Driving through Bovinia this rainy evening we came upon a huddle of silhouettes around a crackling fire. Not much more was distinguishable apart from Bavarian hats, a foot or two tapping to some random folk tune, and a vast log lying on its side. This sight may have puzzled me a year ago, but now I know that the log is our village Maibaum (maypole). Contrary to in Britain, or in fact anywhere else I've ever been where maypoles play any role whatsoever, the Bavarian variety stays up all year round APART from a brief period in April when it is removed for essential maintenance work. It is then driven back to its site on the eve of May 1, a reason for celebration in itself, apparently. And tomorrow it will be re-erected and returned to its former glory, lording it over the rooftops, swaying gently in the mountain breeze and getting peed on by dachshunds. Another cause for celebration. Maybe the guys by the fire will simply stay there all night. If they down enough schnapps they won't notice the torrential rain, I'm sure. Furthermore CG reliably informs me that the maypole has to be guarded. Apparently, a common practical joke in these parts is to steal your neighbouring village's maypole, and either burn it or hack it to pieces. Ha! What a laugh that would be. Not. But I long since gave up trying to understand German humour in any form.
I very much doubt that we will be present at the re-erecting ceremony tomorrow. I believe we have some paint drying somewhere which requires our attention. Hedda is going as our family ambassador, though, so we will get a first-hand report of the activities.
Speaking of celebrations and activities, we were shopping in Munich today, and the city centre was packed full of drunken groups lurching from pub to pub. There were the requisite Brit stag parties (all wearing t-shirts with typical nicknames, like 'Skinny Man' - worn by a fat guy, 'Andy the Bone' - don't ask, 'Jock Strap', etc. I looked the other way) and plenty of German ones too, men and women, cavorting around in a most undignified manner. We got the impression that most of Munich is getting married next weekend, if they live that long. There was also a Bayern München match on, so all in all we were lucky to escape in one piece. All a bit much for us country-dwellers. That said, I found everything I was looking for and more besides, sartorially speaking, and CG had an afternoon off from Herr NN, who is getting more and more involved in our gardening work, or lack of it. Whilst we were away last week he rearranged our compost heap, removed a huge pile of dead wood that we were storing and emptied out our wheelbarrow. Is that helpful or intrusive? I rather think the latter.
Saturday 30 April 2011
Friday 29 April 2011
I always knew Cambridge was missing something
One, two, three, aaaaaahhhhh. We're all aglow from watching four solid hours of British pageantry, in other words the Royal Wedding. Wasn't the dress lovely, and didn't Queenie look summery in her custard-yellow ensemble? Hasn't poor William lost even more hair (stress, no doubt) and wouldn't it be nice if Pippa and Harry teamed up too? Except he's still hanging out with Battersea, I mean Chelsea, Davy, who, incidentally, made it onto the Daily Telegraph's Worst Dressed List.
I bet millions of bloggers have chosen this subject today, but I really feel I have no choice. Nearly thirty years ago, I went to watch Charles and Di tie the knot on TV. It was my first solo visit to my grandparents, staunch royalists, who at that time were living within a stone's throw of Windsor Castle. Another first was ten solid hours of television, only interrupted for trips 'down the passage', i.e. to the bathroom; eating in front of the TV (unheard of) AND, most importantly, the movie that evening was The Sound of Music which has had a lasting influence on my life. Anyway. My dear Granny maintained a fluid commentary throughout the entire wedding ceremony. No bow or ruche left unscrutinised, no footman's demeanour or horse's gait uncriticised. Even the BBC commentators, normally held in great esteem, were slated for their banal and ill-researched narratives. The wedding was, in her eyes, a mistake. But I drunk in her words - in those days, she was such an oracle to me. In retrospect, she was right to be cynical. It is easy to be wise with hindsight, though. Who could fail to have been moved by the steadfast, wholesome, understated glamour of today's spectacle? Catherine couldn't have done it better. OK, I'm waffling now, so I'd better change the subject.
In case any of you at all are wondering about the cow population of Bovinia to whom I sporadically refer, I can officially report that some selected groups are out in the open finally, chewing the fresh green cud, blinking in the sunlight and looking confused, as predicted. I said hi to a few on my run this morning but they were most dismissive. I guess they need time to acclimatise!
PS:
True to the contradictory form of any teenager, Gaia just demanded that I mention her in today's blog. I will do so, but (ha!) not in the way she requested. OK, perhaps I'll do both. She wanted "Gaia's just back from Belgium - she had a really cool time" - nice to know, but not that interesting. I want to say that she watched today's wedding carefully and wordlessly (unusual - she possesses her great-grandmother's penchant for ruthless criticism). Her considered remark at the end was, "well. I think I need to review the plans for my own wedding"!!!!! Love it.
I bet millions of bloggers have chosen this subject today, but I really feel I have no choice. Nearly thirty years ago, I went to watch Charles and Di tie the knot on TV. It was my first solo visit to my grandparents, staunch royalists, who at that time were living within a stone's throw of Windsor Castle. Another first was ten solid hours of television, only interrupted for trips 'down the passage', i.e. to the bathroom; eating in front of the TV (unheard of) AND, most importantly, the movie that evening was The Sound of Music which has had a lasting influence on my life. Anyway. My dear Granny maintained a fluid commentary throughout the entire wedding ceremony. No bow or ruche left unscrutinised, no footman's demeanour or horse's gait uncriticised. Even the BBC commentators, normally held in great esteem, were slated for their banal and ill-researched narratives. The wedding was, in her eyes, a mistake. But I drunk in her words - in those days, she was such an oracle to me. In retrospect, she was right to be cynical. It is easy to be wise with hindsight, though. Who could fail to have been moved by the steadfast, wholesome, understated glamour of today's spectacle? Catherine couldn't have done it better. OK, I'm waffling now, so I'd better change the subject.
In case any of you at all are wondering about the cow population of Bovinia to whom I sporadically refer, I can officially report that some selected groups are out in the open finally, chewing the fresh green cud, blinking in the sunlight and looking confused, as predicted. I said hi to a few on my run this morning but they were most dismissive. I guess they need time to acclimatise!
