Accent That

When I visited my cousin in Munich, she warned me that I would loose my Texas accent, which, to be perfectly honest, I am a little found of. People think she is from Canada, even though she is from Austin. I thought the day had finally come, and I was willing to accept it. Anything for the cause, right? What's an accent anyway? I can always find a new one.

Well, at my party, we were looking at my mice, and I explained how as a kid, I wanted to be a zoologist and live in the jungle. Before that, I wanted to be a whale trainer (after a visit to good ol' Sea World), and Christof asked, "A what trainer? A 'well?' What's a 'well?'"

Plus one point for resilient accents.

Unheimlich

There's just something wrong with hearing country songs on German radio. It's especially weird when they go something like this: German, German, German, "Country Song," German. Also, they have no fiddle. Come on folks, if you're going to do it . . .

Lord of the Dance

I am a German dance sensation. Now, don't get me wrong; it's not because I am so good. Germans really stink at dancing. I don't know what it is. Genetic? Lack of diverse influence? Maybe the German mentality doesn't lend itself to free expression of movement? Whatever it is, it makes me feel like some sort of cross-cultural Ginger Rogers.

Tauschen

I am about to go to Ikea alone to exchange a table. See, when I got the table, I didn't know it was a triangle and not a square. I thought I was being tricky and saving money. Nope. You can't really keep a mouse cage on a tiny triangle table. I hope the one I need isn't sold out. It was on sale.

Where do you go in Ikea to exchange? What is their exchange policy? Is exchange "umtauschen" or "austauchen"? We will see. Maybe I'll just slur? I'm sure this is going to result in a story.

Copenhagen Jane

I am now the "proud" new owner of a bag of loose-leaf tobacco. I don't even know if "lose-leaf" is a term that can be applied to tobacco. I am more of a tea drinker than a chain-smoker. Where should I keep it? Oh, I know! How about right next to the gigantic bottle of wine I got as a gift? All I need now is a box of condoms, and I'll have a trifecta.

How did I come to own this bag of stinky? Well, I'm glad you asked. A wasp stung me between my toes. Yes, between my toes. As I calmly pulled her out of my flesh and watched her fly away I thought, "Well, at least I know a solution to this problem: a cigarette." First, finish your business at the bank. Now, to figure to bum a cigarette. At this point, I am wondering if this is God's way of getting me to meet my neighbors. It's amazing how this sort of situation makes you drop your inhibitions.

I rang at Nachbar's house. I'm sure they smoke, and I have actually spoken to them before in my life. Too bad they aren't home at the moment. I tried the next floor. They were confused and tried to answer the main house door. I was too flustered and busy laughing at them to ring again. I felt a little like Mary at the reception desk. On the next floor, and angry-looking, rotund girl answered the door, not exactly looking like a "person of peace." I asked in My Toe Hurts so I Sound like a Two Year Old German if I could have a cigarette, and Lying Neighbor said she is fresh out. LN also wreaked of cigarettes. Still flustered, I forgot to offer her a euro for one. ("Oh, we just got a delivery!") I didn't want to take the time to explain, "I don't smoke. It's for my foot. A bee bit me." That's as close I could have gotten to explaining the situation, so I have it up and run-hobbled to the grocery store, the frenzied look of an addict gleaming in my eyes. If you've seen how my skin reacts to, well, anything, you can imagine how swollen it is at this point. The clerk helped me find some tobacco.

"I need the cheapest box of cigarettes."

"Well, these cigarettes are... and the cigarillos are...."

I start to wonder if there would be a practical difference, given my situation. Then, I regain my focus.

"I really just need the tobacco."

"This one or this one?"

"I'll take that one!"

After the proverbial dust had settled, I searched home remedies for wasp bites, wondering if the tobacco trick works only for bee stings and has some sort of adverse, toe-swelling effect on wasp stings. I found out that ice can help alleviate the pain and swelling. Duh! Ice. Too bad I live in Europe and have no ice. Actually, when I lived in the States, I didn't keep ice either. Foreshadowing? Anyway, now I am sitting here thawing frozen beef cubes on my foot and wondering how to get the smell of tobacco off of my fingers.

