Erfolg

The program I'm at is pretty nice. It has a lovely building on a cobblestoned street with pastel-colored walls covered in old-timey bookshelves, editions of Goethe and Schilling and Heine um so weite. It has a cheerful blond secretary and a pipe-smoking wisecracking professor in chief. It's a place designed to ease the transition from America to Germany, basically; today they served us pizza and pop. Weird, calzone pizza, and healthy, all-natural pop, but still.

In addition to providing junk food, the program offers easier courses taught at a slower pace, in case you don't make it past the exam that the massive Ludwig-Maximilians Universitat requires all foreign students score a certain amount on in order to take classes in German there. It's really not a bad thing if you don't make it -- some of the courses at the Junior Year Munich program are pretty cool. I, for one, am taking Nazi Germany, as is nearly everyone else. (The sign-up sheet flew around the room, ripped from hand to hand.)

I was prepared to take pretty much all of my classes at JYM. My German speaking voice is creaky to inadequate, and I make all kinds of miniscule annoying grammar mistakes while writing. But somehow, last week, I passed the exam. I am apparently a B2, fully prepared for learning auf Deutsch. So now the pipe-smoking kindly professor has said that I should probably take, in addition to my two classes at little cute JYM, three classes at the big scary brother-and-sister-Scholl-killing LMU, you know, just because I can. Gulp.

So I'm picking them now (late). They all have ridiculously long names, like "Ubersetzungsorientierte Analyse literarischer Texte", which means only "Translation-oriented Literary Text Analysis", but sounds much more intimidating in German. I'm frankly a little scared.

But on the bright side, due to the way credits work out at UMM, I can take one class in English, a selection which I've already spent the whole evening deliberating over. Due to my native superiority ... okay, birth in America... I'm already ahead. Plus, the classes have cool names like "Apokalypsen!!" and "Gender in American Fiction".

I'm excited to have one class where I will rock the world's face off, opposed to the rest of the time, in which I will mumble and stumble over words and make the grammatical mistakes of a four-year-old.

I'm in fact so excited to maximize my awesomeness potential that I'm even considering re-taking "Virginia Woolf", in which, having just read the books last semester, I will look like a fucking literary genius....

Okay, not really, especially because my alternative choice is called "Superheroes!".

Seriously. What a country!

Reasons Why the U-Bahn Sucks

1. Reason number one has to be the vapid, vast, unchanging unenthusiasm of the train drivers, people whose job it is to sit in the dark for however many hours long their shift is, hit the brakes and gas, and go, "Bitte umsteigen..." in different discouraged-sounding tones of voice. Some trains have automated systems that announce things for the drivers. The one we take to the university most decidedly does not, and seems to hire the saddest people.

2. You are constantly waiting for something. Waiting for the next train (if you can find it -- see #4), waiting for this train to end. It's like a parody of life.

3. The awkwardness of sitting in a square with three people you do not know and trying not to make eye contact with them. Everyone attempts to avoid each other's gaze, but the problem is that there's absolutely nothing else to look at. Needless to say, the line between idle staring and flirtatious oogling is thin.

4. I cannot find the next train. Ever. The signs are unhelpful, and all the station names sound the same. Maybe I'm just dumber underground, or something.

5. All I can think sometimes is, "Sarin gas! Sarin gas!"

6. The dim, unflattering lighting of all the trains and stations makes one feel as if one is on the train to hell, surrounded by the damned. Maybe one is.

7. Despite this, there are so, so many very very stylish women taking public transportation. When one is sitting with frizzy hair in one's ancient WWOOFing jeans and a rather strange jacket, the lady next to one with a purse that matches her boots AND her shirt must feel disdain.

8. There are also a lot of gorgeous men who come into my life for two subway stops and then leave.

9. In the stations, every stand sells pretzels. Every one. How do they do that? How do they stay in business? How do I know which stand's pretzels are best, or are they all in league, sold from the same distributor? If so, why are they different prices? Are they cheaper near worse trains? Is that how we know? How do I get off this train of thought? Was my stop three stops ago?

