didn’t like him. He looked down on their working class pride as if it was a thing that people should have gotten over by the end of the 1920s.
That was why they did not want him to marry their daughter. They sensed that she had started to feel ashamed of her background and they did not want his charity to pay their daughter’s costs of living. They had hoped that they had raised their daughter to be self-sufficient and self-confident women. They were hoping that their daughter would leave that guy once she was not dependent on him anymore.
The daughter wasn’t able to explain them that she loved him that her boyfriend was able to offer her and her future children a much more exciting life than her working-class parents ever could do. That future consisted of opera instead of TV, Patagonia instead of Mallorca, sushi instead of hamburgers, piano music instead of the radio.
She was sitting at the table. Her mother put a bowl with potatoes down and her father talked about the latest automobile racing. Then he began with the typical Sunday question: “And, do you have a job now?” Silently she shook her head praying that interrogation would not continue. He asked again: “Why don’t you get a job? It can’t be that difficult?”
She had enough. So, she stood up. She looked at her father throughout and then she asked: “Why? Why don’t you just leave me alone?”
Then she left her parents’ apartment without saying goodbye. She took the bus and drove though half of the city to get to her future parents-in-law’s house. There, her boyfriend was having the same kind of family dinner. The differences were that instead of TV noises there was the sound of Haydn in the background, the meat was not deep frozen and the talk was about a Goya exhibition instead of Formula 1.
Nobody asked her about her job or why she came over. They started to talk politics. Her boyfriend’s mother, who came from a family of industrialists, asked her: “So, how is your family feeling about the recent workers’ strikes, I think that most workers are actually against those unions.”
“My parents are both union members and we think that the strike is a legitimate means to make the society aware of the situation.” she said with pride in her voice before realizing that this remark was considered inadequate.
She continued to eat silently. She could feel the disapproving looks coming from all sides of the table, especially from her boyfriend. She wished to disappear. It seemed as if she did not fit in anywhere.
She has been unemployed for 6 months by now. After she graduated from high school, she did not start a job training in the company where her father worked, the way her parents had wanted her to do. Instead, she enrolled in a university and studied some kind of humanities. Her mother always struggled to explain what her daughter was actually doing. At first, the parents had been okay with the choice because they thought any university degree might do her daughter good.
But tensions had increased during the studies. The father had often accused his daughter of intellectual talk and once she graduated her parents began to realize that ethnologists were not searched for in the local newspaper.
After graduating, she remained unemployed. Since she didn’t make any money on her own, her boyfriend paid her rent. She had met him at a law school party and his parents were loaded. But her parents didn’t like him. He looked down on their working class pride as if it was a thing that people should have gotten over by the end of the 1920s.
That was why they did not want him to marry their daughter. They sensed that she had started to feel ashamed of her background and they did not want his charity to pay their daughter’s costs of living. They had hoped that they had raised their daughter to be self-sufficient and self-confident women. They were hoping that their daughter would leave that guy once she was not dependent on him anymore.
The daughter wasn’t able to explain them that she loved him that her boyfriend was able to offer her and her future children a much more exciting life than her working-class parents ever could do. That future consisted of opera instead of TV, Patagonia instead of Mallorca, sushi instead of hamburgers, piano music instead of the radio.
She was sitting at the table. Her mother put a bowl with potatoes down and her father talked about the latest automobile racing. Then he began with the typical Sunday question: “And, do you have a job now?” Silently she shook her head praying that interrogation would not continue. He asked again: “Why don’t you get a job? It can’t be that difficult?”
She had enough. So, she stood up. She looked at her father throughout and then she asked: “Why? Why don’t you just leave me alone?”
Then she left her parents’ apartment without saying goodbye. She took the bus and drove though half of the city to get to her future parents-in-law’s house. There, her boyfriend was having the same kind of family dinner. The differences were that instead of TV noises there was the sound of Haydn in the background, the meat was not deep frozen and the talk was about a Goya exhibition instead of Formula 1.
Nobody asked her about her job or why she came over. They started to talk politics. Her boyfriend’s mother, who came from a family of industrialists, asked her: “So, how is your family feeling about the recent workers’ strikes, I think that most workers are actually against those unions.”
“My parents are both union members and we think that the strike is a legitimate means to make the society aware of the situation.” she said with pride in her voice before realizing that this remark was considered inadequate.
She continued to eat silently. She could feel the disapproving looks coming from all sides of the table, especially from her boyfriend. She wished to disappear. It seemed as if she did not fit in anywhere.
Freitag, 27. Juni 2008
What happened to teenage dreams
He was sitting on the central square in town and he sang a song I knew very well. “Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be” I knew all the lyrics by heart. It was the summer of 2001, but I wanted it to be 1991 because I was affected by Grunge fever.
I stopped and watched that guy play. With his ragged blue jeans, his bleached blonde hair and his Chucks, he looked a bit like Kurt Cobain. I couldn’t help but sing along. When he noticed me, he smiled at me with the most gorgeous smile ever. I was falling in love. As soon as he finished his song he came over to me and asked: “You really seem to love Nirvana, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” was all I could answer even though I would have wanted to tell him: “and I love you.”
He took the coins out of the guitar case right in front of him and told me: “I’m going to have drink; you want to come along?” So, I came along with him. We came to a run down shag in a field where some punks were selling the cheapest beer in cans. He bought a can of beer for himself and a can for me. Then we continued walking and he guided me to a stream at the end of the field. We sat down on the banks and he put his arm around me.
At first, we were drinking our beer silently. Then we started talking, or rather he started talking. He told me that he wanted to be a Grunge singer. He was ‘working’ as a street musician only until he had money to buy himself a ticket to Seattle. There, he would be discovered as a star and become famous. At 27 he would kill himself, just like his great idol Kurt Cobain had done, because all great musicians die at the age of 27.
When he finished his drink, he took up his guitar and started to play again. I was transfixed. He knew how to sing and play really well. I dreamed of giving up school and coming to Seattle with him. While he played the songs from Nirvana’s unplugged album, the sun was setting. Then he kissed me. It might have been the most romantic moment in my life.
But all the sudden he got up and told me: “I gotta go.”
“Why do you have to go?”
He answered me in a singing voice: “We are not in Seattle, dear, and I don’t want to get stuck somewhere with a girl until I made it to Seattle.”