PS:
True to the contradictory form of any teenager, Gaia just demanded that I mention her in today's blog. I will do so, but (ha!) not in the way she requested. OK, perhaps I'll do both. She wanted "Gaia's just back from Belgium - she had a really cool time" - nice to know, but not that interesting. I want to say that she watched today's wedding carefully and wordlessly (unusual - she possesses her great-grandmother's penchant for ruthless criticism). Her considered remark at the end was, "well. I think I need to review the plans for my own wedding"!!!!! Love it.
Wednesday 27 April 2011
Peak practise
Today marked the launch of a new initiative in our household - the Mountain Challenge, in other words, bribe the kids into climbing ten local peaks with the promise of a new Wii game. This might sound harsh, but they've already got four apiece. (I mean local peaks, not Wii games.) So lunchtime found us on the summit of the nearby Jochberg in thick cloud. The only way we knew we'd reached the top was the huge cross (every mountain around here has one). This cross had a natty little metal cabinet with a guest book inside, where other successful climbers had recorded their euphoria, or whatever. Hedda, our anointed scribe, was too cold to write anything other than our names and the date.
It was all a bit eerie. Just under the cross was a weatherbeaten grave. Some poor guy had snuffed it there, struck by lightning in 1937. (Amazingly, there is still a hurricane lantern and candle in homage to him.) We stumbled down through the fog and rain in search of shelter for our picnic. All we found was a closed-up restaurant, but at least there were tables and benches outside. If you sat close enough to the wall, you just about escaped the deluge of water from the gutterpipe above. There's nothing worse than a wet sandwich.
The rain steadily worsened as we shivered and slipped our way back to the car. I could hardly speak for coldness, but the children's merry chatter and sense of achievement was worth every drip seeping into my now-known-to-be-not-waterproof-raincoat. Only five more mountains to go...
It was all a bit eerie. Just under the cross was a weatherbeaten grave. Some poor guy had snuffed it there, struck by lightning in 1937. (Amazingly, there is still a hurricane lantern and candle in homage to him.) We stumbled down through the fog and rain in search of shelter for our picnic. All we found was a closed-up restaurant, but at least there were tables and benches outside. If you sat close enough to the wall, you just about escaped the deluge of water from the gutterpipe above. There's nothing worse than a wet sandwich.
The rain steadily worsened as we shivered and slipped our way back to the car. I could hardly speak for coldness, but the children's merry chatter and sense of achievement was worth every drip seeping into my now-known-to-be-not-waterproof-raincoat. Only five more mountains to go...
Monday 25 April 2011
RH is back! And wants a tortoise (or three)
After a week of total isolation in the Allgäu valley, RH and family arrived back - promptly after breakfast - in Bovinia today. Still no cows! I'll have to research this further. Where we were staying, only 45 minutes away, selected herds were wondering the pastures. And looked most contented, if a little skinny.
I feel reluctant to launch into a long description of the retreat. Suffice to say, coke, wine and beer were drunk, and we were fed three times a day with stodgy Bavarian food by large ladies in maroon t-shirts. That alone prevented me from eating too much, also the fact that, until the very last day, the kitchen team failed to understand exactly what a vegetarian is, despite many attempts to explain on my part. I think they've got the idea now, which will be good for the next person.
While we were away our desire to acquire some tortoises grew. I'll be blogging about this again, no doubt. Our sad track record of pet-keeping does not inspire confidence, so we are keen to get it right this time. I thought you just kept a tortoise in the garden, then packed it into a box - I remember watching this on Blue Peter as a child - for the winter. But apparently there's a lot more to it than that.
You may laugh, but only yesterday I was in a petting zoo, fairy-tale parky kind of place. As luck would have it, there was a little tortoise enclosure. I interpreted this as a SIGN that we should, indeed, go ahead and get some. I wasn't entirely sure though, so before we went, I returned to their hang-out and observed them for a few minutes. I was waiting for conclusive evidence. And then it happened - CG does not believe this at all - one of them waved its foot in my direction. My new project is thus researching the ins and outs of tortoise keeping. Blame our old neighbour in England. He was a merchant sailor and had a tortoise, Terence, that I think had been smuggled back from a faraway land. Every now and again, Mr Sailor would poke his head over the garden fence, and Terence would poke his head out of his shell, and we'd have a little chat. My brother and I found this infinitely more exciting than the bunches of green bananas my mother would be presented with (I never did find out what she did with them.)
If any of my blog-readers should happen to have experience with tortoise-keeping, I implore them to write and give us some tips. We and our future pets will be forever in their debt.
I feel reluctant to launch into a long description of the retreat. Suffice to say, coke, wine and beer were drunk, and we were fed three times a day with stodgy Bavarian food by large ladies in maroon t-shirts. That alone prevented me from eating too much, also the fact that, until the very last day, the kitchen team failed to understand exactly what a vegetarian is, despite many attempts to explain on my part. I think they've got the idea now, which will be good for the next person.
While we were away our desire to acquire some tortoises grew. I'll be blogging about this again, no doubt. Our sad track record of pet-keeping does not inspire confidence, so we are keen to get it right this time. I thought you just kept a tortoise in the garden, then packed it into a box - I remember watching this on Blue Peter as a child - for the winter. But apparently there's a lot more to it than that.
You may laugh, but only yesterday I was in a petting zoo, fairy-tale parky kind of place. As luck would have it, there was a little tortoise enclosure. I interpreted this as a SIGN that we should, indeed, go ahead and get some. I wasn't entirely sure though, so before we went, I returned to their hang-out and observed them for a few minutes. I was waiting for conclusive evidence. And then it happened - CG does not believe this at all - one of them waved its foot in my direction. My new project is thus researching the ins and outs of tortoise keeping. Blame our old neighbour in England. He was a merchant sailor and had a tortoise, Terence, that I think had been smuggled back from a faraway land. Every now and again, Mr Sailor would poke his head over the garden fence, and Terence would poke his head out of his shell, and we'd have a little chat. My brother and I found this infinitely more exciting than the bunches of green bananas my mother would be presented with (I never did find out what she did with them.)
If any of my blog-readers should happen to have experience with tortoise-keeping, I implore them to write and give us some tips. We and our future pets will be forever in their debt.
Sunday 17 April 2011
Beating a retreat
That's what we shall be doing tomorrow. We were to have gone today, but a minor car accident has meant we delay our departure, awaiting the trusty pick-up truck. Nobody was hurt; only the gatepost sustained severe injury, not to mention the car, of course, which is sitting in the drive looking very sorry for itself.
