Nie wieder Matratzenlager. OR: down with dormitories!

Those of you who are on Facebook will have seen my post there the other day. I didn't have the strength to write any more than that. Having promised some people to elaborate, here goes. 

Beneath you see a photograph, sneakily taken by me, from my niche in the corner of the so-called Matratzenlager (literally: mattress place; usual translation: dormitory) in the Schachenhaus on Tuesday morning. For the uninitiated amongst you, this is a (small) room within a hut, with multiple bunk beds, which means a bunk for eight people has four mattresses on the bottom and four on the top. There was also a four-person option in our room. Having stuffed a small room full of bunks, it is clear to see that there is space for little else, so add twelve adults, twelve backpacks, assorted waterbottles, slippers and other necessary accoutrements and the room starts to look a little overcrowded. But none of this matters at first, as you deposit your few belongings on your allotted pallet, and hurry off to get the first beer of the day. All seems well. Seated on an uncomfortable but authentic rustic bench or chair-with-a-heart-in-the-back like Heidi had, you sip away and peruse the 'menu'. Sighing with relief that there is only one dish you could possibly stomach, thus doing away with any silly dithering which might irritate your partner, you order a bowl of stodge with cheese and, just for the hell of it, another beer. An hour later you investigate the 'facilities'. Both toilet cubicles are occupied. You decide to wait. Someone rushes past you with a sense of urgency. If they had been a small boy, they'd have been clutching their behind. You decide to postpone your visit and have another beer. 

After all this beer, you are feeling quite jolly and well-disposed towards your room-mates and, as darkness falls (which it does remarkably early up there), there is not much option but to prepare yourself for bed. This you do in the gloom, stumbling around on the one square foot of floor remaining and wondering where you put your toothbrush. But you manage it, and you even get to the loo before the next shift arrive to perform their ablutions. Safely installed within your sleeping sheet, you sigh with contentment (or something). A bat flutters at the window, a waft of alpine air tickles your nasal hairs, a goat farts somewhere on the meadow. This is what you came for!

In ones and twos, the rest of the party blunder into the room. The drunk ones switch on the lights and dig around in noisy plastic bags and have stage-whispery discussions about where the towel is. But you remain patient. Pleasantly tired, you wait for sleep to transport you away from this alien situation.

Well, my sleep dumped me right back in it after ninety minutes. Dreaming that a giant warthog was lying next to me, I woke with horror to find it was true. The warthog had a wife, and both had serious phlegm issues. The word snore does not do it justice. Earplugs were a waste of time. Always a light sleeper (why was I there in the first place, you ask), I spent the next six hours alternating between rage, fury, frustration and extreme fatigue. A small break in the snorting chorus meant I dropped off around five a.m. Half an hour later, someone's alarm went off, and the day had begun. The sun rose, and I lay there, exhausted, watching as people in various stages of undress (not a pretty sight) emerged from their cocoons. See picture below (a naked backside would have been the next shot). 

Resigning yourself to the fact you will be exhausted all day, you shuffle off to breakfast, having 'freshened up' with thirty other people in the two-sink washroom beforehand. You chew on some stale bread and drink a cup of Muckefuck.

So why was I there, and why indeed does anybody pay for this experience? CG and I mulled this over from the comfort of our wide and spacious bed the following evening. What possesses grown men and women, with good incomes (they were all wearing The North Face or such like - a reliable indicator) to shun comfort and privacy and hygiene, and lie cheek-by-jowl with the very people they spend half their lives trying to avoid, in other words, everyone else? We decided that it reminds them of childhood. Scout camp and the like. Getting back to basics. A mini-break from the materialist, consumerist trappings of daily life.

I hope I haven't put you off, though I dare say the Alpine Association is unlikely to recruit me for advertising purposes any time soon. As CG always said, I'm a spoilt city slicker with a penchant for luxury.  But at least I tried.

Make me a German what?