I felt his voice piercing my heart and then I said goodbye to my teenage dream of dating a musicians who would write a love song for me.
I stopped and watched that guy play. With his ragged blue jeans, his bleached blonde hair and his Chucks, he looked a bit like Kurt Cobain. I couldn’t help but sing along. When he noticed me, he smiled at me with the most gorgeous smile ever. I was falling in love. As soon as he finished his song he came over to me and asked: “You really seem to love Nirvana, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” was all I could answer even though I would have wanted to tell him: “and I love you.”
He took the coins out of the guitar case right in front of him and told me: “I’m going to have drink; you want to come along?” So, I came along with him. We came to a run down shag in a field where some punks were selling the cheapest beer in cans. He bought a can of beer for himself and a can for me. Then we continued walking and he guided me to a stream at the end of the field. We sat down on the banks and he put his arm around me.
At first, we were drinking our beer silently. Then we started talking, or rather he started talking. He told me that he wanted to be a Grunge singer. He was ‘working’ as a street musician only until he had money to buy himself a ticket to Seattle. There, he would be discovered as a star and become famous. At 27 he would kill himself, just like his great idol Kurt Cobain had done, because all great musicians die at the age of 27.
When he finished his drink, he took up his guitar and started to play again. I was transfixed. He knew how to sing and play really well. I dreamed of giving up school and coming to Seattle with him. While he played the songs from Nirvana’s unplugged album, the sun was setting. Then he kissed me. It might have been the most romantic moment in my life.
But all the sudden he got up and told me: “I gotta go.”
“Why do you have to go?”
He answered me in a singing voice: “We are not in Seattle, dear, and I don’t want to get stuck somewhere with a girl until I made it to Seattle.”
I felt his voice piercing my heart and then I said goodbye to my teenage dream of dating a musicians who would write a love song for me.
Donnerstag, 26. Juni 2008
The writer who doesn't know what to write
She is sitting at her desk. In front of her, there is a notebook and a pencil. She has to write something now- just something.
Writing, that was her job. She was a writer. She wasn’t very famous or decorated with success, she couldn’t even make a living from her writings. But, somehow she needed writing like other people need oxygen.
Her friends always told her that she was writing the most exciting and most interesting stories in the world. But her critics didn’t agree with that, what they said in their comments was destructive.
She knew that she could write very well, when she was sad. Pain and sorrow were great inspirations; they made turned words into a torrent. But today she isn’t sad. She had been out with her friends on Friday and Saturday night, and she had talked to her mum on the phone for an hour. Now she is nervously sitting at her desk looking out of the window. She is watching the birds flying in the summer sun and trees shaking in the summer breeze. She doesn’t do anything but watch.
This is too much of an idyll for writing, she thinks. The sky looks like a motive for a postcard. But she knows that she has to write something. She has to be productive because her fans expect that from her. She thinks a lot about things she can write about.
What did she do yesterday? She watched TV, then she met some friends and went to a pub. She rejects that idea, nothing profound in it, nothing serious, nothing that laments the errors of this world. She thinks a lot and rejects a lot of ideas. It seems like she does nothing all day long except for sitting restlessly at her desk and rejecting one idea after the other. It’s getting late. But finally she has an idea which doesn’t get rejected by her superego right away. She starts writing:
The writer who doesn’t know what to write.
Writing, that was her job. She was a writer. She wasn’t very famous or decorated with success, she couldn’t even make a living from her writings. But, somehow she needed writing like other people need oxygen.
Her friends always told her that she was writing the most exciting and most interesting stories in the world. But her critics didn’t agree with that, what they said in their comments was destructive.
She knew that she could write very well, when she was sad. Pain and sorrow were great inspirations; they made turned words into a torrent. But today she isn’t sad. She had been out with her friends on Friday and Saturday night, and she had talked to her mum on the phone for an hour. Now she is nervously sitting at her desk looking out of the window. She is watching the birds flying in the summer sun and trees shaking in the summer breeze. She doesn’t do anything but watch.
This is too much of an idyll for writing, she thinks. The sky looks like a motive for a postcard. But she knows that she has to write something. She has to be productive because her fans expect that from her. She thinks a lot about things she can write about.
What did she do yesterday? She watched TV, then she met some friends and went to a pub. She rejects that idea, nothing profound in it, nothing serious, nothing that laments the errors of this world. She thinks a lot and rejects a lot of ideas. It seems like she does nothing all day long except for sitting restlessly at her desk and rejecting one idea after the other. It’s getting late. But finally she has an idea which doesn’t get rejected by her superego right away. She starts writing:
The writer who doesn’t know what to write.
Montag, 23. Juni 2008
Under neon loneliness
As a lonely person, I'm afraid that people might notice my loneliness. When I go somewhere on my own, I'm often worried that people think I'm some kind of freak and that would be the reason why have no friends who come along with me. That is why I often miss movies or concerts I would like to see. I have nobody who comes along with me, instead I stay at home and write this alone in my bed.
Lately I found myself in a difficult situation. My favourite band - I have loved ever since I was 14 years old and I have always felt a special connection to all their songs ever since I heard them for the first time - came to town. My friends didn't apprechiate their music the way I do, were out of money or had not time. I had a difficult choice to make: going there on my own and feeling ashamed of my loneliness or missing the opportunity to see my favourite band, who can sing about my little empire of mind like nobody else does?
After contemplating for a week, I bought the ticket. On the day of the concert, the band came on stage forever delayed. (In reality, it was two hours). But this way, they gave me the opportunity to observe the beautiful freaks at the concert:
Quite a number of them were on their own, more lonely people than I had thought there would be in this town. I could tell that they were lonely by the way they behaved. They did the same things I do, when I feel uncomfortable with being on my own. They wandered around, looked around themselves nervously and then sat close to a group or another lonely person. They often took out their moblies, pretenting that they waited for a call from a friend who was late - they knew the phone call would never come but they wanted to make the people around them believe they were alone because they were waiting for somebody.
I somehow felt superior to them because I recognized their behaviour. I smiled at a lonely girl who sat down next to me pretending that we belonged together. The smile said - I know how you feel - but I didn't dare talking to her. Nevertheless, I did not feel lonely anymore.