Ode to Summer

Summer,

You were here yesterday

Now have you gone away

I thought you were here to stay

At least another week.

Did I do something?

Did I offend you?

You seem to have left in a hurry.

I hate wearing socks.

Da, dadada, Da, dadada

There's some sort of tribal African techno happening outside my window on the street below. Oh, Saturday nights. I'm pretty sure this song has more cowbell, which almost makes it acceptable. At 1:44 am, though, it's going to take a little bit more to convince me.

Artsy Fartsy

I think in order to succeed at my job, I am going too have find my inner weirdo. It's going to take some digging, I think, since I'm been suppressing her for so long.

Come to think of it, I kind of miss her.

Say what?

There are some words in German that are just to similar to use comfortably. For instance, I never say "brush" because it is so similar to "breast" that my American mouth can't find a practical difference. The words for "six" and "sex" are also too close for comfort; however, one simply cannot avoid saying "six" in everyday life. Today my waitress was shocked at what I requested back when I paid my bill for tea. Oh, cross-cultural living.

In other news, I think I am only now beginning to realize the endless possibilities that exist for me in a land where crazy-looking clothes are completely socially acceptable.

Altemeister Ego Boost

I, like many people I know, fancy myself a bit of a student of human behavior. I have found an interesting location for behavior study: the Old Master's Gallery in Old Town, Dresden. Today I bought a shiny new year-card and did some sketching.  I got a taste of what my friends in other countries feel like to be the Great White Wonder (or, the Supertall Black Wonder- I love BD). This was my first time to feel this way because I look like a German kid, so blending in is no big deal for me, as long as I keep my mouth shut. Make that especially if I keep my mouth shut. It was so funny to sit there and sketch and see how different people react. Some people nod at you. One lady gave me a thumbs up and then asked if she could sit and watch. Gerne. Some people try and sneak a peak while they walk past. The docents, breaking every German stereotype, come over and look and talk for a while. A flock of geriatric Japanese tourists clamored to give me compliments in two or three languages. (It's also interesting to see what language people use when approaching me.) I sort of felt like I was running a candid camera show.  

In related news, I've found a place where I can go for a pick-me-up if I am ever feeling down, especially about my drawing skills. 

Fahhrad

I bought a bike on Sunday.

We'll see how that goes.

First lesson learned: Don't ride without your glasses. Depth perception is so much more important when you are riding than when you are walking. 

No, I did not crash.

Yet. 

Here we go. 

Feeling at Home

Today was one of those benchmark days. I willingly ate red cabbage (and liked it) and I found a typo auf Deutsch.  

At the same time, I am still making language mistakes. Even in English, it seems. Yesterday, I was talking to some of my friends, and they were telling me (auf Deutsch) about the unsanitary conditions of the pizza place where they work. (Don't eat at Hallo Pizza, fyi.) I responded (auf Englisch) that just rinsing off the pan doesn't kill the germs. They responded that nothing kills the Germans, except the Americans, oh and the French, the British, oh yeah, and especially the Russians. Hmmm, a bit of a miscommunication there. It still worked, so I didn't correct them. 

   

For KWood

Here is an update just for my friend KWood.  Yes, you are right. I can update more often.

Tomorrow is my last day of langauge school for this round. I start a new course on Monday. Or maybe it's Tuesday. I'm not really sure; Germans write the date first, then the month. Add that to it's being in my third language and to the fact that I am a little dyslexic, and you get the picture. I got through my course and caused no major international incidents. I only made a few memorable mistakes: I called my friend Kristen my girlfriend and when I spelled my name, I said that it ended in "J." 

Things I am thankful for/Things that replenish my joy:

1. The lady at the Deutschpost knows I am an Auslander, so she speaks very slowly to me. 

2. Guys at small group hug each other. Sometimes they even hold hands for a second.

3. Art is seen as worship. 

4. Tommie SMSes me, so now I know that "barf" is snow in Dari. Everytime it barfs, I giggle to myself. Luckily, I haven't estefarked yet. Praise the Father for that one. 