The retreat means my entries shall be somewhat sporadic over the next week. You never know though; it might be such a blast that I'll be blogging even more than usual, though I'll have to be careful as I know some of the participants read the RH regularly.
It won't be strange to leave Bovinia, as we're only going to be an hour away. I do hope that the cows will be out grazing by the time we get back. I must go now. We had just been listening to Max the loopy cat walking up and down the piano keys - it actually sounded quite melodious from two rooms away - when the dumb animal jumped up on to the lid and in so doing smashed a glass candle holder into smithereens. Of us all, he's the one who most needs a retreat, but sadly he'll be in the capable hands of Frau NN till we return. We're secretly hoping he'll decide to move in there. I can see it now - his little ginger face peeking plaintively out from the orchids on their windowsill.
So until our next meeting, goodbye and good luck.
The retreat means my entries shall be somewhat sporadic over the next week. You never know though; it might be such a blast that I'll be blogging even more than usual, though I'll have to be careful as I know some of the participants read the RH regularly.
It won't be strange to leave Bovinia, as we're only going to be an hour away. I do hope that the cows will be out grazing by the time we get back. I must go now. We had just been listening to Max the loopy cat walking up and down the piano keys - it actually sounded quite melodious from two rooms away - when the dumb animal jumped up on to the lid and in so doing smashed a glass candle holder into smithereens. Of us all, he's the one who most needs a retreat, but sadly he'll be in the capable hands of Frau NN till we return. We're secretly hoping he'll decide to move in there. I can see it now - his little ginger face peeking plaintively out from the orchids on their windowsill.
So until our next meeting, goodbye and good luck.
Friday 15 April 2011
Couch & Porno
Somewhat incongruous in a well-kept, twee Bavarian village are the garish posters advertising upcoming 'events' in the area. They are plastered everywhere. The latest promises - get this - 'Couch & Porno', whatever that means. I don't like to speculate. It might not be as low-grade as it sounds, though.
The fact is that using English words makes things seem more exciting, enticing, exotic; the actual meaning of the words is not always important. (I am pretty sure that 'porno' is understood everywhere, however.) I've blogged before about the vast amount of English that has crept into the German language. And it's still creeping. If it carries on much longer, German might disappear altogether.
Take swear words. I know lots of Germans who use English expletives, presumably as this sounds less offensive to the Teutonic ear. I, on the other hand, cringe in embarrassment when 'fu*k' rears its ugly head in a stream of German. 'J-sus' is another one. Try it the other way round though - use a foreign swear word in place of your usual one - if indeed you swear at all - and it is true, the impact is reduced, perhaps to nil if your listener is not familiar with the language you picked. So that could be a reason, or do they simply think it's cool? (You can say 'cool' in German too, by the way.)
Maybe the posters round here don't bother non-English speakers. I asked CG and he hadn't even noticed them. I find them pretty gross, and I am dreading the day when Gaia - whoops, I mentioned her again - demands to go to one of these things, whether Couch & Porno, Turkish Nights (one for my hairdresser), Stay and Play, Sex and Sounds... the list goes on and on, scheisse, I have to stop now. Time to pick up Hedda and Titus from their judo class.
The fact is that using English words makes things seem more exciting, enticing, exotic; the actual meaning of the words is not always important. (I am pretty sure that 'porno' is understood everywhere, however.) I've blogged before about the vast amount of English that has crept into the German language. And it's still creeping. If it carries on much longer, German might disappear altogether.
Take swear words. I know lots of Germans who use English expletives, presumably as this sounds less offensive to the Teutonic ear. I, on the other hand, cringe in embarrassment when 'fu*k' rears its ugly head in a stream of German. 'J-sus' is another one. Try it the other way round though - use a foreign swear word in place of your usual one - if indeed you swear at all - and it is true, the impact is reduced, perhaps to nil if your listener is not familiar with the language you picked. So that could be a reason, or do they simply think it's cool? (You can say 'cool' in German too, by the way.)
Maybe the posters round here don't bother non-English speakers. I asked CG and he hadn't even noticed them. I find them pretty gross, and I am dreading the day when Gaia - whoops, I mentioned her again - demands to go to one of these things, whether Couch & Porno, Turkish Nights (one for my hairdresser), Stay and Play, Sex and Sounds... the list goes on and on, scheisse, I have to stop now. Time to pick up Hedda and Titus from their judo class.
Thursday 14 April 2011
Important announcements
I have a couple of announcements to make today. Firstly, I am banned, forever more, from blogging about Gaia again. This makes life slightly easier, admittedly. I may, just may, mention her in passing, but only occasionally.
Secondly, I have officially transferred my hirsutical allegiance to Hanni the local hairdresser. I am full to bursting with all the humble pie I have eaten, and I have a fantastic haircut to boot. Hanni is everything a coiffeuse should be - friendly, chatty without being irritating, delivers the goods, makes you feel great about yourself. Only one small part of our exchange yesterday unsettled me. We were chatting about how I was adapting to life in a new place - again. So I gave my standard, much-practised reply, that I will always be 'the foreigner', and just have to live with it, people have been very kind and welcoming, etc, etc. Hanni said, but you're not really a foreigner, though, are you. I shot her a questioning look from under the heat-lamp. Well, she said. English, Italian, Austrian.... that's not foreign. Not really. Are you trying to say I'd have it harder if I came from Eastern Europe, I mused. Even there would be ok for me, pontificated Hanni, but if you were Turkish - now, that would be really foreign! Why, I asked, immediately regretting it. Hanni thought this was obvious. It is not being a Christian that makes someone foreign, or more crucially, being a Muslim.
I was stunned into silence by this oh-so-softly-delivered xenophobic declaration. Luckily, at that moment, the timer on my heat-lamp beeped and thus, a natural break prevented me from having to comment, which is just as well, all things considered. I felt a mixture of relief and gratitude, for not being perceived as foreign enough to be ostracised, pity for those who are, and amazement that some people still think it is acceptable to make sweeping statements of prejudice. The scary thing is, there is no meanness involved. They don't question their beliefs - not for a second. I know there are those who think like this the world over. In the main, they are happy in their ignorance. Best let them be. But sometimes, just sometimes, I feel deeply disturbed by the barely discernible current of racism that pervades life in rural Bavaria.