When the band finally came on stage, I was somehow glad that I was on my own. It was just the band that I had loved for years, the sex appeal of the lead singer, the music and me, and an auditorium full of underdogs like me. No boyfriend around, who would destroy this magic with his sarcasm.
Lately I found myself in a difficult situation. My favourite band - I have loved ever since I was 14 years old and I have always felt a special connection to all their songs ever since I heard them for the first time - came to town. My friends didn't apprechiate their music the way I do, were out of money or had not time. I had a difficult choice to make: going there on my own and feeling ashamed of my loneliness or missing the opportunity to see my favourite band, who can sing about my little empire of mind like nobody else does?
After contemplating for a week, I bought the ticket. On the day of the concert, the band came on stage forever delayed. (In reality, it was two hours). But this way, they gave me the opportunity to observe the beautiful freaks at the concert:
Quite a number of them were on their own, more lonely people than I had thought there would be in this town. I could tell that they were lonely by the way they behaved. They did the same things I do, when I feel uncomfortable with being on my own. They wandered around, looked around themselves nervously and then sat close to a group or another lonely person. They often took out their moblies, pretenting that they waited for a call from a friend who was late - they knew the phone call would never come but they wanted to make the people around them believe they were alone because they were waiting for somebody.
I somehow felt superior to them because I recognized their behaviour. I smiled at a lonely girl who sat down next to me pretending that we belonged together. The smile said - I know how you feel - but I didn't dare talking to her. Nevertheless, I did not feel lonely anymore.
When the band finally came on stage, I was somehow glad that I was on my own. It was just the band that I had loved for years, the sex appeal of the lead singer, the music and me, and an auditorium full of underdogs like me. No boyfriend around, who would destroy this magic with his sarcasm.
Sonntag, 22. Juni 2008
Ode to my sunglasses
My sunglasses are really big. They make my eyes look like insect eyes. I appear just like a giant fly wearing them. I love my sunglasses to be that big.
Behind my sunglasses I can hide. When I wear them it feels like there is a vail between me and the rest of the world. When I wear my sunglasses people can't tell what I'm looking at. I can stare at people and they won't notice.
When I wear my sunglasses I sometimes feel like a child who puts his hands in front of his eyes thinking that other people can't see him now. Sometimes I make myself believe that people can't see me when I wear my sunglasses - of course I know that they can see my body regardless. But they can't see my eyes and large parts of my face - that is why they can't recognize me.
In Spain, I once was interviewed on the street by a reporter of the local TV channel. I was wearing my sunglasses that day and he took me for a Spaniard until he noticed my accent. Usually, the Spanish noticed that I was a foreigner on first sight because of my blue eyes and blond hair.
Therefore, my sunglasses make me believe that I can be taken for somebody else. My sunglasses give me strength to do things I normally wouldn't dare to do - going to a park and lying in the sun wearing a bikini, walking through the city taking photos of the buildings I like, wearing my horse riding clothes on the metro, smiling at a good-looking stranger...
When I wear my sunglasses, I can put a curtain between the people who stare at me and myself. Only I can see through it. That way I'm able to say to myself that I don't care what they might think of me.
Therefore, my sunglasses are not a protection against the sun. They were too cheap to fulfill that task anyway. They are rather a protection against me feeling embarrassed. Plus, my friends say that I look really cool with them 8-)
Btw: I wore my sunglasses when I was sitting in a park writing the first draft of that story.
Behind my sunglasses I can hide. When I wear them it feels like there is a vail between me and the rest of the world. When I wear my sunglasses people can't tell what I'm looking at. I can stare at people and they won't notice.
When I wear my sunglasses I sometimes feel like a child who puts his hands in front of his eyes thinking that other people can't see him now. Sometimes I make myself believe that people can't see me when I wear my sunglasses - of course I know that they can see my body regardless. But they can't see my eyes and large parts of my face - that is why they can't recognize me.
In Spain, I once was interviewed on the street by a reporter of the local TV channel. I was wearing my sunglasses that day and he took me for a Spaniard until he noticed my accent. Usually, the Spanish noticed that I was a foreigner on first sight because of my blue eyes and blond hair.
Therefore, my sunglasses make me believe that I can be taken for somebody else. My sunglasses give me strength to do things I normally wouldn't dare to do - going to a park and lying in the sun wearing a bikini, walking through the city taking photos of the buildings I like, wearing my horse riding clothes on the metro, smiling at a good-looking stranger...
When I wear my sunglasses, I can put a curtain between the people who stare at me and myself. Only I can see through it. That way I'm able to say to myself that I don't care what they might think of me.
Therefore, my sunglasses are not a protection against the sun. They were too cheap to fulfill that task anyway. They are rather a protection against me feeling embarrassed. Plus, my friends say that I look really cool with them 8-)
Btw: I wore my sunglasses when I was sitting in a park writing the first draft of that story.
Freitag, 20. Juni 2008
Lost in the Spanish language again
José was 35 years old and desperately in love with me. I was 23 and had no particular interest in him. But he had a car and I wanted to get to know the countryside. That was why I agreed to a day trip to the coast with him. And that was how I ended up standing on to of a cliff posing like a model. José had the idea of taking photographs of me with the sea in the background. Now don’t get any naughty ideas in your head – it as 3 pm, we were on a public road and fully dressed.
So, I was standing there on the cliffs, trying to pose the way the models in those TV-casting shows do. I told José, who was playing the photographer, that he should tell me how to pose.
He told me in Spanish: “Mira el parajito” (Look at the little bird). I thought, he was talking about the birds that were flying over the cliffs. So I looked up towards the sky, trying to have a dreamy look on my face longing for the ocean.
“No, no, no,” José told me, “mira el parajito.”
I kept following the sea gulls with my eyes.
“No,” José shouted at me, “You don’t understand me. Look at me.”
I turned towards him and had a strange look on my face. He took a picture and he didn’t care about my strange look; he was in love and, therefore, he thought, the picture was beautiful. I didn’t agree but I had no patience to pose any longer.
The next day, I had coffee with Pablo and Nuria, two other Spanish friends. They asked me how my ‘date’ with José had been. So, I used the opportunity to ask, what parajito means, other than little bird.
