My landlord, Ruthild, always leaves vases of flowers the dining room table. The kitchen often wafts with a bouquet of scents from the variety of confections she bakes. In the mornings, opera or classical music floats from a small stereo on a bench in the dinning room.
Then, Ruthild sits with her coffee, cheese, bread and homemade jam spread out on the dinning room table and reads the newspaper. My breakfast often coincides with hers, so we sit and chat, often about trivialities like the weather, politics or our weekends.
This morning, the paper lays folded neatly to her side when I pull up my chair with my granola and tea. She sits with her chin in her hands, gazing out the window at the grey that masks Berlin from the sun.
We start with our usual conversation: It’s supposed to warm up later in the week, she says. I had a great time in Potsdam on Saturday, I offer. She rode bikes with her boyfriend along the river in the small town of Walldorf, where she often spends the weekends, she mentions.
Ruthild is a retired 50-year-old who grew up in eastern Germany. In place of work, she is part of a project to educate people about various religions.
When I first arrived, she was on vacation and had left a list of rules likely puzzled together with a dictionary. Those who grew up in the eastlearned Russian instead of English like those in the west. Maybe as a result, they appear very strict: Take off your shoes when in the flat; quiet after 10 p.m., close the window and lock to door when leaving the flat. The quiet, gentle manner about her when we finally met didn’t match. She pronounces her words clearly and slowly, as if paced by a metronome, and always almost sings my name before she begins a conversation with me.
This morning, I venture beyond previous boarders of our regular morning conversation. “Besitzt du in Hause in Walgart?” I ask. Yes, she has a house in this small town on the coast, she says, her eyes brightening, but more like a hut, with one room with only a bed, toilet and kitchen. It is enough.
“Ich zeige dir,” she says, pushing back her chair and padding up the stairs like a child on Christmas morning. She returns with a small photo album, filled with pictures of the home. They show a small rectangle house, trimmed with grass and a view of the sea.
Ruthild’s pride is a garden that grows wildly like unbrushed hair. Daisies and irises are its centerpiece, near a small brush labyrinth. Other photos show apple and plum trees heavy with fruit. A small table and two chairs sit in the backyard waiting for tea.
Ruthild and her boyfriend, Bernd, bought the house about five or six years ago, she tells me. She was looking for a getaway and saw an ad in a paper after a fruitless search through other means. The pruned gardens stacked next to each other like playing cards on the street leading to the house almost turned her away when she went to see it. Then she arrived at the one for sale, on the end, with a beautiful view and an untamed garden without the rigid rows of the others.
Yes, the “rules of the house” sitting on my desk don’t belong in this apartment.
Showing posts with label Portraits. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Portraits. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Portrait: Cashier in the grocery store
I dragged my suitcase through the little grocery store, feeling a bit like a bear in a China shop. I had just returned from London and didn’t want to bother hauling my suitcase up the six flights of stairs to my apartment then turning around to go pick up some bananas and bread.
Perhaps it is no affront here, because no one said anything as I steered its wheels around the shelves of goods painted in German words. After filling my arms with my purchases, I headed to the cash register to pay – the one to the right that is normally open.
“Over here young lady,” I heard a women call through the racks of chocolate eggs and chewing gum. A heavy set cashier sat on her stool without a line.
“Oh I didn’t see you,” I said, careful to use the formal form of the word “you” in German.
“I don’t want to sit here while my co-worker does all the work,” she said with a smile that matched her honey blond hair. I was a little caught off guard by her chattiness. In Germany, cordial customer service is rationed out like water during a drought. I usually have to brace myself before I head to a register to pay.
I basked in her friendliness.
She chatted on, determined to explore all avenues of her previous topic. “The people don’t usually see me over here and usually always head to her,” she said, waving my purchases over her scanner. With a flourish, she pushed the total button. “Also, sieben comma sechzig,” she said the total.
I paid, almost sadly.