Despite Gaia's assertion that I have 'reached the end of the road' with my blog, I plod on. Inspiring comments from other, more erudite readers urge me forward. So here goes. The other night, CG and I watched a TV programme. Nothing unusual in itself. The rather ambiguously named 'Make me a German' was about a Brit journalist and his half-German (yet non-German speaking) wife who decided to try out life as a typical German family for a while. (I say ambiguously as 'German' could mean a kind of cocktail, or beg the question a German what? Wouldn't 'Make me German' have been more appropriate?)

The next day's review in the Guardian neatly summed up the show's highs and lows - full of cliches and contrived situations. Father goes out to work on shop floor of successful but small, family-run pencil factory. Mother stays at home doing housework and looking after the children, one of which goes to a Waldkindergarten (in the forest) and gets to play and poo in the great outdoors. The parents have to eat a specified amount of pork and potatoes every week in order to match average German consumption thereof. Father gets ticked off for arriving late to work and for sending a text message during work hours. (We are told this is greatly in contrast to British office life, where people spend the whole afternoon on Facebook.) They get reprimanded by a neighbour for making too much noise on a Sunday. The same neighbour displays thinly-veiled racist tendencies towards the prominent Turkish population in the area. There was lots of hand-shaking, sausage eating, and all the shops were closed on Sundays - shock, horror. And so on, and so on. As is often the case with stereotypes, I was struck by the programme's ability to simultaneously hit the nail on the head and generate so prolifically. We asked ourselves: is life really that bad here?

British people make much of the numerous laws in Germany, and it is true, there are many. What is more, Germans tend to know of them, cite them word-for-word, and even obey them. However restrictive this may sound, I have yet to encounter a law that doesn't make sense in some way. To understand the most obscure ones has required intensive consideration at times, but I have always found the solution. And it really is better to do what the Germans do and toe the line. The irony of all this is that there remains here a sense of freedom, particularly with regard to children. The health and safety law epidemic gripping Britain has not reached the fatherland and hopefully never will. Young Germans are still free to roam the streets and climb trees and build dams in the river. The finger of blame would not be pointed at the parents or teacher if something were to happen (unless, of course, they were clearly to blame).

There is also a marked lack of materialism and consumerism here. Debt is not a desirable state to be in, and people do not mention their credit cards, if they even have one. Mortgages are seen as millstones, rather than milestones. It is cool to live within one's limits, unostentatiously, and respect the laws of the land and one's fellow man.

If it weren't for the odd occasion where Germans throw caution to the wind and/or sink gallons of beer and stand on the table singing, life here could be rather boring. But it isn't, and what's more, I think Britain is catching onto the fact that Germany gets quite a lot right and is not only a force to be reckoned with, but something to be envious of.

None of this means I wish I wasn't British. Oh no John no. I go about my ordered life and smile politely at all the remarks about British weather (rain), British food (fish and chips), the Royal family (Prince Charles' ears) and the British pound (no comment). But inwardly I relish the fact that I get to enjoy what Germany has to offer whilst knowing I am from a much cooler, quirkier place.

And the thought of living there again terrifies me.

PS: I write some of my most profound blog posts when I am supposed to be writing other profound things, and this is no exception. I now have five weeks to complete my master's thesis and progress is SLOW. Just let me clean out my kitchen cupboards and dust the skirting boards, then I'll get started...