“Did he really tell you that?” Nuria asked me
“Yes, why?” I looked at her in a puzzled way.
“Well, in colloquial language, parajito means penis.”
“What? What did he want to tell me with that?”
“Maybe you don’t want to know.” Nuria suggested, “You don’t want to date that guy again.”
“But maybe, he meant something else,” Pablo told me later on.
“What’s that?”
“In Spanish, if you want to take a picture of children and if you want them to look into the camera, you tell them: Mira el parajito, and by that you mean the flash.”
“So, José was talking to me as if I was a child?”
“Probably, but you don’t want to date a guy, who talks to you as if you were a child.”
So, I was standing there on the cliffs, trying to pose the way the models in those TV-casting shows do. I told José, who was playing the photographer, that he should tell me how to pose.
He told me in Spanish: “Mira el parajito” (Look at the little bird). I thought, he was talking about the birds that were flying over the cliffs. So I looked up towards the sky, trying to have a dreamy look on my face longing for the ocean.
“No, no, no,” José told me, “mira el parajito.”
I kept following the sea gulls with my eyes.
“No,” José shouted at me, “You don’t understand me. Look at me.”
I turned towards him and had a strange look on my face. He took a picture and he didn’t care about my strange look; he was in love and, therefore, he thought, the picture was beautiful. I didn’t agree but I had no patience to pose any longer.
The next day, I had coffee with Pablo and Nuria, two other Spanish friends. They asked me how my ‘date’ with José had been. So, I used the opportunity to ask, what parajito means, other than little bird.
“Did he really tell you that?” Nuria asked me
“Yes, why?” I looked at her in a puzzled way.
“Well, in colloquial language, parajito means penis.”
“What? What did he want to tell me with that?”
“Maybe you don’t want to know.” Nuria suggested, “You don’t want to date that guy again.”
“But maybe, he meant something else,” Pablo told me later on.
“What’s that?”
“In Spanish, if you want to take a picture of children and if you want them to look into the camera, you tell them: Mira el parajito, and by that you mean the flash.”
“So, José was talking to me as if I was a child?”
“Probably, but you don’t want to date a guy, who talks to you as if you were a child.”
Donnerstag, 19. Juni 2008
Lost in Translation
Two international students in a Spanish supermarket – a miraculous firework of colours, strange words, different smells and the sound of a language that is still foreign to us. The wonderland of the Carrefour (Karéefourrr, as the Spanish pronounce it) and the two of us just like children in Disneyland.
We manage to pull our cart full with delicious wonders of consumerism to the meat counter. We have to draw a number waiting for the obligatory moment of choice between all those delicacies. Michele, my Italian flatmate and companion in this adventure, points towards a bowl with pieces of meat, onions and peppers, dipped in a red sauce. “This looks delicious, let’s take it” he tells me in a schizophrene mix between Italian, English and what he thinks is Spanish. The sign on the bowl reads “Conejo.”
I ask Michele: “Do you know what conejo means.”
“I don’t know,” he tells me in his fabulous Italian accent and then continues with his laid back attitude: “But it doesn’t matter, the meat looks good. Let’s buy.” He buys half a kilo.
About an hour later – back in the kitchen of our L’Auberge Espagnol (for those, who don’t know the movie that is a flat shared by exchange students from all over Europe). Michele is preparing the meat that we just bought. Filippo, my other Italian flatmate sits at the table and eats a salad.
Michele tells him: “We bought such delicious meat, do you want some.” Filippo declines the offer and tells us that he will only eat salad tonight.
I ask him in English: “So, you are a rabbit tonight?” Filippo doesn’t understand the word rabbit, I don’t know the Spanish word for it and my explanation – in Spanish – of the animal with the big things you hear with – fails. I pick up the dictionary that’s in the kitchen constantly. I look up ‘rabbit’ and when I read the word ‘conejo’ I start to wonder: “Michele, what’s the name of the meat we are eating.”
“Conejo, why?”
We manage to pull our cart full with delicious wonders of consumerism to the meat counter. We have to draw a number waiting for the obligatory moment of choice between all those delicacies. Michele, my Italian flatmate and companion in this adventure, points towards a bowl with pieces of meat, onions and peppers, dipped in a red sauce. “This looks delicious, let’s take it” he tells me in a schizophrene mix between Italian, English and what he thinks is Spanish. The sign on the bowl reads “Conejo.”
I ask Michele: “Do you know what conejo means.”
“I don’t know,” he tells me in his fabulous Italian accent and then continues with his laid back attitude: “But it doesn’t matter, the meat looks good. Let’s buy.” He buys half a kilo.
About an hour later – back in the kitchen of our L’Auberge Espagnol (for those, who don’t know the movie that is a flat shared by exchange students from all over Europe). Michele is preparing the meat that we just bought. Filippo, my other Italian flatmate sits at the table and eats a salad.
Michele tells him: “We bought such delicious meat, do you want some.” Filippo declines the offer and tells us that he will only eat salad tonight.
I ask him in English: “So, you are a rabbit tonight?” Filippo doesn’t understand the word rabbit, I don’t know the Spanish word for it and my explanation – in Spanish – of the animal with the big things you hear with – fails. I pick up the dictionary that’s in the kitchen constantly. I look up ‘rabbit’ and when I read the word ‘conejo’ I start to wonder: “Michele, what’s the name of the meat we are eating.”
“Conejo, why?”
Dienstag, 17. Juni 2008
Cafeteria food
The other day I had lunch with some friends at our student cafeteria. One of them had veggie sticks while the rest of us chose a dish with meat because we were afraid of what the cafeteria would present as veggie sticks. The friend with the veggie sticks told me a fter his first bites: "They are actually quite good. Do you want to try some?"
He gave me a bite of his sticks and after chewing them, I noticed:" They taste like guinea-pig food!!" That exclamation of mine, of course let to the question: "Why do you know how guinea-peg food tastes like?"
So, I had to tell them the whole story:
Once upon a time, there was a 7-years-old girl, who wanted to have a Lego horse and whose best friend owned 3 guinea-pigs. One beautiful day, the friend's older brother dared her to eat a spoon full of guinea-pig food. He would give her his Lego horse, if she did. Of course, she accepted that bet.
The older brother was, just like all older brothers, quite mean. So, he told all his friends, that I would eat guinea-pig food, if they offered me their Lego horses.