Next time I was in the store, I looked again for my friendly cashier, but in her place was a sour-looking woman. I again switched back to holding my wallet and plastic bag ready like a cowboy playing Russian Roulette as I waited for my total.
Perhaps it is no affront here, because no one said anything as I steered its wheels around the shelves of goods painted in German words. After filling my arms with my purchases, I headed to the cash register to pay – the one to the right that is normally open.
“Over here young lady,” I heard a women call through the racks of chocolate eggs and chewing gum. A heavy set cashier sat on her stool without a line.
“Oh I didn’t see you,” I said, careful to use the formal form of the word “you” in German.
“I don’t want to sit here while my co-worker does all the work,” she said with a smile that matched her honey blond hair. I was a little caught off guard by her chattiness. In Germany, cordial customer service is rationed out like water during a drought. I usually have to brace myself before I head to a register to pay.
I basked in her friendliness.
She chatted on, determined to explore all avenues of her previous topic. “The people don’t usually see me over here and usually always head to her,” she said, waving my purchases over her scanner. With a flourish, she pushed the total button. “Also, sieben comma sechzig,” she said the total.
I paid, almost sadly.
Next time I was in the store, I looked again for my friendly cashier, but in her place was a sour-looking woman. I again switched back to holding my wallet and plastic bag ready like a cowboy playing Russian Roulette as I waited for my total.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Portraits: Anja
She looks like a real-life Barbie or a porcelain doll. I say that not in the catty jealous woman sort of way, but more in admiration. Every day, she sweeps into the office, as if she stepped out of a catalogue. Yesterday she wore what no American would ever dare, especially after Labor Day: white pants and a white sweater. Somehow she made it look classy, with a brown belt looped around her thin frame and large wooden beads slung around her neck. Her hair is an unnaturally natural blond, and it’s always pulled back away from her dimpled smile, which make her blue eyes look that much larger. There would be no keeping my American guy friends away from her if she were ever to visit.
One recent afternoon, a group of us stood indecisively at the corner, caught between her desires for lunch and the rest of the group. “I’d like something healthy,” she had said with a pout, after someone suggested Chinese. Suddenly they turned to me. “What would you like?” Philip asked. He suggested that if I didn’t want Chinese, I could go with Anja to get a salad the small “bio” store to our right. She looked at me expectantly, batting mascara fringed eyelashes. The ticking of the cross walk vocalized the pressure of their stares.
It was a combination of the chill in the air and the fact that I had a salad the night before is what I would like to say won me over to Chinese. “I’d actually like something warm,” I said just as the light switched green. If I’m honest, however, a part of it was that I wimped out. It was the dread of having to make polite conversation with Anja alone in German. Why women are so intimidated by other women is something I will never understand.
Befriending other girls in a foreign country is difficult but something I’m ever trying to do. A female relationship is so simple. There are no undertones of unwelcome expectation. No blurry lines. And among women, there is always at least one unexhaustive fallback conversation topic that does wonders for bonding in any culture: men.
So I found myself sitting among them eating sweet and sour chicken, trying to follow the group's conversation like a spectator follows a tennis match, and constantly losing the ball in the sun.
I should have gone to lunch with Anja that day.
One recent afternoon, a group of us stood indecisively at the corner, caught between her desires for lunch and the rest of the group. “I’d like something healthy,” she had said with a pout, after someone suggested Chinese. Suddenly they turned to me. “What would you like?” Philip asked. He suggested that if I didn’t want Chinese, I could go with Anja to get a salad the small “bio” store to our right. She looked at me expectantly, batting mascara fringed eyelashes. The ticking of the cross walk vocalized the pressure of their stares.
It was a combination of the chill in the air and the fact that I had a salad the night before is what I would like to say won me over to Chinese. “I’d actually like something warm,” I said just as the light switched green. If I’m honest, however, a part of it was that I wimped out. It was the dread of having to make polite conversation with Anja alone in German. Why women are so intimidated by other women is something I will never understand.