10. Dietlindenstrasse. Nobody gets on... nobody gets off.

11. A guy next to me today had a massive cardboard box on the train with him. I had neither the German or the courage to ask him why. Plus, he seemed to be staring the passengers down, just daring someone to say anything.

12. People get weirded out when you pet the dogs they bring with them onto the train. And the dogs are always adorable and well-behaved... I wish they were mine. (Similar feeling to #8, actually.) Interesting fact: one dog on the U-bahn is free with your ticket, but two are going to cost you.

13. Today, instead of a goose, I ran into a child. I was booking it towards my train to have my appointment with my professor to pick my classes and decide my future, and it was about to leave, and I guess my gaze was focused firmly on the departing closing doors and not on the ground in front of me because WHACK, something hit me in the leg, something that felt like a nose.

I yelled "Entschuldigung!" and then I saw I'd hit a three-year-old, who was holding his mother's hand, and wasn't a piece of luggage like I'd thought he was. Still, I was on autopilot, and I rushed into the train and sat down. It was instantly silent. I imagined that everyone was staring at me. Then I realized what a horrible thing I'd done, and looked over my shoulder out the window to see his mother escorting him onto the elevator, glaring furiously at my back through the train glass.

14. I really, really, really need a bike instead.

Fotoapparat

I don't know if I mentioned this adequately or not, but my flight for Germany necessitated that I wake up at 4:30 in the morning, leave my airport hotel, navigate baggage claim and an intricate security system, and leave the Irish nation before most of it has had coffee yet.

I am pretty sure, upon looking over previous blog entries, that I have. But I'm saying this now again because my fuzzy morning brain is the only plausible excuse for my somehow losing, along the way:

1 pair Wellington boots

1 pair tennis shoes

1 cloth case

1 digital camera

1 driver's license

The boots can be explained by my hasty baggage reshuffling necessitated by weight limits -- I threw the Wellies away in a trash can, both sadly and in a semi-panicked manner. But how did the shoes get lost? I figured it out later -- tragically, they were in the same plastic bag as the Wellies were, due to their similar levels of being covered in chicken shit. Damn.

But where did my camera go, along with its little baggie which for some reason contained my driver's license? (again, I packed hastily).

I called my hotel, and apparently I'd left it on the night stand. Great. They agreed to mail it to me, and I gave them the address for the program I'm in, and the guy wrote it down and agreed in a cheerful Irish manner to bill me for the cost of the shipping.

This will be more than I think it will, turns out, since they for some reason mailed it not to Germany but to MY ADDRESS IN THE USA.

"Did you... lose your camera?" my mother said mystified over text message yesterday. I literally facepalmed.

I've seen a lot of picture-worthy things here, but none will be photographed until next week sometime. It's a shame... the blooms are blooming, the tourists are coming, and we're going to the Alps today. Luckily my new German friend has allowed me to borrow his camera, and hopefully to finally make the facebook album I've been dreaming of making, titled "Springtime for Hitler".

Haar Angst

My hair is incredibly bouncy today, and incredibly chin-length. With my knee-length coat and my bag full of groceries, I look exactly like a mother from the nineties, albeit a mother attempting to hug an U-bahn pole to herself as she avoids the glances of all the silent Germans on the train.

How have I come to this? The answer is that today, I went to a German hair salon, tired of the inch or so of dead ends on me. (I also have a date, albeit one that entails watching football, but still a date.) My entire strategy of dealing with salespeople and shopkeepers and servicepeople in general here is to say as little as possible, sticking to "Ja". Because I frequently look very ninetiesish, they tend to think I'm --- if not from here -- at least from some Eastern European country, and not from America.

It was a sort of factory-farm hair salon, with each haircut eleven euro, take a number and go to a stylist when your number pops up on the screen and the sound system beeps electronically. My personal stylist, who was dressed exactly like Trinity, asked me something while she was washing my hair. Naturlich I said "Ja", and so therefore got to sit for roughly forty minutes while she deep-conditioned it, put a towel over it, and forgot about me.