That episode had two advantages for me, in the end: First of all, after a while, I had a stable full of Lego horses. And secondly, nobody can fool me with guinea-pig food disguised as veggie sticks.
He gave me a bite of his sticks and after chewing them, I noticed:" They taste like guinea-pig food!!" That exclamation of mine, of course let to the question: "Why do you know how guinea-peg food tastes like?"
So, I had to tell them the whole story:
Once upon a time, there was a 7-years-old girl, who wanted to have a Lego horse and whose best friend owned 3 guinea-pigs. One beautiful day, the friend's older brother dared her to eat a spoon full of guinea-pig food. He would give her his Lego horse, if she did. Of course, she accepted that bet.
The older brother was, just like all older brothers, quite mean. So, he told all his friends, that I would eat guinea-pig food, if they offered me their Lego horses.
That episode had two advantages for me, in the end: First of all, after a while, I had a stable full of Lego horses. And secondly, nobody can fool me with guinea-pig food disguised as veggie sticks.
Montag, 16. Juni 2008
Getting to know your neighbours via football
Right now there is the Euro 2008 going on and this has turned out to be a great opportunity to get to know my neighbourhood:
These days, I can see a large number of Turkish flags, which doesn't surprise me because there is a high number of Turkish migrants living in my street. Quite a number of German flags were there, too, but somehow they started to disappear, once Germany lost to Croatia.
One guy in my street hung out an Italian flag, one store has a Swiss flag in the window and there is one car with Croatian flags parked in front of my house - I didn't know that there any Croats living in my neighbourhood.
Then, I learned that things were different:
I was used to the fact that I could tell whenever Germany or Turkey scored a goal even without turning my TV on, because I could hear people cheering outside and I could hear the fireworks going off.
But, last Thursday, I heared people cheer three times: one time, when Germany scored and two times, when Croatia scored. So, apparently there is also a high number of people from Croatia living there. That explains why a bank in my neighbourhood has advertisements in Croatian in their window and a pub nearby sells Croatian beer - you notice those things once you keep your eyes open for them.
These days, I can see a large number of Turkish flags, which doesn't surprise me because there is a high number of Turkish migrants living in my street. Quite a number of German flags were there, too, but somehow they started to disappear, once Germany lost to Croatia.
One guy in my street hung out an Italian flag, one store has a Swiss flag in the window and there is one car with Croatian flags parked in front of my house - I didn't know that there any Croats living in my neighbourhood.
Then, I learned that things were different:
I was used to the fact that I could tell whenever Germany or Turkey scored a goal even without turning my TV on, because I could hear people cheering outside and I could hear the fireworks going off.
But, last Thursday, I heared people cheer three times: one time, when Germany scored and two times, when Croatia scored. So, apparently there is also a high number of people from Croatia living there. That explains why a bank in my neighbourhood has advertisements in Croatian in their window and a pub nearby sells Croatian beer - you notice those things once you keep your eyes open for them.
Sonntag, 15. Juni 2008
What happened to our childhood dreams?
She had always been a very creative child, doing painting, crafting, drawing etc. Her grandmother was a professional tailor and taught her how to sew. From that moment on, she stopped playing with her dolls; instead she turned them into models for her new collection of clothes.
Whenever she was asked by people, what she wanted to be, when she was grown up, she told them that she wanted to be a fashion designer. Her mother and grandmother encouraged her plans very much. They already dreamed how they would visit a fashion show in Paris watching their little girl's creations on the cat walk.
When she was 11 years old, the little girl was given her first chance to actually make a fashion collection for money. At her school, they had a Christmas market, where the pupils would produce home-made gifts and sell them, giving the returns to charity. She was in a group which made earrings and she really loved that task. She chose colourful beads and put them together creatively, producing very lovely and colourful earrings. However, her instructor told her: “You cannot use so many colours. Colours are not in fashion in the moment. Nobody will buy such colourful earrings.”
Reluctantly, the girl put away the yellow, red and green beads and only produced earrings that were either blue or purple. At the Christmas market, only her mother bought one pair of earrings that she had made. The earrings by the other kids, which were only black or silver, the colours of fashion that year, sold much better. She heard two kids say about some shiny blue earrings she had made: “Look at those. Who would wear such screaming blue earrings?”
She despaired. Before feeling ashamed that none of her earrings were sold, she bought a pair herself. The lesson she learned that day way that being a fashion designer had nothing to do with being creative but with copying what other people said was in fashion. She decided that if that was the case, she did not want to be a fashion designer anymore.
Fourteen years have passed since then. She has gone through many career plans ever since and threw all those in the garbage. Now, she is one of those people who at 25 still don’t know what they want to do with their lives. But she has kept the blue and shiny earrings all those years. And when she wears them now, in a time where colours are in fashion again, everybody tells her: “I love your earrings, where did you get them?”
Whenever she was asked by people, what she wanted to be, when she was grown up, she told them that she wanted to be a fashion designer. Her mother and grandmother encouraged her plans very much. They already dreamed how they would visit a fashion show in Paris watching their little girl's creations on the cat walk.
When she was 11 years old, the little girl was given her first chance to actually make a fashion collection for money. At her school, they had a Christmas market, where the pupils would produce home-made gifts and sell them, giving the returns to charity. She was in a group which made earrings and she really loved that task. She chose colourful beads and put them together creatively, producing very lovely and colourful earrings. However, her instructor told her: “You cannot use so many colours. Colours are not in fashion in the moment. Nobody will buy such colourful earrings.”
Reluctantly, the girl put away the yellow, red and green beads and only produced earrings that were either blue or purple. At the Christmas market, only her mother bought one pair of earrings that she had made. The earrings by the other kids, which were only black or silver, the colours of fashion that year, sold much better. She heard two kids say about some shiny blue earrings she had made: “Look at those. Who would wear such screaming blue earrings?”
She despaired. Before feeling ashamed that none of her earrings were sold, she bought a pair herself. The lesson she learned that day way that being a fashion designer had nothing to do with being creative but with copying what other people said was in fashion. She decided that if that was the case, she did not want to be a fashion designer anymore.