Pig trough racing and a nasty dose

For a couple of months now, I've been on the verge of officially closing down this blog. My first three years in the Free State, as they like to call it here, are nearly up. I've regaled you with hundreds of strange and occasionally funny anecdotes. Each year follows its pattern, the seasons merging into one another, marked by this or that festival, the cows going outside, the cows going back in, et cetera, et cetera. But something has stopped me from making this definitive move. Every now and again, something will occur to make me think ooh, I have to put that in the blog. Just when I think life is in danger of becoming humdrum, I will chance upon something so bizarre that I have to share it. Like yesterday. When you are bored in Bovinia and it is Sunday afternoon and you don't know what to do, fear not! You can hang out out the local swimming pond, where the Bovinians are holding their annual pig trough race - (Sautrogrennen, so literally sow trough) - which involves, no less, pairs of villagers rowing their craft - a trough - across the pond and round the little island and back again, to the sound of Bavarian 'hits'. I had seen it advertised last year and the one before, but had somehow always had a prior engagement - perhaps watching paint dry, I forget now what. Yesterday, though, I decided to give it a whirl, so to speak. I took Titus along. As with any kind of event in Bovinia, there were already hordes of people milling around or sitting at those uncomfortable beer tables. The stench - sorry, aroma - of bratwurst pervaded the air. Benches had been set up around the pond and were already lined with enthusiastic spectators, fanning themselves with their dirndl aprons.Titus and I were forced to sit in the sun, not something I usually mind, but it was extremely hot and there were numerous flies who were also trying to watch, annoyingly from the same spot we were sitting at. Anyway, the race commenced. It was frighteningly uneventful. The only amusement factor I could derive was that the participants were mostly 'quite chubby', as Titus has been taught to say, and struggled to keep their troughs from capsizing. Sadly, they succeeded. Having established it wasn't going to get any better, and been bitten three times by horseflies, I told T we were off back home.

Hours later  I cycled past the pond, on my way up the mountain to find peace and maybe myself. They were all still at it, sausage chomping and beer swilling, although by now the troughs lay forgotten and upturned on the muddy bank. Until next year, of course.

So that was something and nothing, mostly nothing, but I had to admire their creativity and, as always, the gung ho with with they approach any kind of public event.

The other reason I don't want to stop blogging is PSFT, or people saying funny things, which they always do, and which in my opinion should be noted. No matter how much I think I will remember something, my capacity is slowly dwindling, and I find that if I don't write that thing down immediately, it will, at some point, be gone, never to return.

Here's today's funny thing: CG sent me an email from work, in response to my hi how are you kind of wifely missive. In it, he told me (among other things) that his assistant is off sick with VD, following a trip to Morocco. I was shocked. The guy in question is a devout Christian, a married man with five grown-up children, who travels 60 miles just to worship at the church he feels most at home in. I write back, how awful, are you absolutely sure? (Because let's face it, even if you have VD, do you really tell your employer??) To which CG replied, well, he's got whatever you call it when you can't stop vomiting and going to the toilet. Ah! You mean D&V, I wrote, hope you didn't tell too many people, his reputation will be in shreds. Luckily for the stricken man, CG hadn't told a soul. You bloody Brits with your silly abbreviations, he wrote back to me. No wonder the Empire is on its last legs! I laughed fondly. Brit-bashing is a popular pastime over here in the Fatherland. Secretly, they are just jealous, having no such things as scones or Kate Middleton's pending baby to boast about.

The reluctant gardener

It's official. We are the last in our street, if not the whole village, to mow our lawn. Up until last weekend, we were safe. Resting on our winter laurels for just that little bit longer. Because even though some overly keen mowers had already been heard, our next door neighbours, Herr and Frau NN, still had dandelions and daisies and ankle-high blades instead of a neatly-shorn emerald carpet. (And they do everything at the right time. Follow them, and you won't go far wrong in matters of Bovinian etiquette.) But then they did it.

I started my tactical approach to CG early. (It is always he who mows the lawn. Something that, like tinkering with any part of a car apart from the radio or glovebox, I absolutely refuse to do.) Like getting out of bed on a Sunday, or packing his bag for the gym, such things take him a looonnnggg time and you can practically see him floundering in the face of no more excuses, it's got to be done now. His discomfort is palpable. Hence my stealth tactics. Tradition - our own, I mean - dictates that I must ask him to do something at least three or four times before he does it. Taking this into account, and not wanting to rock the marital boat, I positioned my questions far apart.  Other wives and girlfriends may be familiar with my method. Some of my 'questions' do not end with a question mark. Rather, they are light remarks, dropped into the moment like a feather from a balcony. They drift gently down, and eventually come to rest, where they get blown away again, to be forgotten about straight away. Which is exactly what CG does with my questions/remarks.

I'll give you an example:

Me - I see the NNs have finally mowed their lawn.
Him - Yes, I saw that. Would you like a cup of tea?

Or:

Me - Look! The people on the other side have done theirs, too.
Him - Yes, I suppose we are the last now. Do you know where my grey polo shirt is, by any chance?

