Gently down the stream Merrily merrily merrily merrily Life is but a dream
(Nursery Rhyme, origin unknown)
Camp: Bad Fallingbostel; Children: 28; Theme: Canoeing
Can you imagine that I am typing next to a lady bug crawling on a blade of grass? Butter flies of unamable colours amongst bumble bees hurrying from flower to flower? A dainty little stream drifting across in front of me, a meadow at the other side of the bank, sitting on a jetty just like the one we have at home? Little flowers poking out of strands long flowing weed, like adornments on the hair of a bathing maiden...?
School’s out, camps’ back in! And here I am again, the governess of 42 children at English Camp – themed Dance and Music.
Bit of a difference to Football Camp I went to in April – the atmosphere has hit oestrogen overdrive, and there is a lot of bitchy cat fighting going on, a lot of over-inflated self-confidence about one’s own dancing and singing ability, a lot of toe-nail painting, eye-lash curling, a lot of push-up bras, a lot of calling mummy at 11pm and crying themselves to sleep, a lot of boy-friend swapping, and a lot more tears when it comes to time to go home.
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Unfortunately the last few months amongst the Huns in Berlin saw my English deteriorate faster than my German improved. When I speak to the kids I now sport a really crazy mongrel schpeel:
‘Make we a photo, oder?’ ‘Shut-up! I’m denking!!’ ‘I don’t care if you’ve duched zwei-mal this week, you should be duching today and jendenday! You simply pong like a fledermaus.’
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The sterile Youth Hostel we are stationed in is at the edge of a small town called Erbach, 50 kms away from Heidelberg and another 80kms from Frankfurt, just around the corner from Bravaria. Its tiny, quaint and seemed slightly unworldly – for the first time in Germany, I have walked around the streets where I made people turn heads because I am of a different race. The village has a medieval old town of little craggy houses and beautiful ancient stone paved lanes, towered over by the Glockenspiel of the monumental Erbach Castle, and a pretty little canal cuts through it, water mills, quaint little bridges and wild flowers lined along it.
On an afternoon break I went and checked out the Erbach Castle, and the famous ‘Count Franz I's Collection’ inside. (see also http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erbach_im_Odenwald) The guide claimed that it is the largest collection of deer antlers in Europe, and I won’t try and dispute it. And its probably the weirdest too. The Count specialises on collecting deformed deer antlers, ie. antlers that grow in all sorts of shapes, sizes and forms due to disease or injury to the animal. For example, there were antlers belonging to poor deer that had a testicular disease, which caused furry velvets to grow at the bottom of their horns which eventually made them blind. The museum claimed that it was due to the Count’s interest in natural history rather than obsession with hunting that inspired his tireless gatherings of random and weird antlers. Other rooms included a collection of armoury around the world and through out the ages (including Japanese Samurai and Middle-Eastern Armoury), a room full of shot guns including a duck hunting gun with a 2 meter barrel (which could never actually be taken out for a hunt because it was impractically heavy), a few themed rooms with a whole bunch of furniture, paintings, and Roman antiquities which apparently were discovered around this part of Germany, for this is how far north the Romans came to govern at the height of their prowess.