Befriending other girls in a foreign country is difficult but something I’m ever trying to do. A female relationship is so simple. There are no undertones of unwelcome expectation. No blurry lines. And among women, there is always at least one unexhaustive fallback conversation topic that does wonders for bonding in any culture: men.
So I found myself sitting among them eating sweet and sour chicken, trying to follow the group's conversation like a spectator follows a tennis match, and constantly losing the ball in the sun.
I should have gone to lunch with Anja that day.
Friday, September 05, 2008
Portraits: Joe
"You're not going to print my name, are you?"
I paused, my pen poised over my notebook, thinking, "That's exactly what I was planning to do." It wasn't a reaction I was expecting from an American, but then again, Joe may not really truly be an American.
He sat on a sideways crate, the only seat left by the time he arrived to the Thursday night gathering of ex-patriots at this week's bar of choice. A velvet curtain as a back drop, a red chandelier and red walls made the back room of the pub on Dresdener Strasse glow in a rouge hue.
We went through the normal negotiations when someone is hesitant to commit to an interview and eventually settled into questioning. Joe moved to Germany from New York City when he was 13 with his parents, he told me. He grew up in Cologne. He now works in the IT industry in Berlin.
His words didn't have the typical American accent, buttressed by blurry r's. But they didn't carry the strong consonants and the telling emphasis on the first syllable of words either. His pompous was more of the European kind. The way his hand motions guided his words, like a conductor of an orchestra, is a U.S. trademark.
Joe retains his American citizenship and uses the word "they" when he talks of Germans, as one speaks of foreigners. Yet he has lived in Germany for about 30 years. I paused, trying to figure him out. Who is he? One of his feet seems grounded on American soil, with the other stretching to reach the German border. Yet the span across the Atlantic is too great, leaving him caught in in the updrafts and waves crests of what is in between.
How much of his eccentricity is part of his character and how much is the result of a mixed cultural identity? I wondered.
"Do you feel more German or more American?" I asked him.
"Neither," he said, taking a sip of wine while everyone else drank beer.
He likes Berlin, where he moved to two years ago, he said. It feels safe. He likes the freedom. "It reminds me of New York City, but without all the problems."
Joe, if that really is his name, probably won't be part of the article I'm writing for the German newspaper about American ex-pats. He doesn't fit the rubric. He just doesn't fit.
I paused, my pen poised over my notebook, thinking, "That's exactly what I was planning to do." It wasn't a reaction I was expecting from an American, but then again, Joe may not really truly be an American.
He sat on a sideways crate, the only seat left by the time he arrived to the Thursday night gathering of ex-patriots at this week's bar of choice. A velvet curtain as a back drop, a red chandelier and red walls made the back room of the pub on Dresdener Strasse glow in a rouge hue.
We went through the normal negotiations when someone is hesitant to commit to an interview and eventually settled into questioning. Joe moved to Germany from New York City when he was 13 with his parents, he told me. He grew up in Cologne. He now works in the IT industry in Berlin.
His words didn't have the typical American accent, buttressed by blurry r's. But they didn't carry the strong consonants and the telling emphasis on the first syllable of words either. His pompous was more of the European kind. The way his hand motions guided his words, like a conductor of an orchestra, is a U.S. trademark.
Joe retains his American citizenship and uses the word "they" when he talks of Germans, as one speaks of foreigners. Yet he has lived in Germany for about 30 years. I paused, trying to figure him out. Who is he? One of his feet seems grounded on American soil, with the other stretching to reach the German border. Yet the span across the Atlantic is too great, leaving him caught in in the updrafts and waves crests of what is in between.
How much of his eccentricity is part of his character and how much is the result of a mixed cultural identity? I wondered.
"Do you feel more German or more American?" I asked him.
"Neither," he said, taking a sip of wine while everyone else drank beer.
He likes Berlin, where he moved to two years ago, he said. It feels safe. He likes the freedom. "It reminds me of New York City, but without all the problems."