5. Germans sing "Happy Birsday" to each other. 

6. Cake. 

7. Calling my parents in the US costs approx. 1 euro cent/minue. 

8. Dogs are everywhere, and they are all very well behaved. 

9. Good toilet paper is very accessible.  

10. People over here have never heard the one about two muffins in the oven. It's a big hit. 

KWood, I am also jumping ship on fb photos. I'm sick of my work being slaughtered. 

   

Funky Rash

Now that the dust has settled, I will regale you with my tale of woe. 

Weird rash on my legs. Maybe if I pretend that it isn't there, it will go away on its own. Denial is always the best method of problem-solving. By the next morning, I knew it. Lots of red, swollen marks. Bed bugs. OH NO. How disgusting and incredibly inconvenient. When you get bedbugs, your life enters DEFCON 1. All men man your battle stations. Red alert. Unimaginable horrors. 

Jason and Cheryl came over, and I quickly drew them into my own personal War of the Worlds. We stripped my bed and sealed everything in garbage bags. I had visions of having to purchase an entire wardrobe after my clothes would inevitably be reduced to Barbie-size after having to wash them in 90 degrees C. Can I get by with just wearing one sweater for the rest of the winter? Can you wash goose down in near-boiling water? Do they get in your shoes? What about the couches? How do we get rid of stuff without spreading the little buggers to the Dietz house? You need a professional exterminator. How in the world do you say "Bedbug" auf Deutsch? "Bettbugg?" How about just, "AHHHHHHH!!! Hilf mir!" 

After more internet image searching (it is amazing how many people post photos of their revolting rashes for public display- I am not one of them, by the way so don't even ask), we were pretty convinced that it was, in fact, only a funky rash. Oh, praise God for a funky rash. I have never been so relieved to hear someone say, "No, I think you just have a horrible rash since it is confined to your legs. Germans get weird skin problems a lot." Yay! What a relief. Funky rashes only merit DEFCON 4. 

So, again I went back to thinking it would go away on its own. Not so, my friend. By the time I decided going to the doctor would be worth risking public nudity, it was swollen and hot like a staph  infection. In nudity vs. losing a limb, nudity wins every time. Besides, I didn't want to overreact and go to the doctor for no reason. (No comments about the bedbug scare.) By the time we got in to a dermatologist, I was walking like the Michelin Man.

German medicine is interesting for many reasons. Not the least of which is that they usually don't make appointments. You arrive. Then, you sit and you wait. We went to a dermatologist. Too many people were already sitting and waiting and it was almost closing time. So, we went to the family practitioner. She was very sympathetic that I had only lived in Dresden for two weeks and the place had already made my skin erupt in a violent mutiny. She also spoke no English. Good thing I had come prepared with a list of adjectives in German: red, swollen, itchy, vindictive-  my skin hates me. Thank God for Cheryl. She talked the doctor, who had no idea how to label the unspeakable horrors occurring on my lower extremities and who gave me a note to skip ahead of the line of sit-and-waiters at a dermatologist. I was living Doctor: the Board-game.     

Since the dermatologist was closed by now- did I mention it was Friday, and all of Deutschland closes early to go home and eat Nutella, Jason and Cheryl had to take me to the hospital. By hospital, I mean medical village. I'll spare you the details, but we finally found our man: Herrn Chefarzt Professor Dr. med. Uwe Wollina. He is a professor, the chief doctor in the skin clinic, and I'm pretty sure a specialist in dermatological allergies. Oh yes, it was my medical Mecca. By the way, he is fluent in English.  

**Please just be a funky rash, please just be a funky rash. **  Herrn Prof. Dr. Wollina diagnosed my condition and prescribed some antihistamine and some sort of creme. (That's another distinction between medicine in Germany and in the US; they don't load you up with strong pills if they don't have to.) It was "eczema and acute dermatitis," meaning temporary funky rash caused by skin irritation.  Relief followed a few days later. Eventually, everything regained it's normal color and original shape. Luckily, the only things I lost were a roll of garbage bags and a little of my pride. God bless a funky rash that is anything but bed bugs. 