It was, however, a pretty good opportunity to observe everyone else there. Each hairstylist was dressed like they were going to a club, which they may have been, considering that it is Friday and they all seem like they know how to party. The one stylist in particular that I was observing was a modelesque young man who knew how to handle a blow-dryer. He was spending far too long styling the hair of another modelesque young man, despite the giant line of poor, impatient teenagers waiting. They kept chatting, and smiling at each other in the mirror. It was nice, if a little bit, as a woman, discouraging.

Eventually the woman showed up, apologized, hacked at my hair, and handed me the blow-dryer. The result isn't terrible. It's better than it would have been in, say, Morris, or at least as good... but not as good as the time my ex-boyfriend and I walked into a barbershop in Italy and, without saying anything, the stylist just whipped his hair into this sex-bomb shape. Of course, mine was eleven euro, so...egal.

This was going to be a blog entry about how great it is to bike in Munich. Instead, it's going to be an article about how weird life is here on occasion.

Earlier today, a New Friend and I were discussing how disconnected mankind is from nature these days, how everyone lives in air-conditioned homes, applies deodorant, and keeps denying that we exist to satisfy primal urges. Inspired by this, I borrowed a bike from my Other New Friend and cycled madly around the city for a blissful hour, satisfying a primal urge to go really fast while you watch the sun set.

It was great. Munich is the epitome of a Bike City. I have never seen anything like it before. Barcelona came close, but the city could not escape the fact that life there is an exercise in constant terror, and its bike lanes were no exception. Here, though, there are paved bike paths next to the regular person-paths. When they come to a road, they always end in a gentle down-slope. The stoplights have a little walking man and a little biking man. Cars will yield to you. Pedestrians will yield to you. All hail the Bike!!

Needless to say, I was high on power as I cycled through the English Gardens this evening. I was ecstatic, pedaling past families drinking pints, teenagers trading drugs, and monuments being admired. I was so happy and optimistic that when three brown geese made a feather-flapping squawking beeline out of the pond and over the path, I kept pedaling, certain that they would dodge out of the way like cars had and people had.

Reader, take note: geese do not yield. I have now been hit squarely in the face by the belly of a goose flapping at high velocity.

It was painful, yes, but also sort of smooth and tender, like someone gently whacking you with an old leather boxing glove. I hope I didn't disturb too many of its internal organs -- it flew on. I think. I didn't really stop to check, because I was too busy holding my face and yelling, "SERIOUSLY?" which is my default response to children throwing stones and men grabbing my butt in clubs but doesn't work on geese.

A man, passing, went in English, "Someone should really have recorded that."

If they had, I would have eagerly put it on Youtube, just like Cillion and the blanket. I would have had to, because I already have the perfect title:

"Girl, 20, Literally Connects With Nature".

FC-what?

Two weeks ago, I was in Barcelona hanging out with a group of Austrians who rabidly followed FCB, Football Club Barcelona.

This week, I am in Munich hanging out with a group of Iranians who rabidly follow FCB, Football Club Bayern.

It does make cheering at games easier for me, I guess.

How to Not Miss Someone

It’s easiest when you’re six hours ahead of them. That way, the times of day that remind you of a person are not concurrently occurring. They are instead six hours behind you. You do not have the luxury of staring out the window at ten in the morning and sighing, knowing that thousands of miles away your father is reading the paper on a maroon leather couch, the lamp at his elbow lit despite the sunlight coming through the window through the orchard. For despite the way your sun looks right now, like that sun, your father is thousands of miles away but relatively nowhere near the couch. He and the contented dog on his lap are asleep in bed, several hours from dawn, thousands of miles from you. He is asleep: the separation is, at that moment, only yours to contend with.

You sigh, and scrub the table.

Group Mentality

"I'm hungry. Are you hungry?" I asked hungrily, scanning the tables that lined the road we were walking down. The tiny cloth-covered tables were packed with people, all of whom were viciously eviscerating croissants and mugs of beer.

"Yes," Erica said, and then had to shout as a group of Japanese tourists divided us, "YES".