Joe, if that really is his name, probably won't be part of the article I'm writing for the German newspaper about American ex-pats. He doesn't fit the rubric. He just doesn't fit.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Portraits: Florian
The breakfast table was decked with salami, cheeses, fruit and bread, like a bouquet of snacks in a picnic basket. My landlord sat on one end with me on the other. At our sides were her visitors: Heidi and one of her two grandsons, Florian.
Florian, who can’t be older than six, stared at me with large brown eyes, fidgeting in his chair. He’s the kind of cute that makes you want to take him to a playground, push him on the swing and buy him a lollipop.
“Have you ever heard English?” Heidi asked him. He shook his head furiously, without taking his eyes off me, fiddling with the small polished rock on a string around his neck. Heidi asked me to speak it for him.
“What are you guys doing today?” I asked him in English. “Wa,” he said, his eyes growing larger and a smile creeping over his face. “What did you say?” he asked. I translated for him, awaiting an answer to my question, but shyness won Florian over.
“We’re going to see the bats,” Heidi answered for him in English, then explaining in German that there is an exhibit in Berlin where people can see bats in caves. I wanted to go with them, and hang out with the two kids, who speak the kind of German I understand best.
But instead I set off to work. “Have fun with the … ,” I paused and turned to Heidi. “What are they called in German?”
“Fledermäuser.”
“Viel Spaß mit den Fledermäuser,” I repeated, then left Florian and his brother, Fabian, to wrestle near the stairs.
Florian, who can’t be older than six, stared at me with large brown eyes, fidgeting in his chair. He’s the kind of cute that makes you want to take him to a playground, push him on the swing and buy him a lollipop.
“Have you ever heard English?” Heidi asked him. He shook his head furiously, without taking his eyes off me, fiddling with the small polished rock on a string around his neck. Heidi asked me to speak it for him.
“What are you guys doing today?” I asked him in English. “Wa,” he said, his eyes growing larger and a smile creeping over his face. “What did you say?” he asked. I translated for him, awaiting an answer to my question, but shyness won Florian over.
“We’re going to see the bats,” Heidi answered for him in English, then explaining in German that there is an exhibit in Berlin where people can see bats in caves. I wanted to go with them, and hang out with the two kids, who speak the kind of German I understand best.
But instead I set off to work. “Have fun with the … ,” I paused and turned to Heidi. “What are they called in German?”
“Fledermäuser.”
“Viel Spaß mit den Fledermäuser,” I repeated, then left Florian and his brother, Fabian, to wrestle near the stairs.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Portrait:Reinhard
I stood straddling my bike, peering at my map under the streetlight when I heard him.
“Kann ich Ihnen helfen?” he asked.
I looked up to see a man of about 60 years old approaching, wearing a tailored suit and a friendly smile. Though Germans often have the reputation of being unfriendly, I’ve found many on the street are quick to assist if you are lost.
“Ich suche die Boden Museum,“ I answered, hoping he could point in the right direction to the museum where there is free outdoor concerts every Sunday night.
“Ja, kein Problem,” he said, beckoning me to walk with him.
I noticed the strong Eastern accident lacing his German immediately. It is something like the Irish accent is to English, with softer words that sort of slide together. He confirmed that he was from the east when he told me he speaks only Russian, not English, as a foreign language.
He prattled on, telling me about his job, giving me the meaning of his name and asking what I was doing in Berlin. I felt as if I had stepped back three weeks in my understanding of the language. I was able to sift enough words out strings of sentences to say “Ja” or “nein” at the right times and answer the occasional question.
At a corner, he paused, uncertain that he knew where he was going. I pointed to a sign with an arrow, and let him know I could probably find it from here.
“Ach ich fahre mit,” he said staying by my side. “Ich möchte auch wissen.”
With that, I became the tour guide for someone who was just curious to find my destination as I was. And gradually the situation transformed into something uncomfortable, rather than a pleasant encounter with a friendly stranger.