Fourteen years have passed since then. She has gone through many career plans ever since and threw all those in the garbage. Now, she is one of those people who at 25 still don’t know what they want to do with their lives. But she has kept the blue and shiny earrings all those years. And when she wears them now, in a time where colours are in fashion again, everybody tells her: “I love your earrings, where did you get them?”
Samstag, 14. Juni 2008
Knowing how to communicate with your printer will save you a lot of money
My printer has a life of its own. It even talks. In a nice female voice it tells me: “Printing job started,” “printing job finished,” “please refill paper,” “paper jam.” It only wants to be plugged into one specific USB-hub, if I choose another one, it pretends to be a different printer and my computer cannot find it anymore.
It even found a friend – my vacuum cleaner. Whenever I plug the vacuum cleaner into the outlet next to the printer, the printer turns itself on and, in delight, it starts spitting out empty pages. It doesn’t do the same thing, when I plug in my reading light there, so it must have a special relationship with the vacuum cleaner.
My printer is also very creative at times. Then, it prints things triple the size, uses colours at random, and sometimes it even places the texts on the page in a very inventive way. Usually, it does that whenever I’m printing a page that I need to turn in to my professors.
Sometimes, the printer is on strike and refuses to do its job. Then I get a message on my computer, which reads: “Couldn’t communicate with the printer.” A lot of times this has happened, after I printed out 10 pages without communication problems.
Usually it helps to keep the printer happy by giving it lots of white paper (it doesn’t like recycled paper and destroys the pages) and pretending to refill the cartage regularly. It often tells me that it’s empty, even though it isn’t. Then, I have to take out the old one and put it back in.
But sometimes, the only thing that helps is threatening violence. Then I have to tell it: “Listen now, we are on the fourth floor and if you don’t do what you’re supposed to, you’ll fly out of the window.”
Rarely, my threats even need to be accompanied by pressing the reset button or cutting the power supply. Then, it usually turns my desk into a discotheque with all its lights blinking before finally giving in. But, in the end, I can always rely on my printer.
The other day, my boss asked me: “Do you know something about printers? Mine broke down.” I tried all the tricks I knew from mine, even the threatening, but it wouldn’t work again. I even took it apart, to see if there was a piece of paper stuck in it. But there wasn’t and the printer wouldn’t work again. In the end, we had to call the technical support, who took 5 minutes to fix it. But the bill was 30 Euros.
Even though my printer causes me trouble constantly, I’m happy with it because I know how to communicate with it. I don’t want one, where I have to call the technical support and spend millions of dollars on it.
It even found a friend – my vacuum cleaner. Whenever I plug the vacuum cleaner into the outlet next to the printer, the printer turns itself on and, in delight, it starts spitting out empty pages. It doesn’t do the same thing, when I plug in my reading light there, so it must have a special relationship with the vacuum cleaner.
My printer is also very creative at times. Then, it prints things triple the size, uses colours at random, and sometimes it even places the texts on the page in a very inventive way. Usually, it does that whenever I’m printing a page that I need to turn in to my professors.
Sometimes, the printer is on strike and refuses to do its job. Then I get a message on my computer, which reads: “Couldn’t communicate with the printer.” A lot of times this has happened, after I printed out 10 pages without communication problems.
Usually it helps to keep the printer happy by giving it lots of white paper (it doesn’t like recycled paper and destroys the pages) and pretending to refill the cartage regularly. It often tells me that it’s empty, even though it isn’t. Then, I have to take out the old one and put it back in.
But sometimes, the only thing that helps is threatening violence. Then I have to tell it: “Listen now, we are on the fourth floor and if you don’t do what you’re supposed to, you’ll fly out of the window.”
Rarely, my threats even need to be accompanied by pressing the reset button or cutting the power supply. Then, it usually turns my desk into a discotheque with all its lights blinking before finally giving in. But, in the end, I can always rely on my printer.
The other day, my boss asked me: “Do you know something about printers? Mine broke down.” I tried all the tricks I knew from mine, even the threatening, but it wouldn’t work again. I even took it apart, to see if there was a piece of paper stuck in it. But there wasn’t and the printer wouldn’t work again. In the end, we had to call the technical support, who took 5 minutes to fix it. But the bill was 30 Euros.
Even though my printer causes me trouble constantly, I’m happy with it because I know how to communicate with it. I don’t want one, where I have to call the technical support and spend millions of dollars on it.
Dienstag, 10. Juni 2008
Why you need foreign languages II
I had a similar experience to the one that I just posted in the Basque Country:
Last year, I was travelling through Northern Spain. I came to Bilbao with two girls I had met on the trip; one was Russian, the other one French. They both didn’t know English very well, but they spoke fluent Spanish. That was how we communicated.
We spent some time together in Bilbao – mostly because of the Guggenheim, but also because we were curious about the Basque. Was their language really so different from any other European language, and did they really have such separatist attitudes? –Yes.
We met three nice Basque guys one night in a Burger King, who very really funny, friendly and helpful. They offered to show us some parts of the city, the best clubs and cheapest restaurants. The only problem with them was that they would only speak English to us.
“Spanish is another foreign language for us, just like English. And Spanish is imposed on us, that’s why we prefer English,” they told us. My friends did not understand their English.
The result was that I spend the whole day translating the Basque guy’s English into Spanish for my friends, even though the Basque guys’ Spanish was probably much better than their English and my Spanish.
View of Bilbao from above the hills
Last year, I was travelling through Northern Spain. I came to Bilbao with two girls I had met on the trip; one was Russian, the other one French. They both didn’t know English very well, but they spoke fluent Spanish. That was how we communicated.
We spent some time together in Bilbao – mostly because of the Guggenheim, but also because we were curious about the Basque. Was their language really so different from any other European language, and did they really have such separatist attitudes? –Yes.
We met three nice Basque guys one night in a Burger King, who very really funny, friendly and helpful. They offered to show us some parts of the city, the best clubs and cheapest restaurants. The only problem with them was that they would only speak English to us.
“Spanish is another foreign language for us, just like English. And Spanish is imposed on us, that’s why we prefer English,” they told us. My friends did not understand their English.
The result was that I spend the whole day translating the Basque guy’s English into Spanish for my friends, even though the Basque guys’ Spanish was probably much better than their English and my Spanish.