Despite this fleeting feeling of unease, the fact remains I've found a good hairdresser, which as any woman will tell you is worth its weight in gold. Still on the lookout for non-threatening dentist and un-creepy gynaecologist - applications on a postcard please!
Secondly, I have officially transferred my hirsutical allegiance to Hanni the local hairdresser. I am full to bursting with all the humble pie I have eaten, and I have a fantastic haircut to boot. Hanni is everything a coiffeuse should be - friendly, chatty without being irritating, delivers the goods, makes you feel great about yourself. Only one small part of our exchange yesterday unsettled me. We were chatting about how I was adapting to life in a new place - again. So I gave my standard, much-practised reply, that I will always be 'the foreigner', and just have to live with it, people have been very kind and welcoming, etc, etc. Hanni said, but you're not really a foreigner, though, are you. I shot her a questioning look from under the heat-lamp. Well, she said. English, Italian, Austrian.... that's not foreign. Not really. Are you trying to say I'd have it harder if I came from Eastern Europe, I mused. Even there would be ok for me, pontificated Hanni, but if you were Turkish - now, that would be really foreign! Why, I asked, immediately regretting it. Hanni thought this was obvious. It is not being a Christian that makes someone foreign, or more crucially, being a Muslim.
I was stunned into silence by this oh-so-softly-delivered xenophobic declaration. Luckily, at that moment, the timer on my heat-lamp beeped and thus, a natural break prevented me from having to comment, which is just as well, all things considered. I felt a mixture of relief and gratitude, for not being perceived as foreign enough to be ostracised, pity for those who are, and amazement that some people still think it is acceptable to make sweeping statements of prejudice. The scary thing is, there is no meanness involved. They don't question their beliefs - not for a second. I know there are those who think like this the world over. In the main, they are happy in their ignorance. Best let them be. But sometimes, just sometimes, I feel deeply disturbed by the barely discernible current of racism that pervades life in rural Bavaria.
Despite this fleeting feeling of unease, the fact remains I've found a good hairdresser, which as any woman will tell you is worth its weight in gold. Still on the lookout for non-threatening dentist and un-creepy gynaecologist - applications on a postcard please!
Tuesday 12 April 2011
The forbidden cupboard
Phew! Totally overwhelmed by the comments I received yesterday.... i.e ONE! Am I to assume that my readers are completely satisfied? Why not - that will give me licence to write about whatever I want. Which is what I mostly do anyway, though I try to keep the Bovinian thread running through the tapestry.
I have recovered from my nightmare somewhat. Nobody waved a pitchfork at me when I dropped Titus off with the fierce and devout teacher (I forgot to mention that she was also prominent in the witch-hunt). We are depriving ourselves of our first Bovinian Easter experience by nipping away for a few days, still in Bavaria, but as you know, even the next village counts as foreign round here. Actually we'll be taking part in a retreat, which sounds holy and meditative but usually involves uproarious laughter and copious amounts of wine. Not that we partake in the latter, you understand. But it's fun watching other people being silly.
Titus is most put out that we are not going to be here. Apparently all sorts of festivities have been planned, although the ceremonial unveiling of the Easter crafts - I speak of the carefully blown-out eggs - will no longer take place. All sixty of them were smashed in one fell swoop by a fight that got of hand. Titus reported this to us gravely. Wasn't your teacher cross, I asked him. No, he said, eyebrows disappearing into his bushy blond fringe (he desperately needs a haircut) in disbelief. I just can't understand why she wasn't, Mummy. It's a mystery to me. Maybe she's on Prozac.
Meanwhile Gaia is still chuntering that I don't mention her enough in this blog. I feel obliged to reiterate that it is boring, for writer and reader, if I describe somebody who mainly sits in her room, cyber-communing, apart from night-time raids to the forbidden cupboard*. During her rare appearances she can be most amusing, but every time she cracks a joke and I say, hey, that's one for my blog, she threatens to sue me. So what can I do??
*Forbidden cupboard - ha! I coined the phrase when we first moved here, as I wanted a place where I could put treats to which people - those under the age of 18 - shouldn't help themselves. Rather, they ask Mother or Father politely if it would be appropriate for them to eat some chocolate. Mother/Father goes to the Forbidden cupboard and graciously dispenses one single bar. Child goes away happy. Sigh. Six months down the line, I now have a forbidden forbidden cupboard which is so well-hidden, even I forget where it is sometimes. This is the only way to ensure that one week's worth of treats/snacks doesn't get consumed within one day.
I have recovered from my nightmare somewhat. Nobody waved a pitchfork at me when I dropped Titus off with the fierce and devout teacher (I forgot to mention that she was also prominent in the witch-hunt). We are depriving ourselves of our first Bovinian Easter experience by nipping away for a few days, still in Bavaria, but as you know, even the next village counts as foreign round here. Actually we'll be taking part in a retreat, which sounds holy and meditative but usually involves uproarious laughter and copious amounts of wine. Not that we partake in the latter, you understand. But it's fun watching other people being silly.
Titus is most put out that we are not going to be here. Apparently all sorts of festivities have been planned, although the ceremonial unveiling of the Easter crafts - I speak of the carefully blown-out eggs - will no longer take place. All sixty of them were smashed in one fell swoop by a fight that got of hand. Titus reported this to us gravely. Wasn't your teacher cross, I asked him. No, he said, eyebrows disappearing into his bushy blond fringe (he desperately needs a haircut) in disbelief. I just can't understand why she wasn't, Mummy. It's a mystery to me. Maybe she's on Prozac.
Meanwhile Gaia is still chuntering that I don't mention her enough in this blog. I feel obliged to reiterate that it is boring, for writer and reader, if I describe somebody who mainly sits in her room, cyber-communing, apart from night-time raids to the forbidden cupboard*. During her rare appearances she can be most amusing, but every time she cracks a joke and I say, hey, that's one for my blog, she threatens to sue me. So what can I do??
*Forbidden cupboard - ha! I coined the phrase when we first moved here, as I wanted a place where I could put treats to which people - those under the age of 18 - shouldn't help themselves. Rather, they ask Mother or Father politely if it would be appropriate for them to eat some chocolate. Mother/Father goes to the Forbidden cupboard and graciously dispenses one single bar. Child goes away happy. Sigh. Six months down the line, I now have a forbidden forbidden cupboard which is so well-hidden, even I forget where it is sometimes. This is the only way to ensure that one week's worth of treats/snacks doesn't get consumed within one day.