The telltale scent of tobacco wafted from his suit, growing stronger each time he bumped into my shoulder. He continued to talk, telling me how he was made a “Lord” in England and fishing his card out of his breast pocket. I began to plot my escape.
The museum was rising on the horizon. “Ist es nicht geschlossen?” he asked, and I shook my head. No it is not closed, I’m meeting friends there, I told him, hoping that would dissuade him from following me into the concert.
“Ich möchte sie auch kennenlernen,” he said to my dismay, as I began imagining how awkward it would be to introduce him to my friends as he was requesting.
At the edge of the bridge, I paused. “Also…” I said, hoping that was enough to signal this was goodbye. But he kept talking, and suddenly “Hilton” surfaced from the soup of his words, along with a suggestion. The mild flashes of lights in my head suddenly turned to sirens. With one last unrealistic grasp at the chance he wasn’t the creep I was beginning to think he was, I asked, “Sind Sie Besitzer?”
The words sounded ridiculous even to me, playing naïve. There was no way this man was the owner of a Hilton. "Nein, nein, ich habe gar nichts,” he said, confirming my fears.
"Ok ... Es hat mir gefreut... Schönen Abend noch,” I said, bothering with parting formalities that he didn’t deserve.
"Schade," he said as a pushed my bike toward the comfort of the crowd.
Yep. That’s right buddy. Too bad.
“Kann ich Ihnen helfen?” he asked.
I looked up to see a man of about 60 years old approaching, wearing a tailored suit and a friendly smile. Though Germans often have the reputation of being unfriendly, I’ve found many on the street are quick to assist if you are lost.
“Ich suche die Boden Museum,“ I answered, hoping he could point in the right direction to the museum where there is free outdoor concerts every Sunday night.
“Ja, kein Problem,” he said, beckoning me to walk with him.
I noticed the strong Eastern accident lacing his German immediately. It is something like the Irish accent is to English, with softer words that sort of slide together. He confirmed that he was from the east when he told me he speaks only Russian, not English, as a foreign language.
He prattled on, telling me about his job, giving me the meaning of his name and asking what I was doing in Berlin. I felt as if I had stepped back three weeks in my understanding of the language. I was able to sift enough words out strings of sentences to say “Ja” or “nein” at the right times and answer the occasional question.
At a corner, he paused, uncertain that he knew where he was going. I pointed to a sign with an arrow, and let him know I could probably find it from here.
“Ach ich fahre mit,” he said staying by my side. “Ich möchte auch wissen.”
With that, I became the tour guide for someone who was just curious to find my destination as I was. And gradually the situation transformed into something uncomfortable, rather than a pleasant encounter with a friendly stranger.
The telltale scent of tobacco wafted from his suit, growing stronger each time he bumped into my shoulder. He continued to talk, telling me how he was made a “Lord” in England and fishing his card out of his breast pocket. I began to plot my escape.
The museum was rising on the horizon. “Ist es nicht geschlossen?” he asked, and I shook my head. No it is not closed, I’m meeting friends there, I told him, hoping that would dissuade him from following me into the concert.
“Ich möchte sie auch kennenlernen,” he said to my dismay, as I began imagining how awkward it would be to introduce him to my friends as he was requesting.
At the edge of the bridge, I paused. “Also…” I said, hoping that was enough to signal this was goodbye. But he kept talking, and suddenly “Hilton” surfaced from the soup of his words, along with a suggestion. The mild flashes of lights in my head suddenly turned to sirens. With one last unrealistic grasp at the chance he wasn’t the creep I was beginning to think he was, I asked, “Sind Sie Besitzer?”
The words sounded ridiculous even to me, playing naïve. There was no way this man was the owner of a Hilton. "Nein, nein, ich habe gar nichts,” he said, confirming my fears.
"Ok ... Es hat mir gefreut... Schönen Abend noch,” I said, bothering with parting formalities that he didn’t deserve.
"Schade," he said as a pushed my bike toward the comfort of the crowd.