View of Bilbao from above the hills
Montag, 9. Juni 2008
Why you need foreign languages I
When I was 16, I learned that one might need four languages to buy bread rolls:
My friends and I were on vacation in the Flemish part of Belgium. On the third day of the trip, it was my turn to buy something for breakfast. My friends had told me beforehand that the lady in the bakery wouldn’t understand German. Since I didn’t know the English term for bread rolls, I tried to speak French to her: “Je voudrais quatre petit pains, s’il vous plait.” [I’d like four bread rolls, please.]
I don’t know, if the store clerk didn’t understand French, was offended that I was speaking that language in a Flemish village or simply realized that I was not French. But she asked me in English, if I could repeat what I wanted. I pointed to the basked with the bread rolls and told her “Four of those things, please.”
When she handed me the bag full of pastries, I wanted to be polite and used the few Dutch words I know: “Dank je wel. Tot ziens.” [Thank you very much, goodbye.]
Then, she finally noticed my accent and answered me in perfect German: “Gerne geschehen. Kommen Sie morgen wieder?” [You’re welcome, will you be back tomorrow?]
What would I have done, if I hadn't known those four languages?
My friends and I were on vacation in the Flemish part of Belgium. On the third day of the trip, it was my turn to buy something for breakfast. My friends had told me beforehand that the lady in the bakery wouldn’t understand German. Since I didn’t know the English term for bread rolls, I tried to speak French to her: “Je voudrais quatre petit pains, s’il vous plait.” [I’d like four bread rolls, please.]
I don’t know, if the store clerk didn’t understand French, was offended that I was speaking that language in a Flemish village or simply realized that I was not French. But she asked me in English, if I could repeat what I wanted. I pointed to the basked with the bread rolls and told her “Four of those things, please.”
When she handed me the bag full of pastries, I wanted to be polite and used the few Dutch words I know: “Dank je wel. Tot ziens.” [Thank you very much, goodbye.]
Then, she finally noticed my accent and answered me in perfect German: “Gerne geschehen. Kommen Sie morgen wieder?” [You’re welcome, will you be back tomorrow?]
What would I have done, if I hadn't known those four languages?
Sonntag, 8. Juni 2008
Moving Cup
When I was a child, our family had the tradition of the reading night. Instead of watching TV, one night a week we would pick out a book and everybody would read aloud one chapter and then pass it on to the next person.
Last Christmas, my mother decided to re-launch our common reading sessions. She picked the autobiography of a second-class celebrity, which she had gotten as a gift.
Not my cup of tea, but I didn’t complain. Over the years, I had learned that sometimes it’s better to say “Yes, Mum,” than risk an argument. While I was reading it aloud, I actually noticed that there were some paragraphs, which were quite funny, in a cynical way.
But then, I came to realize what my silent disagreement with my mother’s choice had caused: for my birthday, she gave me her copy of that book! “I remember you liked it at our reading night, so, now you can finish it – you hardly ever come to our place, so we can’t finish it together.” “Yes, mum, thank you.” I was not going to pick a fight with her on my birthday.
Three days later, a friend of mine saw the copy of the book lying on my desk: “Oh, I see you also got one. I wouldn’t have thought you'd read something like that.”
“It was a birthday gift.”
“I got one copy, too,” he told me, “but I keep it wrapped, so that I can give it to somebody else some day.”
I wonder if my mother had had the same plan...
Last Christmas, my mother decided to re-launch our common reading sessions. She picked the autobiography of a second-class celebrity, which she had gotten as a gift.
Not my cup of tea, but I didn’t complain. Over the years, I had learned that sometimes it’s better to say “Yes, Mum,” than risk an argument. While I was reading it aloud, I actually noticed that there were some paragraphs, which were quite funny, in a cynical way.
But then, I came to realize what my silent disagreement with my mother’s choice had caused: for my birthday, she gave me her copy of that book! “I remember you liked it at our reading night, so, now you can finish it – you hardly ever come to our place, so we can’t finish it together.” “Yes, mum, thank you.” I was not going to pick a fight with her on my birthday.
Three days later, a friend of mine saw the copy of the book lying on my desk: “Oh, I see you also got one. I wouldn’t have thought you'd read something like that.”
“It was a birthday gift.”
“I got one copy, too,” he told me, “but I keep it wrapped, so that I can give it to somebody else some day.”
I wonder if my mother had had the same plan...
Mittwoch, 4. Juni 2008
Things you shouldn't say at a date
The other day, I had a coffee with a guy whom I had met in one of my classes, and his friend. When I had met that guy for the first time, he seemed to be really nice – an average 21st century students actually. That is fashionable, educated, liberal, and open-minded.
I don’t remember how we came up with the subject, but at some point the guy started telling a story: “I’m not homophobe or anything. But the other day, me and my friend ended up a gay party and the guys there were hitting on me all the time. This one guy kept looking at me all the time and then he came over and started to talk to me. I told him to back off or else I would beat him up.”
My comment on that story was: “That’s what happens at a party. Now you know what it feels like, if you are at a party as a girl and straight guys hit on you constantly. I think your problem is that as a straight guy you’re not used to somebody hitting on you.”
He answered me: “Well, that’s different. If a guy hits on a girl, that’s natural!”
I wanted to shout at him, argue with him,about how wrong he was, ask him “What is natural, then?”...but after I had exclaimed: “Oh my Gosh!” his friend interrupted me.
He advised me: “Don’t take him seriously, he wants to sound tougher than he is.” And to his extremely not-tough friend he said: “Next time, somebody hits on you, just tell him in a nice way that you’re not interested. Gays will mock you even more, if they realize that you feel offended.”
So much for being an educated, liberal, and open-minded 21st century student.
I looked around the café, hoping that nobody had overheard that conversation. Then I made up a reason to leave and decided not to meet with him again.
I don’t remember how we came up with the subject, but at some point the guy started telling a story: “I’m not homophobe or anything. But the other day, me and my friend ended up a gay party and the guys there were hitting on me all the time. This one guy kept looking at me all the time and then he came over and started to talk to me. I told him to back off or else I would beat him up.”
My comment on that story was: “That’s what happens at a party. Now you know what it feels like, if you are at a party as a girl and straight guys hit on you constantly. I think your problem is that as a straight guy you’re not used to somebody hitting on you.”