This strange and curatorially disjoint collection reminded me a lot of the Wagner Museum in Northland, New Zealand, where my father dragged us along to one Easter holiday many years ago, started by a German man who immigrated to NZ in the 1830s and just started collecting random shit, but particularly native animals and stuffing them. The obsession with collecting, cataloguing, and displaying, I have been told by our Team Director, is an example of the German character - of prioritising the execution of order, attention to fine details, expressing their inquisitive relationship with nature, and the need to be formally, concretely and publically admired by showing what they have – particularly stuff that no one else in the world could possibly get their hands on
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So apart from teaching English for 3 hours in the mornings, the multi talented team is also expected to entertain the children with workshops in the afternoons, particularly in the theme of the camp – ie. music and dance, and some ‘fun and action’ and ‘sports’ for those less inclined. The team consists of me and 4 Americans. A mousy rosy cheeked DJ who has a cougar twice his age – specialising on ethnic percussions, with his other duty being to give each child the most insulting nick names; an ayruvedic medicine practicing vegan guitarist with a beard long and thick enough to nest birds – specialising on string instruments and tie-dying; a nymphomaniac professional volley ball player – specialising on all forms of dancing from Meringue, Capriara to Hip Hop (he was called in last minute because the original team member who was a professional jazz ballet dancer specially here to teach dancing had to return home due to the death of her mother, and had to give himself a crash course on dancing by watching videos on Youtube); our Team Director, a hellishly neurotic, condescending German-American (think worst of both worlds and then multiply cringe-factor by 25) Business Coach (what-ever-that-is) with zero personality and going through a mid-life crisis – specialising on singing cheesy pop ballads with a soprano voice (she actually, to our horror, literally taught the kids ‘My Heart Will Go On’ by Celine Dion and ‘We Are The World’ by the supposedly recently deceased Michael Jackson in her workshops); and me, the dubious Tiwi freelance social scientist – specialising in everything else they haven’t covered such as whistling little classical favourites (‘Eine Kleiner Nacht’s Musik’ by Mozart and ‘Dance of the Little Swans’ by Tchaikovsky), mask painting, rainbow making, non-alcoholic cocktail mixing, and gutter-ball, a tennis ball and makeshift wooden board game that once swept across all the corridors of New Zealand Primary Schools circa 1990. The dynamic is dynamitic. …………….
It’s the same story with any musician – great or not so great: it is not until you die that anyone bothers to celebrate your ‘talent’ properly, and forget all about those horrible things they used to say about you. Michael Jackson’s popularity amongst contemporary teenagers has certainly surged by about 500% since his death a few weeks ago. Ask any kid what their favourite music is right now – it would be Michael Jackson. Ask any kid to sing an English song back to front – it would be a Michael Jackson. Ask any kid what music the DJ should put on for disco night – Michael Jackson. Ask any kid to do a dance – they would do the moon walk. If these are the same answers in a month’s time, I will take my hat off to him.
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and consider my well practiced monologue:
Where’s the Southern Hemisphere then? Ahh yes this bit, this side of the equator. What happens to the seasons in the Southern Hemisphere? Ah yes they are opposite to those in the Northern Hemisphere. So what’s the temperature like in New Zealand right now then? Ah yes that’s right, its very very cold. So what season is it in New Zealand when Germany has winter? Ah yes it’s the summer! So what’s it like in New Zealand on Christmas Day? Ah yes its really really hot!
In fact, it is so hot in New Zealand in December that my family celebrates Christmas on the beach.
Yes, the beach! It’s too hot to sit inside and make a fire on Christmas Day! We have a picnic for lunch on the sand, and we open our presents outside under the sun, and we wear shorts, T-shirts, and jandals, and after lunch we go for a swim or play cricket…yes we do… And so does Santa Clause – he does not arrive on a sleigh with reindeers like he does in Germany, of course not, he arrives in his little red speedos, on a surfboard, in a pair of sunglasses, his big belly covered in sunscreen… yes he does…crazy, I know…
Bremen is a sleepy little city tucked up in North Germany amongst rolling farmlands, now planted with windfarms, and surrounded by fishing ports that still brings in the freshest salted herrings and wild salmon to the bustling little market square. The town is quaint and cute, divided by small canals and carpted by green parks, everything is very walkable despite the unpredictable midsummer weather. The Rathaus area is lined with Flemish architecture, and has a delightful if not kitch little art deco street (Böttcherstraße) that's really worth a good wander - make sure you check out the modernist glockenspiel on the hour - it will really surprise you, an old town (Schnoor) crossed with little village lanes and bakeries and curiosity shops, and a relaxed stretch of river front lined with beer gardens that will serve you a good old traditional German meat and 2 vege washed down with a favourite heffeweisse for very little money. On my first night, I even enjoyed a 5 Euro top-class concert of Bach's psalms in the main Cathedral, so don't miss a show if you're stopping by!!
Bremen's forte is in its tradition - the architecture, the churches, the manicured lawns, the smiling, friendly locals, the food, the beer, the chocolate in the shops. In a way its a lovely change get away from the in-your-face, wacky and maze-like Berlin, but in another way, I just know that it can only last a weekend, because it is just a little too nice, too small, too wholesome and monotomous here, and I know by instinct that I have already finished exploring it in one afternoon...