Monday 11 April 2011
The Madding Crowd
I had a terrible dream last night. Somehow, the link to my blog had ended up on the website of a local museum, and I was getting loads of hits, but before the day was out my anonymous status was a thing of the past and the village was launching a hate campaign. Picture a band of angry peasants, a scene from a Middle Ages film, all brandishing pitchforks and flaming torches. Led by the NNs and the Hairy Postman, they chased me all over Bovinia with cries of 'drown her' and 'off with her head'. My crime? Defiling the good name of their village and ridiculing the Bavarian way of life. Needless to say, I woke up in a cold sweat.
This is no joke - I truly did dream all of that, and I've been wondering why. Not normally given to dream analysis, I struggle to make anything of this. The furious medieval crowd bit is easy - straight from watching 'The Black Death' with CG a couple of weeks back (I couldn't watch it all, I have to confess). I think the overriding emotion behind this nightmare is guilt. Yes, that old chestnut. The fact is, it is much easier to make satirical remarks about things and people you don't know. Plus, the more objective one is, the more pertinent the observations tend to be. Obviously, the new-girl-in-village label is wearing thin and I am beginning to fit in, as much as I ever can. So where to now?
I turn to you, dear RH readers, for advice. What would you like to read? More of the same, or shall I diversify? Both are possible. Alternatively, the RH could hang up her apron and re-emerge in another guise.
This is no joke - I truly did dream all of that, and I've been wondering why. Not normally given to dream analysis, I struggle to make anything of this. The furious medieval crowd bit is easy - straight from watching 'The Black Death' with CG a couple of weeks back (I couldn't watch it all, I have to confess). I think the overriding emotion behind this nightmare is guilt. Yes, that old chestnut. The fact is, it is much easier to make satirical remarks about things and people you don't know. Plus, the more objective one is, the more pertinent the observations tend to be. Obviously, the new-girl-in-village label is wearing thin and I am beginning to fit in, as much as I ever can. So where to now?
I turn to you, dear RH readers, for advice. What would you like to read? More of the same, or shall I diversify? Both are possible. Alternatively, the RH could hang up her apron and re-emerge in another guise.
Sunday 10 April 2011
Mad Max is back in town
Dragged the children off on a hike today, dangling the carrot of lunch at a local eatery. I had the route well-planned, but after three hours of stiff climbing even my habitual optimism was beginning to wear off. The birdsong started grating on me and I was cursing the ubiquitous cyclists and their dust-clouds. All three kids, thankfully at different times, threw some kind of tantrum and refused to go any further. Only when it was pointed out to them that going back the way we'd just came would take far longer did they assent to continuing. Luckily CG was in his best, smoothing-over-troubled-waters mood. He managed to sustain a 90-minute roleplay with Titus - I don't know what about; I just let it wash over me. Personally, I wouldn't have had the energy.
The eatery was indeed a sight for sore eyes as we hoved over the hillbrow. We were absolutely starving. It was thus unfortunate that our waiter was on his first day and forgot our order. We smelt a rat when 45 minutes had passed and the people next to us had got through three courses. He didn't get a tip. (We'd have been kinder if he hadn't forgotten the dessert, as well.)
Speaking of rats, Max the mental cat has finally rediscovered his hunting instincts. He arrived in the garden this evening with a huge, still-twitching, rat clamped between his jaws. I couldn't watch, but Hedda and Titus enjoyed the spectacle of said rat being decapitated as they ate their fusilli. I hope this helps Max' somewhat feeble status in the local cat hierarchy. I know that, as a eunuch, he's bottom of the pile, but being a successful hunter might compensate in some way? If his self-esteem improved he might not be so needy...
The eatery was indeed a sight for sore eyes as we hoved over the hillbrow. We were absolutely starving. It was thus unfortunate that our waiter was on his first day and forgot our order. We smelt a rat when 45 minutes had passed and the people next to us had got through three courses. He didn't get a tip. (We'd have been kinder if he hadn't forgotten the dessert, as well.)
Speaking of rats, Max the mental cat has finally rediscovered his hunting instincts. He arrived in the garden this evening with a huge, still-twitching, rat clamped between his jaws. I couldn't watch, but Hedda and Titus enjoyed the spectacle of said rat being decapitated as they ate their fusilli. I hope this helps Max' somewhat feeble status in the local cat hierarchy. I know that, as a eunuch, he's bottom of the pile, but being a successful hunter might compensate in some way? If his self-esteem improved he might not be so needy...
Saturday 9 April 2011
The village spring clean
We had to keep a very low profile this morning - tricky, when nothing one does here seems to go unnoticed. Last week we'd received, along with every other household in the village, an impassioned plea from the mayor himself. The Great Bovinia Spring Clean was to take place today at 0800 sharp. A white-sausage-and-bread-roll breakfast was promised for all participators. CG and I considered hard, not for too long, admittedly, whether we should join in the fun. On the one hand, it's good to do one's bit. On the other, if we start now, we'll be obliged to do it every year, as long as we live here, plus we would heighten our visibility profile and, as a result, might get dragged into more community activities. In the end, it was the horribly early kick-off time that made our minds up.
I felt a bit ashamed on my run this morning, though, as I kept bumping into little pockets of dour-faced people wearing a glove and wielding a litter-picker. I hope they enjoyed their white sausage. I sure wouldn't have. Apart from the spring-cleaners, the roads were awash with cyclists, all kitted out in those garish outfits that velophiles seem to favour. Most of them were men, squeezed into tiny black shorts. I observed that, compared to walkers or fellow runners, cyclists do not greet, as is the custom here. They whizz past chatting amongst themselves and shoot you a death stare for blocking their path.
On the home strait I was nearly run over by another cyclist who undertook me on the wrong side. Incensed, I shouted oi - you could try ringing your bell, to which he gave a little tinkle as he raced off. Pure insolence. It was a relief to get back to the relative safety of our house, where the worst thing that can happen is one of the neighbours catching you picking your toe-nail (or worse).
Still no cows to be seen!