It was one-thirty. My new friend and I had been walking for roughly two hours. This was because of my miscalculation -- I'd figured, "hey, the English Gardens is just a park... how large can a park be?" and had suggested that we walk through them from our apartment complex to the market in the center of the city, rather than take the subway. It was a beautiful day, and we didn't really have anything else to do, so naturally she'd agreed, probably assuming that the Gardens -- although they were gorgeous woods and all -- wouldn't be the four miles long they turned out to be.

By this point, being Americans unused to constant pavement-pounding, we had sore calves. Our feet tingled. And we were being constantly barraged by people, shoved to the side as one group after the next passed. The waves of tourists continued undaunted, like zombies, or a herd of chickens mingling on the floor of a hen factory. The Gardens had been nice, but now this was pandemonium.

"Sorry," I said, or rather yelled. "I didn't realize this would take so long. I made you take a really massive walk, I feel like such a --" I stopped, realizing where I was. I had been about to say "Nazi". "I feel like ... I feel like we're goose-stepping... like we're wearing all brown..."

"I know what you mean," she said. "Hey, what's that?"

I turned to look. 'That' was an even more-solidly packed knot of people than all the rest of the crowd, and this herd of people, gathered in front of the Glockenspiel with heads tilted upward, was not a roving herd. It was a stationary herd. At its front were banners with rainbows on them, booths, posters, and a woman shouting Germanically into a microphone. I couldn't make out what she was saying -- since it was a beautiful day, I assumed it was some kind of gay pride rally, or possibly a Happy Easter! march.

I looked over at Erica. "It looks nice! Should we stay?"

Her eyes were wide. "Um...." She had plainly realized. "I think it's an anti-American rally."

I turned to it, about to say "That's ridiculous!", and then I saw the writing in Arabic and the giant poster-cartoon of a man standing on a wooden block, a hood draped over his head, his hands outstretched and chained.

Dumbfounded, I went, "But Obama's in power now!", and then I realized that these people didn't seem to care, no matter how kind and friendly they looked with their rainbow banners and their megaphone in front of a giant cartoony clock. The woman was shouting in earnest, and there was quite a bit of support, or at least the crowd was comprised of interested, thinking faces.

We switched to our broken horrible German until we reached the market, just to be sure.

Karlfreitag

It's our first weekend here, and we're very much on our own. I completely forgot about this, but it's Easter. So, so, so very Easter, especially here.

It being Easter in Munich means several things. First of all, when you go to tentatively get coffee in the little bake shop, the cheerful sandy-haired woman who is behind the counter serving the schnitzel und wurst und strudel und sauerkraut to the five bumbling men eating gracelessly on stools will hand you your tasse Kaffee zum mitnehmen, but then she will go "Warte mal!" and smile and pull out a foil-wrapped egg and place it in your hand.

It means that your program will take you to a restaurant, order you the vegetarian platter (which is several steamed carrots, some peppers, half a tomato, peas, and some boiled potatoes on a plate, on top of which rests one over-easy egg), and feed you a liter of beer. Then they will announce that they are both --- both kindly gray-haired professors --- both going to, respectively, France and Austria for the weekend, and you are on your own.

Most importantly, it means that nothing is open. Nothing. Except on Saturday, for some reason. Nothing is even open on Monday. MONDAY!

As an American, I do not know how to function in this capacity. It is as if someone took away one of my arms, or Facebook. "But what will we DO?" everyone else in the program muttered, or wailed. The professors merely smiled and shrugged. The suggestion in the orientation booklet is "Go to Salzburg!", which we might, on Monday, but nothing is open there either. Not even the salt mine you visit, where you dress up in miner costumes, see some walls made of salt, and slide down a salt luge. Not even that.

So far, I've made breakfast, which is quite an accomplishment, seeing as how my apartment has one two-square-foot counter and an even tinier fridge. I'm debating laundry and a walk in the English Gardens next, but after that I'm out of ideas.

Hell, I may have to resort to praying all night. What has Bavaria done to me in the course of one short week??!