He answered me: “Well, that’s different. If a guy hits on a girl, that’s natural!”
I wanted to shout at him, argue with him,about how wrong he was, ask him “What is natural, then?”...but after I had exclaimed: “Oh my Gosh!” his friend interrupted me.
He advised me: “Don’t take him seriously, he wants to sound tougher than he is.” And to his extremely not-tough friend he said: “Next time, somebody hits on you, just tell him in a nice way that you’re not interested. Gays will mock you even more, if they realize that you feel offended.”
So much for being an educated, liberal, and open-minded 21st century student.
I looked around the café, hoping that nobody had overheard that conversation. Then I made up a reason to leave and decided not to meet with him again.
Montag, 2. Juni 2008
The reason why Boygroups exist
Things always work that way in a small town suburban neighbourhood. One neighbour helps the other and everybody knows everything. A woman from across the road told my mother one day, when they met on the street: "My daughter just had another F in English. Do you know somebody who can help her?"
"What a coincidence," my mother answered, " my daughter is always getting As in English and she is looking for a job."
Not exactly the truth, but my mother wanted things to be that way.
So, I - 18 years old with a part time job, a boyfriend, a car and school work to do - was stuck with a 12-year old girl from across the street 3 hours a week - for 7 Euros an hour, I shouldn't complain.
The girl, I will call her Nadja because - honestly - I don't remember her real name, always gurned. When I tried to explain English grammar to her, she told me that she knew all this already and that she wasn't stupid.
Soon, I figured out what Nadja's problem was - she just did not study. Instead, she spent her time practising dancing or shopping - basically the same attitude I had had when I was 12. She told me that she did not see the point in studying English - she was going to be a famous dancer and there she would not need English.
I tried to tell her that if she wanted to be internationally famous, she needed to know English. I tried to play games with her to learn new words, I tried to make her write texts using the new words because that was a way my English teacher had got me to study new vocabulary. But nothing worked - she was stubborn and of the opinion that she could express herself with her dances, when she was be famous.
I was about to despair, but then I found out that she really liked the Irish boygroup Westlife. I asked her if she wanted to know what their songs were about. Of course, she said yes. So, I spent the next hours looking up Westlife lyrics on the Internet and translate them with her. That really got her into practising English and I realized that there is a purpose for everything in this world, even for boygroups.
"What a coincidence," my mother answered, " my daughter is always getting As in English and she is looking for a job."
Not exactly the truth, but my mother wanted things to be that way.
So, I - 18 years old with a part time job, a boyfriend, a car and school work to do - was stuck with a 12-year old girl from across the street 3 hours a week - for 7 Euros an hour, I shouldn't complain.
The girl, I will call her Nadja because - honestly - I don't remember her real name, always gurned. When I tried to explain English grammar to her, she told me that she knew all this already and that she wasn't stupid.
Soon, I figured out what Nadja's problem was - she just did not study. Instead, she spent her time practising dancing or shopping - basically the same attitude I had had when I was 12. She told me that she did not see the point in studying English - she was going to be a famous dancer and there she would not need English.
I tried to tell her that if she wanted to be internationally famous, she needed to know English. I tried to play games with her to learn new words, I tried to make her write texts using the new words because that was a way my English teacher had got me to study new vocabulary. But nothing worked - she was stubborn and of the opinion that she could express herself with her dances, when she was be famous.
I was about to despair, but then I found out that she really liked the Irish boygroup Westlife. I asked her if she wanted to know what their songs were about. Of course, she said yes. So, I spent the next hours looking up Westlife lyrics on the Internet and translate them with her. That really got her into practising English and I realized that there is a purpose for everything in this world, even for boygroups.
Sonntag, 1. Juni 2008
Intercultural misunderstandings
He was the first from his village, who had made it. He had been given a scholarship to study in the West – the land of milk and honey. He would spend three years in Berlin, Germany, Europe, study engineering and then come back, marry his sweetheart and build a power station, which his village so desperately needed.
Before he started off, people in his village had warned him – the Westerners will not welcome you. They hate us; they say we mistreat our women. He did not believe in those warnings. All his life, he had learned how important it was to treat women with respect. Why should anybody complain about that?
A travel guide, which they gave him before he left, said: “The inhabitants of Berlin are known to be very direct. They have their own kind of charm. You will see when you get there.” He learned what the guide meant a couple of days after he had arrived in Berlin:
He was taking the metro and when he wanted to get off, a good looking girl wanted to enter. Since he had been taught that it was polite to let a woman through the door first, he offered her enter before exiting himself. After a couple of seconds, she reluctantly accepted. Meanwhile, a couple of people, who also wanted to leave the metro, had piled up behind him.
When the girl finally entered, a man behind him started to complain: “First exit, then enter. Those are the rules over here. Typical tourists.”
He smiled helplessly at the girl. But instead of smiling back, the girl gave him a peculiar look. On her face, he could read the following: “Leave me alone. Don’t hit on me.”
He started to wonder, as he left the metro station. What a country was it where men would be so impolite to their women and where women would mistake courtesy for pick up lines? And why were those people saying that his people mistreated their women?
Before he started off, people in his village had warned him – the Westerners will not welcome you. They hate us; they say we mistreat our women. He did not believe in those warnings. All his life, he had learned how important it was to treat women with respect. Why should anybody complain about that?
A travel guide, which they gave him before he left, said: “The inhabitants of Berlin are known to be very direct. They have their own kind of charm. You will see when you get there.” He learned what the guide meant a couple of days after he had arrived in Berlin:
He was taking the metro and when he wanted to get off, a good looking girl wanted to enter. Since he had been taught that it was polite to let a woman through the door first, he offered her enter before exiting himself. After a couple of seconds, she reluctantly accepted. Meanwhile, a couple of people, who also wanted to leave the metro, had piled up behind him.
When the girl finally entered, a man behind him started to complain: “First exit, then enter. Those are the rules over here. Typical tourists.”
He smiled helplessly at the girl. But instead of smiling back, the girl gave him a peculiar look. On her face, he could read the following: “Leave me alone. Don’t hit on me.”
He started to wonder, as he left the metro station. What a country was it where men would be so impolite to their women and where women would mistake courtesy for pick up lines? And why were those people saying that his people mistreated their women?
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