I felt a bit ashamed on my run this morning, though, as I kept bumping into little pockets of dour-faced people wearing a glove and wielding a litter-picker. I hope they enjoyed their white sausage. I sure wouldn't have. Apart from the spring-cleaners, the roads were awash with cyclists, all kitted out in those garish outfits that velophiles seem to favour. Most of them were men, squeezed into tiny black shorts. I observed that, compared to walkers or fellow runners, cyclists do not greet, as is the custom here. They whizz past chatting amongst themselves and shoot you a death stare for blocking their path.
On the home strait I was nearly run over by another cyclist who undertook me on the wrong side. Incensed, I shouted oi - you could try ringing your bell, to which he gave a little tinkle as he raced off. Pure insolence. It was a relief to get back to the relative safety of our house, where the worst thing that can happen is one of the neighbours catching you picking your toe-nail (or worse).
Still no cows to be seen!
Thursday 7 April 2011
Great Anglo-German relations
CG and I were talking recently about what we have learned most from each other. In other words, if we hadn't met, what would we have missed out on? Quite a list emerged, which was nice. You'll never guess what was at the top of CG's. The Sound of Music! Rodgers and Hammerstein have a lot to thank me for. Without my influence, CG would never have yodelled along to the Lonely Goatherd, or practised singing a la Do-Re-Mi (which is, actually, a very good way for not-so-musical people to learn how to hold a tune). Then came learning English, of course, for which I feel I cannot take too much credit, as he was already awfully good when we first met. (My German, those days, was rubbish. I used to try and instigate half-hour periods where we would only speak German. Invariably we ended up saying nothing at all.) Oh - another one for CG - the pepper mill. No more the grey dust in a salt cellar with multiple holes.
I guess you are wondering what I learnt from him. The first thing that sprang to mind was - sad but true - how to open and close a German window. Where I come from, you either had to heave a sash window up and down or open a casement outwards. The slickness of the German design was a delight to me, once I'd mastered it. Then, I suppose, it has to be the neat disposal of liquid food (if your kitchen sink doesn't play ball): you simply pour it down the toilet. I already mentioned the German language. It's true CG has been and remains one of my major sources. He's usually extremably reliable apart from a few notable exceptions. As someone with an enquiring mind, I am prone to over-questioning at times. I'm happy to admit this. This means that he has developed a way of fielding my queries if he doesn't feel, at that particular point in time, so disposed to answer. It's a kind of ambiguous grunting sound which can mean either yes or no. Only relentless, persistent questioning will get him to elaborate. When I was younger and naive, I often took this grunt for a yes, which resulted in me thinking that lots of things were true and only years later discovered to be completely the opposite. But as today is a special day, I'm prepared to overlook this. Even though my faux pas have oft been the subject of screeching laughter from dear German 'friends'.
We are celebrating ten years of marriage, but we've actually been together for nearly twelve. If you don't know us, you will obviously not be aware that we are - to my knowledge - the longest-running one night stand in history. I'm still waiting for him to get up in the morning and leave without saying goodbye. I love you, CG x
I guess you are wondering what I learnt from him. The first thing that sprang to mind was - sad but true - how to open and close a German window. Where I come from, you either had to heave a sash window up and down or open a casement outwards. The slickness of the German design was a delight to me, once I'd mastered it. Then, I suppose, it has to be the neat disposal of liquid food (if your kitchen sink doesn't play ball): you simply pour it down the toilet. I already mentioned the German language. It's true CG has been and remains one of my major sources. He's usually extremably reliable apart from a few notable exceptions. As someone with an enquiring mind, I am prone to over-questioning at times. I'm happy to admit this. This means that he has developed a way of fielding my queries if he doesn't feel, at that particular point in time, so disposed to answer. It's a kind of ambiguous grunting sound which can mean either yes or no. Only relentless, persistent questioning will get him to elaborate. When I was younger and naive, I often took this grunt for a yes, which resulted in me thinking that lots of things were true and only years later discovered to be completely the opposite. But as today is a special day, I'm prepared to overlook this. Even though my faux pas have oft been the subject of screeching laughter from dear German 'friends'.
We are celebrating ten years of marriage, but we've actually been together for nearly twelve. If you don't know us, you will obviously not be aware that we are - to my knowledge - the longest-running one night stand in history. I'm still waiting for him to get up in the morning and leave without saying goodbye. I love you, CG x
Wednesday 6 April 2011
Internet killed the radio star
The other day I was idly listening to the radio, tootling along the autobahn with all the other slow drivers. My ears suddenly tuned in (geddit?) to the conversation - indeed, they were announcing a phone-in competition, subject: biology. Before you begin to cast aspersions on my choice of radio station, let me clarify - the exam season is nearly upon Bavarian teenagers, and the station had obviously thought it would be a natty idea to do a quiz or two. I can see their reasoning; done properly, this would appeal to both the older (parent) and younger (teenager) markets. And any know-it-all pensioners who happened to be listening, assuming they weren't out policing the streets.
So far, so good. With a drum roll, the first question was on air, then swiftly into a three minute commercial break. I tuned out again, but Caller One, I think it was Ushi from Pomperhofen (or somewhere) was soon on the line.... with the WRONG answer. You might be wondering where I am going with all this, but think - in this day and age, when practically everybody has access to the internet, why on earth would you, as a phone-in contestant, not check your answer on Google? Not only that - Caller Two, Hubert from Gmünd, had the right answer - cue loud applause, trumpets and circus music. He was lathered with praise and won an all-expenses paid holiday to somewhere exotic. (I forget where but it was in eastern Europe, I think. I know I was jealous.) At first I was just happy that I had known the answer, even without googling. I bathed in the glow of self-satisfaction. Then it dawned on me that there is no point in these competitions any more - none whatsoever, and before you point out that it was to generate revenue for the station, I can riposte that the calls were free.
I remain mystified. It is irrelevant whether Hubert had googled the answer or not - he's sunning himself in Slovakia right now. Either he can be genuinely proud of himself for knowing the answer instinctively, or he is secretly ashamed about hoodwinking a venerable, forty-year-old radio channel. They really should know better.
