Closing the Book (German Chapter)

So I'm way behind in my blog, it's obvious. I'm gonna start by saying I'm in Venice now, city of paintbrushed canals, quietly decaying churches and palaces. And the humidity that melts more than a gelato.

I'll catch up with the last bits of Germany. I ended up falling into some interesting situations.

One afternoon, German historian and professor Walter Pehle picked me up in his Volkswagen and took me to the S. Fischer Publishing House. As random as this seems, this is the place Lothar used to work.

At Fisher, the editors are blocked story by story around a deep, wellish atrium. "This is art," said Walter, pointing down into the courtyard at a modernesque arrangement of blue and turquoise metal. "There are some people who do not agree." I wonder if speaking English makes Walter's sense of humor more dry. It's possible; he never missed an opportunity to demonstrate his knowledge of a couple swear words.

From the rooftop terrace, I gazed upon an impressive skyline of Frankfurt that wavered in the heat. Then, several stairs and keyholes later, we were in the publisher's archives. Among the oldest were books by Thomas Mann, Aldous Huxley and Franz Kafka. Woolf's translations were published by Fischer. Since all this, the company has summarized itself in a red logo: three fishes. "Two looking to the left, and one looking to the right," Walter said (I may be wrong, though, it may be the other way).

Walter wore a pink polo. His quirky circular glasses and the bucket hat he wore reminded me of my grandfather, but instead of classical music, jazz is his thing. "I know every note to this," he said as he played a favorite while we were stuck in a traffic jam.

The next day, my last in Germany, I biked up to Neu Isenburg. The trail led me past stark rows of timber after timber, all the while the crush of rubber on sand and pebbles. The people I passed had calm, serious faces.

In the early afternoon, the streets are quiet except for maybe the tap of a crooked man's cane, or the ding of a bicycle bell. Silence is as common as the walnut trees; in a cafe stands a young woman, blonde, her hands clasped behind her back. A clean white apron matches her smile.

On the bus to the airport in Hahn, we rolled through the ivied and steepled countryside. The man in leather shoes tapped his feet. I didn't see any earbuds or headphones, he must have been listening to the scenery of windmills and hills that stay green even in the 35 degree heat. For him, it's a bouncy oom-pah.

Next time, photos. Promesso.
-a

"After-work-celebration"

I see Frankfurt by day. Yesterday I drank a Coke that was canned in the Czech Republic and crossed the river Main to the whine of an old man´s accordion. In front of him was a little styrofoam cup.

The Kleiners´house is three streamlined hardwood floors beneath a red A-frame roof. It´s decorated by Ikea and numerous original pieces of art. Most impressive are the bookshelves -- after all, Lothar is a publishing house mogul. Maybe you didn´t know that though.

No word exists in English for what they call "after-work celebration." It happens each night when Lothar returns from the office, and involves a splendid dinner followed by hijinks in the garden (badminton, sprinkler games, soccer, a combination of all three, sometimes).

I have what seems to be an uncanny ability to lead my friends out of a translation pickle. The result: I get compliments on my English. The difference between "itch" and "scratch" was a little sticky.

Last night, Frauke and Lothar took me beer-tasting. The trains rattled by the place called "Endstation" -- incorrectly, because it´s far from the end of the line. Lothar and I traded college party stories -- mine were a little tamer, I think. I was talking about packing peanuts while he mentioned rolling kegs down mountains. But I taught Lothar the terms "beer pong" and "keying a car." While not useful language, it´s at least amusing. Later on he showed me breathtaking photos of his business trip to India and a crazy youtube video of Spain´s tomato festival.

Goethe wrote a version of "Faust," following the legend and Marlowe´s play. His house in Frankfurt is filled with his father´s legal volumes and prints of Rome and Venice. Pretty popular place for bookish types, it seems. The historian followed me through the rooms and swapped Palermo stories with me.

Tonight it finally got dark at 10pm. Lothar flipped casually through coffee-table books on Renaissance and Roman art. Frauke waterered the plants and talked over the fence with her neighbor. I just breathed in the air and listened to the sprinkler.

To cite a 90´s movie,
Shazaam.
-a

Games and Wardrobes

Frauke invited me to a Kirchner exhibition. His art is a contorted twist of expressionism, contemporary to Nolde and an integral part of the Brücke movement. "Marcella" is a moody and moving portrait in soft green colors, a girl, bored, sitting on a couch.

After the exhibition, we squinted our eyes in the afternoon sun and I heard a few snatches of Italian in the street. We watched Linus and Quentin ride a mechanical bull at a kids´ "playplace," and I thought about stuff, random stuff. Behind the mechanical bull was the towering skyline of the city.

Here´s a joke. How many people does it take to move an old wardrobe from the first floor to the attic? The answer: two (one culture-shocked American and one motivated, leather jacket-wearing Christian guitar teacher). True story.