I didn't let him get away with that last one, though. Partly, I admit, because I hate the grey polo shirt. It reminds me of everything I hated about school uniform in England. I said, we really ARE the last. Do you think you might, like, do ours soon? He put on his palpably uncomfortable, floundering for an excuse face. Then enlightenment hit him and joy lit up his khaki coloured eyes. I will, but not today, he said. Today is a public holiday.

I had to surrender. Nobody, apart from the weirdo down the road who likes playing with his chain saw at strange times of day, dares disturb the peace on public holidays and Sundays.

I am going back outside now to frolic in the dandelions while I still can. Every cloud, and all that.

Out of Office Reply

My mother, it was actually, suggested that I write just a teensy-weensy message to let anyone who might still be trying to follow my blog know that I am not dead. Nor have I decamped to warmer climes, tempting though that may be. I am simply very busy trying to keep up with my master's degree work. Should you ever hear anyone saying it is hard to combine a postgraduate degree with job, family and household, do not doubt them, it really is. Hard. And you don't want to know how the household is looking right now. My spiders have been given carte blanche and have set up home in all sorts of previously forbidden corners. There are curious dustballs that float out from under various pieces of furniture. I stick to the most essential - cooking, food-shopping (oh joy), washing, ironing, cleaning the bathroom, kitchen, hall, living room... and just for fun, I iron too. Do I sound like I feel sorry for myself? Tosh. But having failed one of my assignments - the humiliation - I decided that I had to pull up my Bavarian calf-warmer socks and start working damn hard, or else I am going to have spent nearly two years in the pursuit of nothing at all.

In terms of Bovinia, everything is as it should be - the farmers are gearing up for the muck-spreading season, the cows are getting restless, people have hung plastic Easter eggs on snow-covered branches. Crocuses and snowdrops battle to hold their weatherbeaten heads above icy slush. Max the cat has caught his first mouse of the year and left it on the patio, entrails and all. The neighbours have started chatting in the street again during brief moments of sun, only to scuttle back indoors again when a sideways wind and stair-rod rain comes out of nowhere.

I will be back.

Shopping mad

The concept of a 'five items or less' till has yet to occur to German supermarket owners. Or so it would appear. Regardless of how many things you wish to buy - and this ranges from the old guy with one cabbage, one salami and a bottle of cloudy apple juice (why??) to the stressed mother with heaving trolleyful of family-orientated groceries (me), you are forced to queue up at the one and only till that is open. This, I have observed, has led to the evolution of most aggressive and selfish behaviour amongst German shoppers.

Firstly, if it is you with the full trolley, you must resign yourself to hatred from all sides. You are entirely to blame, for why don't you adopt the little and often motto, like a good housewife should? Secondly, people pick their moments to queue up, and when they deem the line too long, they simply carry on perusing the fine goods - and there are many to be had - until there is a lull in proceedings, at which point they charge to the till like a buffalo fleeing a lion. Once in the queue, everyone eyes the other, as yet unmanned, tills, knowing that sooner or later, an assistant will come back from their fag break and utter the hallowed words "anyone want to come to me?" When this happens, a split-second decision must be made - do you stay or go? Hesitate too long, and the decision is made for you, as half your queue dashes over there, not caring who or what they damage in their quest to be first in the new queue. And you are left standing, with bruised toes, experiencing a strange sense of loss.

Let us not forget the customer who, indeed, has five items or less. For some reason, the German shopper believes this entitles him or her to jump the queue. Now, we've all been there. You pop in for a bag of apples and a lightbulb, only to find yourself queueing for ten minutes behind people with heaving trolleys. The uninitiated, stupid or altruistic of us - and tourists - will simply accept our lot and wait our turn. Most people, however, will either ask outright if they can go in front of you - and it takes guts to refuse them, believe me - or they deploy indirect but intimidating threat tactics, which can involve sighing, glaring, complaining to the person behind them, or a mixture of all three. There is only one way to deal with this. Avoid all eye contact, stare fixedly in front of you, and ignore them. Even a tiny chink in your armour will be exploited, so stay strong and focus on the thought that you have EVERY RIGHT to pay and escape first.