(Oh, and the only thing I had to take off at the doctors' was my sock. So many reasons to praise.) 

M Workout Routine

In my former life, I was terrible about working out. I know how good it is for you. I know how good it makes you feel. I know all the benefits of exercise on your stress level, cancer prevention, and so many other things.

I also know that I am lazy.

Then, I moved to Germany. Exercise is built right in! I don't have to give it a second thought.

I live on the 5th floor of my building. At least I think it's the fifth floor. I loose track because I sometimes black out in the middle. (Hyperbole, Mom!) According to Jason, there are 81 stairs. I haven't counted them. First of all, I trust him. Second of all, I am too busy convincing myself that my apartment is NOT on the next floor. That way, I am not disappointed; I'm only pleasantly surprised when I reach my door without experiencing some sort of coronary or pulmonary failure. This is where I get my cardio. I've only been here a couple of weeks, and I can already make it without panting. Almost. Next stop, Boston Marathon! (Berlin Marathon?) By the time I return to the US, I will have buns of steel. And lungs of iron? No, wait. . . the opposite.

Oh yeah, and I have a set of stairs to get to my room. (Loft room. Yes, I know, it is the coolest.)

After that, it's on to strength training. No, this is not when you forget that you live on the top floor and buy 4L of bottled water because you found still water. That is sissy stuff. The real strength training lies in taming the washing machine. Yes, my washer is a bucking bronco, and I am the champion rodeo cowgirl. Something is off-center in my machine, so it goes on a wild tear when it is on the spin cycle. Well, on one of the many spin cycles. (You see, European washing machines have about a million cycles and can take up to two hours to complete a load.)

While I was in the middle of praying with my friend Charlotte, the thing goes nuclear and starts attacking the bathroom wall. I calmed the beast, and thought that all was well. Little did I know, that evening I would be sitting on the thing, coming out of shoot number one, with one hand on the sink, one on the wall (to avoid the heater), a foot on the toilet, and one on the rack. All of this was to keep it from ripping the sink off the wall or turing a 360 and unplugging itself, not to mention the cacophony of thumping and clanging. It's a full-body muscle-training routine. The best part is when it just quivers and you get all the benefits of a massage chair without the Shaper Image price. That's pretty cool, and it's economical!

Not only will I have buns of steel, but I will have some pretty impressive muscles. Don't worry, you can have free tickets to the gun show next time you see me.

Jesus Prostitute

I am here in Germany! Dresden is lovely, yet sad. Outside my window, there are multi-colored apartments. Beautiful, large, and empty cathedrals that stand as the last bastions of dead religion. 

I'm so thankful that the board taught us about culture shock. Otherwise, I would feel like something was terribly wrong with me. Being here, having left my language and my context, I feel, in a way, that I have been stripped of everything that made me funny, interesting, or remotely intelligent. I have literally prayed before going to the grocery store that no one would talk to me. This is not who I am. I am a Harris. Shyness has never really been an issue for us. (Actually, boisterousness and scaring strangers by talking to them is generally more our style.)

I blame culture shock for my newfound shyness, which led me to stand in stark terror in front of a little girl who stared at me at church. (and just say "24," instead of,"Nine, ich bin eine fruendin; ich habe 24 Jahre.")  I also failed to talk to two guys speaking perfect English in the grocery store. 

This (oh, and there's the Biblical precident), makes me wish I had a partner. I've been working on Brie. 

However, it's not like I'm longing to go home. It's just that I'm not so sure what to do here.  According to part of my training, during my first few months here, I should frequent local hang-outs. Even if I cannot communicate at a deep level with anyone, at least I will experience the culture and learn where the cool places are. There's just one problem with that. There's a word for a girl who goes to bars and cafes (or grocery stores?) alone and tries to engage people in conversation. That's not really something I want to be. 

Luckily, it's not about wether I am interesting or not. It's not about whether I am comfortable or not. It's not even about whether or not I can ever understand an answer once I work up the nerve to ask a question. It's about whether Jesus is real or not. It is about whether God is loving and faithful or not. It's a good thing for all of us that He is.