Another joke: How many people does it take to put together a new Ikea wardrobe? In Merle´s room, we went over the instructions three times, once in German, once in English, and once just to make sure we wouldn´t mess anything up. Still, our craftsmanship suffered a few hiccups. I found myself lying down under a drawer a-la-car mechanic. All that´s left to do are the doors.

Quentin loves playing. In a period of an hour or so, he turned me into a badminton pro, a tennis champ, a star goalie, and (not sure about this one) someone who is very good at passing a tennis ball under a wooden crate of stone tiles for the back porch.

At the pool, I jumped off the five-meter high-dive. Merle went first, and of course, of course, the American has to go now. So I jumped. I mean, fell. Curled into the fetal position and smacked the water with my knees. I´m sure it´s on youtube somewhere by now. More my speed was lying in the sun.

A final update: after-dinner conversations here are relaxing, interesting and fun. As the sun winds over the trees, we sit in the garden and swap stories on local politics, court systems and television programs. I recently recounted the "Homeowner vs. Kitchen Remodeling Company" court case story.

And just like that, another day, another post.
-a

Eating. Drinking. Octopi.

I was wearing black, sitting on a bench under Frankfurt´s white-hot noontime sun. An enormous square fanned out, steel and glass on every side, spattered at the corners by curiously-domed churches. These survived, or were reconstructed. Lothar showed me the pictures - the place was absolutely razed in the war.

I rode into the city on Frauke´s bike, under tree tops and graffitied railway bridges, past beer gardens and rose nurseries. It all took about an hour.

Maybe you heard. There´s this octopus, Paul is his name, and he "chooses" which team wins the World Cup games. I mean predicts, with near infallibility. How? He swims into the one out of two tanks with the flags of the nations. He´s not been wrong, I think.

I saw quite a few Starbucks in Frankfurt. Not going to lie, I was intrigued. And a little tempted. But I stood my ground behind the self-righteous attitude of European (let´s get specific and say Italian) coffee. And I much prefer the coffee maker - Merle taught me how to use it.

The day of Germany´s last game, Lothar came home and changed into a t-shirt with a lobster on it. The kids and I interrupted our 24th (or was it 25th?) round of backyard badminton for a mock penalty shootout, all to warm up for the night´s marquee matchup. Spain vs. Germany.

Per Lothar´s advice, I´ve had a pretty essential slice of Frankfurt cuisine. First, green sauce, a regional specialty that goes great with potatoes. At the game-watch, he ordered "hand-cheese," typical of this area, and so called because of its shape. On top of all that we drank applewine, it´s like a less-sweet kind of cider. It tricks you because it tastes so much like juice.

Germany, needless to say, didn´t win. The way back from the pub was dark, lit only by Lothar´s and Linus´blinking bike lights, and the hints of their murmurs.

Forza.
-a

Germany, my New Expatriotism

Descending through a snowy field of white clouds, I saw Germany for the first time in four years. It looked like golf courses speckled with A-framish towns, and everything watched over by windmills. I thought of Quixote´s giants.

I mentioned Frauke and Lothar before, they are my gracious hosts (so are their three children, the best German teachers I´ve ever had). They live in a town called Buchschlag. I hear it and I think of book-slag. Something I wouldn´t want to read. German is like that though; I had a friend who said it felt like "garbled English." You can try to make sense of it, but it´s better to admit complete ignorance and then act surprised in the face of a true cognate.

Linus, 10, is the middle child. He led the way by bicycle to get an ice cream in Dreieich. We went through an old castle, past grain fields, hay bales and little A-framed houses. We stopped for a detailed look at this wooden bird he desperately wanted to explain to me. At the time, it went over my head.

Lothar, the father, is in educational publishing, and would rather tell you about his work than have you ask. He´s really busy, but comes home with enough energy to race the kids up and down the backyard. When we speak English and he can´t come up with the right word, he drops everything and turns to the dictionary. Just that precise.

For lunch, we had sushi - my second go at it. We chased it down with strawberry cake and a spur-of-the-moment German lesson, facilitated by a colorful handful of SillyBandz. This meant that I learned the words for heart, seal, house, castle, magic wand, that kind of thing. Very useful, practical stuff. If I ever need a train ticket, I´m all set.

I sat in the living room while Linus did a Tae Kwon Do demonstration. Quentin´s (the youngest, 6) wobbly mimicry turned everything into a father-children gymnastics routine, not without tickling and a little rough-housing.

In this house, I sleep in the playroom, on top of the fitted sheet and under the comforter. It really puts the "comfort" in comforter, not gonna lie. In the morning, I wake up to my three "cousins" saying "Good morning" to me. Life is good. Even if I can´t stumble over that simple phrase in German to save my life. My teachers have their work cut out for them.

Guten nacht,
-a