So far, so good. With a drum roll, the first question was on air, then swiftly into a three minute commercial break. I tuned out again, but Caller One, I think it was Ushi from Pomperhofen (or somewhere) was soon on the line.... with the WRONG answer. You might be wondering where I am going with all this, but think - in this day and age, when practically everybody has access to the internet, why on earth would you, as a phone-in contestant, not check your answer on Google? Not only that - Caller Two, Hubert from Gmünd, had the right answer - cue loud applause, trumpets and circus music. He was lathered with praise and won an all-expenses paid holiday to somewhere exotic. (I forget where but it was in eastern Europe, I think. I know I was jealous.) At first I was just happy that I had known the answer, even without googling. I bathed in the glow of self-satisfaction. Then it dawned on me that there is no point in these competitions any more - none whatsoever, and before you point out that it was to generate revenue for the station, I can riposte that the calls were free.
I remain mystified. It is irrelevant whether Hubert had googled the answer or not - he's sunning himself in Slovakia right now. Either he can be genuinely proud of himself for knowing the answer instinctively, or he is secretly ashamed about hoodwinking a venerable, forty-year-old radio channel. They really should know better.
Tuesday 5 April 2011
Two countries separated by a common language
That's England and America in the words of Bernard Shaw, as I am sure most of you know, being one of his most-used quotes. I can see why, for it is absolutely true. Only the other day I decided to email an American acquaintance, who I'd met at my brother's wedding in NYC. I wrote a few niceties and generally enquired after his well-being. An enthusiastic reply bounced back. Amongst other things, how pleased he was that I'd 'chatted him up' at the party. ?????? Steady on old bean, I thought, I rather think you've misread the signals. Before I could finish my indignant internal diatribe another mail pinged up. Ah, it said. Your bro informs me that 'chatting up' has other connotations in Great Britain. Phew! He hadn't taken me for an old flirt after all.
Then there is the age-old but still occurring confusion with pants, trousers and underwear. I'll never forget the seven-year-old Gaia's look of horror when our au pair, fresh from Texas, complimented her on having really pretty pants. Or the children would be told 'mind your mother', as if I were lying in the middle of their pathway, when actually they were supposed to LISTEN to what I said. Oh, how we laughed. American friends talk about fixing their hair when it isn't broken, or they run to the store in their car, or they see a whole bunch of rain coming on the horizon. I love it.
You don't expect Brits over a certain age to use Americanisms, though. So when, whilst taking a break at an English service station a couple of years back, a little old lady approached me and said, you look very smart, I replied, well thank you madam. I feared she might be senile, as I had either snot or vomit, or both, on my jeans and was looking decidedly travel-worn. Then she said, could you help me with my mobile phone? Ha! She meant intelligent.... of course.
As an English teacher I am well-used to differentiating between the US and British varieties of our fair tongue. But it still amuses me when I hear an American woman deciding what to wear for a party. Often she'll say, oh, I think I'm just going to wear pants. And I think, woohoo - you go girl!!!!
Then there is the age-old but still occurring confusion with pants, trousers and underwear. I'll never forget the seven-year-old Gaia's look of horror when our au pair, fresh from Texas, complimented her on having really pretty pants. Or the children would be told 'mind your mother', as if I were lying in the middle of their pathway, when actually they were supposed to LISTEN to what I said. Oh, how we laughed. American friends talk about fixing their hair when it isn't broken, or they run to the store in their car, or they see a whole bunch of rain coming on the horizon. I love it.
You don't expect Brits over a certain age to use Americanisms, though. So when, whilst taking a break at an English service station a couple of years back, a little old lady approached me and said, you look very smart, I replied, well thank you madam. I feared she might be senile, as I had either snot or vomit, or both, on my jeans and was looking decidedly travel-worn. Then she said, could you help me with my mobile phone? Ha! She meant intelligent.... of course.
As an English teacher I am well-used to differentiating between the US and British varieties of our fair tongue. But it still amuses me when I hear an American woman deciding what to wear for a party. Often she'll say, oh, I think I'm just going to wear pants. And I think, woohoo - you go girl!!!!
Monday 4 April 2011
Bikini Bottom
Today's title is, as well as pertinent to my subject (which is the purpose of a title, is it not), also an obscure reference to Sponge Bob, who, in case you didn't know, lives there. I mean Bikini Bottom. I can't usually stand cartoons, but for homosexual, gap-toothed, square-panted Sponge Bob I am prepared to make an exception. Whoever writes the script has a razor-sharp sense of humour.
Anyway, I was going to talk about bikinis. The weather here was so hot at the weekend that many people were already flaunting their flesh at our local lake yesterday. Nobody was actually naked, I'm pleased to say - perhaps they only do that in the very early morn. But there was the usual selection of faded, too-tight Speedos and futile cover-all black one-pieces. I was quite happy to just observe. As a child, it was drummed into me that you shouldn't cast a clout till May is out - which somewhat contradicts the British convention of small public schoolboys wearing short trousers all year round, but never mind, for what nation is not a melting-pot of contradictions? However, I like to prepare well in advance for most things, so I tried on my bikini this morning. The mirror didn't shatter or anything, but I got a nasty premonition of the panic that descends on me, every year, when I have to display my insufficiently-clad self in public. It never ceases to amaze me that, although most people wouldn't dream of walking around in their underwear, we are expected to parade quite unselfconsciously whenever warmth, sunshine and water occur simultaneously. Not only that, but we often spend whole afternoons, or even days, cheek-by-jowl with other scantily dressed people on a crowded shore.
It is just the initial transition period that causes me problems, though. After a while I get used to it again, as I do year after year, and am sad when autumn comes round again and I start wondering where I put my 90 denier black opaque tights.
Anyway, I was going to talk about bikinis. The weather here was so hot at the weekend that many people were already flaunting their flesh at our local lake yesterday. Nobody was actually naked, I'm pleased to say - perhaps they only do that in the very early morn. But there was the usual selection of faded, too-tight Speedos and futile cover-all black one-pieces. I was quite happy to just observe. As a child, it was drummed into me that you shouldn't cast a clout till May is out - which somewhat contradicts the British convention of small public schoolboys wearing short trousers all year round, but never mind, for what nation is not a melting-pot of contradictions? However, I like to prepare well in advance for most things, so I tried on my bikini this morning. The mirror didn't shatter or anything, but I got a nasty premonition of the panic that descends on me, every year, when I have to display my insufficiently-clad self in public. It never ceases to amaze me that, although most people wouldn't dream of walking around in their underwear, we are expected to parade quite unselfconsciously whenever warmth, sunshine and water occur simultaneously. Not only that, but we often spend whole afternoons, or even days, cheek-by-jowl with other scantily dressed people on a crowded shore.