To compensate for this, there will be days when you are feeling magnanimous, and there might be someone behind you who is NOT trying to jump the queue. Here's what you do. Turn to them, smile benignly and say something along the lines of, oh, is that all you've got? Please, go in front of me - I have so much and you so little, to which they will say, are you sure??? And you nod, and they beam gratefully, and all the people in front of you feel compelled to let them past too. The last glimpse you have of the five-items customer is them skipping happily back to their car, marvelling at the generosity of human nature. And that more than makes up for the other people hating you, doesn't it?

You may think me bitter and twisted. Perhaps you have popped into a German supermarket once or twice and had a rare old time, and cannot for the life of you imagine how I can spout such cynical claptrap. But you see, the above observations are based on years of patient study, and thousands of trips to all the main supermarket chains. Believe me, I know my onions.

Home Thoughts From A Broad

Blogging is a bit like cleaning windows. The longer you leave it, the more of a task it becomes. Until one day, you think RIGHT. Let's get to it. And once it's done, you feel so much better! Well, I haven't cleaned my windows, but I was getting weary of prods from various people and complaints that I hadn't written a thing in over two months.

The thing is, I am not a reluctant housewife any more. I squeeze bits of housewifery in between other, more important tasks, such as going to work, or writing about computer-assisted translation tools. I have frosted glass windows that were previously transparent. I look out at the garden (with some difficulty) and sigh with relief that the enduring icy temperatures render any horticultural activity impossible.

Furthermore, I have more or less got used to Bovinia. There is nothing of amusement to report. The cashiers in the village shop are as unfriendly as ever. I got such a shock when, after two weeks in customer-orientated England, I popped in there to stock up on mango chutney. Scrabbling for small change in my purse, I remarked to the male unfriendly cashier that I still had pennies abound, and wouldn't it be great if the UK joined the euro? To which he gave me a blank look and held his hand out, wordlessly. Yes, that is one thing the Brits do really well. Chatting at the till. Niceties and smiles and all those things that make you feel you've had a pleasant shopping experience. You like it so much that you go back the next day, and they say oh hello, how are you? And you smile, and the old lady in the cake and biscuit aisle smiles too, so you buy some more fattening delicious products and while you're there, would you be interested in our three-for-the-price-of-one Cadbury's offer? Love it.

While in England, I got to wondering why I like it there so much. Particularly in December, when even the most bucolic of scenes looks grey and uninspiring. The rain and wind were buffeting the fairy lights and everywhere I went people were wearing dreadful Christmas jumpers and Santa hats. It would be unfair to even try to compare it all with the pure, wild beauty of the alpine scenery here. I worked out that my criteria for enjoying a country are:
1) can I get fresh hummus nearly everywhere I go; 2) as a vegetarian, am I regarded as a normal and valued citizen; 3) do people in general smile and make jokes (even lame ones: it's the thought that counts) and 4) do I have to pay every time I use a public convenience?

Talking of public conveniences, these are a phenomenon I usually avoid like the plague. But when you are on a long car journey, there are times when needs must. You may or may not be familiar with the Sanifair system in German motorway service stations. Let me enlighten you: the (recently increased) price of 70 cents allows you the privilege of relieving yourself in a clean, musak-pervaded environment, including toothless assistant and one of those hand-dryers that makes your skin look like that of an eighty-year old's. Children under a certain height can get in free, and there is a child-shaped hole in the turnstile for this very purpose. Of course, not everybody wants to pay the 70 cents. As I stood waiting for my family to reemerge, I caught several people squeezing themselves through the child hole. This makes life tough for the toothless attendant, who must divide his or her time between disinfecting the bowl and policing the turnstile (because even the most brazen of adults cannot really pretend to be seven years old.) The funniest thing I saw, however, was an elderly lady exiting the ladies'. Baffled and probably thinking she had to pay to get out, too, she contorted herself through the kids' exit. Her husband - thought himself a bit of a wag, obviously - said (not unkindly), those days are long gone for you, old thing. They shuffled off together to be verbally abused at the shop counter.