Yep. That’s right buddy. Too bad.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Portraits: Momo
I'm not sure what about this small Spanish restaurant on Bergmannstrasse caught my eye, but it was enough to make me stop my bike and turn around. Maybe it was the red walls, maybe the way the front of the restaurant was completely open, maybe the beach-like lounge chairs in the front looked inviting.
I was too full from dinner. I didn't even really want a drink, but I ordered a glass of wine anyway and settled in the chair to people watch. The wine wasn't really that good and I was starting to get a headache, so I told the waiter I wanted to pay as soon as took my last sip. He noticed the map I had under my hand and asked where I was from.
"Ich bin Kalifornian," I responded, bracing for the usual scoff.
Instead, his eyes lit up. His demeanor transformed from the formality of a server to the friendliness of an acquaintance. "Really? California? I love Californians. I love Americans."
I was a little taken aback. It's no secret we aren't really so popular over here. The Germans are a little shy of war after participating in two that ended up with the word "World" in them. I don't blame them. The Marshall Plan is a distant memory, replaced with a strong distaste for Bush.
But Momo isn't German. I assumed he was Spanish, both because of his dark hair and an accent that flavored his German words Plus, he mentioned he owned the restaurant with his cousin. No, he told me, he's from Iran. Suddenly I wondered if he was being sarcastic about loving Americans.
But there was nothing sarcastic about Momo. He dropped my coins in his cash pouch without counting them. "Just because you are from California, I will bring you a free drink." His smile was so big, it was almost out of a cartoon, so I didn't have the heart to tell him I just wanted to go home.
First the drink. Then came the olives, then Spanish cheese. My protests seemed to spur him on. He alternated moments of feverish attention to his other customers with questions about what I was doing in Berlin and how I spelled my name.
His disappointment when I told him I needed to go home was like that of a child whose mom just told him it was bedtime. I promised him I would come back to eat. And I will, with other Americans.
I was too full from dinner. I didn't even really want a drink, but I ordered a glass of wine anyway and settled in the chair to people watch. The wine wasn't really that good and I was starting to get a headache, so I told the waiter I wanted to pay as soon as took my last sip. He noticed the map I had under my hand and asked where I was from.
"Ich bin Kalifornian," I responded, bracing for the usual scoff.
Instead, his eyes lit up. His demeanor transformed from the formality of a server to the friendliness of an acquaintance. "Really? California? I love Californians. I love Americans."
I was a little taken aback. It's no secret we aren't really so popular over here. The Germans are a little shy of war after participating in two that ended up with the word "World" in them. I don't blame them. The Marshall Plan is a distant memory, replaced with a strong distaste for Bush.
But Momo isn't German. I assumed he was Spanish, both because of his dark hair and an accent that flavored his German words Plus, he mentioned he owned the restaurant with his cousin. No, he told me, he's from Iran. Suddenly I wondered if he was being sarcastic about loving Americans.
But there was nothing sarcastic about Momo. He dropped my coins in his cash pouch without counting them. "Just because you are from California, I will bring you a free drink." His smile was so big, it was almost out of a cartoon, so I didn't have the heart to tell him I just wanted to go home.
First the drink. Then came the olives, then Spanish cheese. My protests seemed to spur him on. He alternated moments of feverish attention to his other customers with questions about what I was doing in Berlin and how I spelled my name.
His disappointment when I told him I needed to go home was like that of a child whose mom just told him it was bedtime. I promised him I would come back to eat. And I will, with other Americans.
Portraits
I think some of the most interesting parts of being in a foreign country are often brief encounters with the people. I've decided to write some short descriptions of some of those experiences in-between the regular accounts of my experiences. Some of them are good, some surreal, some bad. Part of it is for me, just so I remember them. Part of it is to share beyond the broad overviews I usually give. I'll name those entries, "Portraits." Some of them I'll translate, some of them I won't, depending of how important the language was to my impressions of the person.
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