But now to the main drawcard - "Bremen Town Musicians" - I first came across these charming characters in one of the first picture books I read when we first moved to New Zealand, without saying it was another very formative time of my life where I've had to 'relearnt' an entire culture and language as well, I remember being fascinated and amused at this wonderful underdog adventure story, so its with a sweet longing that I approached the town of Bremen to visit the statue which immortalised the story of the donkey, dog, cat and rooster. Here's a picture book version of the story and here's one without pics.
Thinking through the story from an adult's angle, this folklore/ animal fabel in fact has a heavy commentary about animal rights, labour/production, fear of impoverishment, lonliness and abandonment in old age, social justice, and the ageless persuite of hedonism. And you know what? As an outsider, I can actually see all of these values being more or less reflected in contemporary German society, the way which they highly regard animal welfare, senior rights, the music and arts, and the encouragement of their youngsters to venture outdoors, to travel, and to find that utopian life. And this is essentially what folklore is about - its an oral history tradition in passing on information, institutionalising moral education, and sculpting norms of cultural identity via the format of a fairytale from one generation to the next - and finally picked up and recorded and interpreted by the Grimm Brothers through their linguistic research. Not only do these stories relate to children and adult audiences alike by reflecting the physical and social elements of pre-industrialised agrarian German society, it arouses and perhaps manipulate their emotions by bringing in universal fears and celebrations, and that sense of adventure for a bigger and wider unknown world.
.... and now enough ranting -and to music of another other kind - Hurricane Festival!!
(Caught up with my colleague Adilah; Jessie & Jane outside this eccentric little cafe/deli in Schnoor - the Old Quarter)
Reading this it made me chuckle, because my "Australian experience" at the Pantheon was quite a contrast, but not less exciting. At the time I was too busy day-dreaming and didn't blog it, but it is too good of a story to not tell.
Ro (as in Rowena), my Australian travel companion at the time, and I, spent quite a busy day roaming through Rome, as you do, sight seeing, eating pizza, speg-bog and what not, and totally forgot that the Pantheon had a closing time. After negotiating tiny medieval corners and surviving the July sun, we finally managed to get there. Unfortunately, the gate had closed a few minutes before we got there. It was obviously time for another slice of gorgeous and plump and cheap and melting Porcini mushroom pizza. As we ate at the square in front of the Pantheon, we could not help but look at the closed gate with lament.
A group of homeless people had gathered infront of the Pantheon in the meantime and made their beds for the evening. Some of them pretty much fell sleep almost immediately. One of the men somehow started to crawl on top of the woman next to him, and started fumbling about. She started protesting and trying to push him off, with no avail. This alarmed me and my companion in a very very disturbing way. It seemed like no one else either noticed or cared, and it looked like we have had to take the matter into our own hands.
Kiwi chick and Aussie chick with pizza in hand marched up and confronted the scene in our very blatant Antipodean accents. "s'cuuuuz us but arh yew or-ryght?" we enquired, ready to tear the would be rapist apart.
At this, the woman promptly pushes the man off her (he fell back on his back and went straight to sleep too) and struggled up, and screamed in delight:
"Yaah! Ium or-ryght! He's mee-boyfreend, wyrjuzfoolin around heey? ... yew guys Aussies?"
Looking at her boofed out hair and broken front tooth, we were actually speechless.
"Yew got any ceegarettes?" She piped. "No sorry, but you can have my pizza." One of us offered. "Ffank yew daarlin. Its so hard meeting another Aussie here - I been in Rome seex years juzmuck'in around cos I lost mee passport, good aye?" "Sorry mate we gotta go." We said.
As we fled, she yelled out at us: "Aussie Aussie Aussie!"
And we replied as quietly as possible: "Oyoyoy..."
One may think that its a little out of character for the Baroness to be a WWII movie buff, but I am… I grabbed the first opportunity presented to me in the form of a ferry/bus trip and began my One Woman Reenactment of the D-Day landings in Normandy, though admittedly I was more or less distracted by the culinary delights the French had to offer instead.
Ferry Crossing Believe it or not I handled the floor quite well on the overnight crossing, and psyched myself up at 6am in the morning watching the distant continent and my fate drawing closer and closer over a piping hot croissant and a less than average ferry café au lait.