It is just the initial transition period that causes me problems, though. After a while I get used to it again, as I do year after year, and am sad when autumn comes round again and I start wondering where I put my 90 denier black opaque tights.
Sunday 3 April 2011
Neighbourhood Watch
It's official - Spring has sprung in Bovinia. The village has, in the space of one warm weekend, turned into a giant car park to accommodate all the pallid city people trying to get rural. Our good neighbour Herr NN has exchanged his woollen winter cap for his Tyrolean green felt hat. He's also been sporting a rather fetching pair of tight grey dungarees - for garden work only, naturally. He's been cock-a-hoop this weekend as his pet project, the big green garden waste container, arrived and was open, on Saturday, for business for the first time since November last year. I saw him nipping out just after dawn to check it was really there. Then, at eight o'clock sharp, he was off with his wheelbarrow piled high with... garden waste. He wasn't alone. Half the village seemed to be trailing there. We joined the throng only slightly later, and that was because he came over to tell us to hurry, there wasn't much room left, and the 'other side' wouldn't be opened till Tuesday! There was nothing for it - we just had to go. I hope he's happy now. Having recovered from the container excitement, he proceeded to spend the day in his garden, watching us in our garden, commenting on each and every new venture. By the evening I was getting a bit cheesed off, to be honest. I was pleased when he shuffled off inside to watch the football, or whatever it is that entices him away from the great outdoors when it's still light.
But back to the general Spring theme, which is not one I am going to focus on much, as it isn't my favourite season (too unreliable) AND it is, frankly, boring to harp on about buds on trees and birds building nests. However, warm weather and lighter evenings mean more running and cycling for the Reluctant Housewife and thus more opportunities to examine my surroundings. It struck me this evening that quite a few signs promising 'Holidays on the Farm' have appeared. Now, if you are still nursing some romantic notion that holidaying anywhere on or near a farm might make for a relaxing break, allow me to enlighten you. As a seasoned country dweller, I can assure you that farms are anything but restful. Where shall I start: the stink from the dung heaps? The flies? Some stupid rooster crowing every five minutes, all day long? Not to mention the fact that farmers like to get up extremely early, and that the cranking of machinery will drive you crazy. In my opinion, the only people who truly benefit from farmyard holidays are very young children, who, like farmers, also get up horrendously early and then proceed to be on the move the whole day long. Little children love animals - even boring ones like chickens - and tractors. By evening their parents are exhausted and won't mind that there's no pub round the corner to drown their sorrows. All they can think about is the same thing happening, all over again, the next morning. And fall into a deep, dreamless sleep until Junior wakes up screaming at 3 a.m. But the children will be in holiday heaven, and a happy child is lower maintenance than a grumpy one.
I hope you find my argument convincing and book yourself into a luxury spa hotel instead. Unless, of course, you have two-year-old triplets.
But back to the general Spring theme, which is not one I am going to focus on much, as it isn't my favourite season (too unreliable) AND it is, frankly, boring to harp on about buds on trees and birds building nests. However, warm weather and lighter evenings mean more running and cycling for the Reluctant Housewife and thus more opportunities to examine my surroundings. It struck me this evening that quite a few signs promising 'Holidays on the Farm' have appeared. Now, if you are still nursing some romantic notion that holidaying anywhere on or near a farm might make for a relaxing break, allow me to enlighten you. As a seasoned country dweller, I can assure you that farms are anything but restful. Where shall I start: the stink from the dung heaps? The flies? Some stupid rooster crowing every five minutes, all day long? Not to mention the fact that farmers like to get up extremely early, and that the cranking of machinery will drive you crazy. In my opinion, the only people who truly benefit from farmyard holidays are very young children, who, like farmers, also get up horrendously early and then proceed to be on the move the whole day long. Little children love animals - even boring ones like chickens - and tractors. By evening their parents are exhausted and won't mind that there's no pub round the corner to drown their sorrows. All they can think about is the same thing happening, all over again, the next morning. And fall into a deep, dreamless sleep until Junior wakes up screaming at 3 a.m. But the children will be in holiday heaven, and a happy child is lower maintenance than a grumpy one.
I hope you find my argument convincing and book yourself into a luxury spa hotel instead. Unless, of course, you have two-year-old triplets.
Friday 1 April 2011
Humble pie
I'm eating humble pie - again. If you've been following this blog from the beginning, you'll know that I didn't dare go to my neighbour, Hanni the hairdresser. Her house always looked so threatening. And I was scared that if she gave me a bad cut, I'd be obliged to keep going to her just to avoid bad feeling in the street. Well, I have just made an appointment for next Wednesday. (Only for a trim, mind you - I'm not that brave.) Hanni was friendliness personified. She had an old guy sitting in the chair and he joined in the general banter, of which I understood nothing, but I'm coming to realise I don't need to understand it, most of the time.
You may wonder why I changed my mind. It's like this: more and more, I've been hearing that Hanni's a dab hand with the scissors and why don't I go there. And she lives two minutes from my door. I confess I didn't go alone - one of my Bavarian mates came with me to hold my hand. So we'll see. If she messes up, I'll take all of this right back!
Oh - I nearly forgot. It's April Fool's Day. Having failed magnificently to 'get' CG, who like Gaia was on red alert, I was reduced to hiding under the dining table and grabbing Titus' feet. It was all a bit half-hearted, admittedly. Maybe it's my age, but I simply don't feel in the mood for high jinks at six thirty in the morning.
You may wonder why I changed my mind. It's like this: more and more, I've been hearing that Hanni's a dab hand with the scissors and why don't I go there. And she lives two minutes from my door. I confess I didn't go alone - one of my Bavarian mates came with me to hold my hand. So we'll see. If she messes up, I'll take all of this right back!
Oh - I nearly forgot. It's April Fool's Day. Having failed magnificently to 'get' CG, who like Gaia was on red alert, I was reduced to hiding under the dining table and grabbing Titus' feet. It was all a bit half-hearted, admittedly. Maybe it's my age, but I simply don't feel in the mood for high jinks at six thirty in the morning.
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