Honfleur As I leaped off the boat in heavy armour (my 2 pound jacket from Edinburgh), I found myself very little action in the small fishing village of Honfleur. Not a Jerry in sight, so I eased into the relaxed and untamed atmosphere of this quiet Saturday morning. It would be perfect for a reenactment for the Casino scene from The Longest Day, what with a few beat up abandoned buildings with the missing windows and a lady dusting her carpet from a second floor window. To stock up for the long journey along the Normandy coast, I headed towards the farmers market after a brief walk along the cute windy cobbled streets. The market is unbelievably well stocked for a small place – particularly the stall which sells a 50-plus range of wild boar sausages, though after having a few sample slices, I can’t be totally convinced that I want to bring body odour home on the ferry with me. Further along the market something pungent is simmering away. Apples are of course a major produce in the area re the famous cider, and here they are being cooked with - wait for it, wild boar sausages!!
Bayeaux I rolled along in the Tank towards Bayeaux, one of the first major towns to be liberated from the D-Day landings, marked by the statue of General Montgomery The grand towering cathedral is one marvelous piece of architecture, and equally interesting was the ancient Bayeaux Tapestry, which was once revered by Napoleon as a major inspiration to plan out an invasion of England which he never got round to (yes, short men are relentless like that). I was however more interested in cleaning out the deli. Here is the cheese I had for lunch and I will be bringing home some crepes marinated in Grand Mariner… And I am pleased my negotiation skills in my meager broken French has not totally escaped me.
British Cemetery (Bayeaux) & the American Cemetery (Omaha Beach)
Time to pay some respects to the service men and women of WWII who gave their lives in this ruthless and unforgiving time in history. It puts things into perspective when you see the sheer number of graves row after row and how young most of the casualties of the D-Day invasions were. These are the graves of two men who died for their country at the same age as me this year, and the crosses and stars-of David at the American cemetery at Omaha Beach.
Omaha Beach Ayyyyyyy Yaaaaaa! BANG BANG BANG BANG BOOOOOOM! This is me storming Omaha Beach – attacking the enemy with the absolutely deadly element of SURPRISE! ready to save Private Ryan. And a thorough map of how I could have invaded Normandy if I could commanded 150,000 men. Arromanches I rolled along in a Zundapp motorcycle sidecar onto Arramanges, where I carried out an reenactment of pulling the mulberry harbours together. These are makeshift floating ‘bridges’ (to save every ship to havae to dock) built by the Allies to transport hundreds and thousands of tonnes of military equipment and supplied to support the liberation of Europe from England for the several months following D-Day.
Big Party in Caen I headed to Caen in the evening for some well-deserved dancing and cigar puffing, as there is a huge rock music festival going on, perfect for a village liberation scene where I would give the locals chocolates and cigarettes and in return they all kiss me, feed me, give me cider, throw a big party and make offers of marriage to me. (as shown in the Carentan episode of A Band of Brothers). But instead they just ignored me and went on with enjoying themselves. Oh well. The Rock Music Festival is organised in a way where every 10 meters or so along the main streets you could see a different rockband performing. The streets are swarming with partying people young and old, eating bloody frits and boozing away, obviously showing off in contrast of how meager my One-Woman mission looks. Given that most of the bands were quite bad, I had to force myself into having a Red bull flavoured ice cream just so I could keep up with the head banging with those teenage French goths. Interesting flavour but a bit over powering, and almost dissolved my teeth with the overt sugeryness and acidity. But for a cheap high, yeah I’d do it again for 2 Euros.
Ruen I arrived in Ruen on Sunday morning on horse back. The cross on the left commemorates the place where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake in 1431. Speaking of ‘stake’, I had lunch with two Australian compatriots (if you haven’t worked out that the Aussies have taken over the world then you’re very out of touch) who pretty much did an reenactment of the Mr Bean episode where Mr Bean ordered Steak Tartare. It really was literally a eeny meeny minee mo type menu situation because our French was so poor and the Waiter couldn’t speak ‘Strayaan’. No words could describe how hard it was to prevent me from laughing out loud when the bleeding lumps of meat was brought onto the table and presented to the two of them with their jaws dropped. For my part I had eeny meeny minee mo’ed myself into a Croque Madame, which I expected to get a female crocodile covered in some sort of alcoholic sauce, but it turned out to be a boring old fried egg on toasted cheese sandwich. Boooo!
And homeward bound via the scenic hills towards Calais, and sailing in from the white cliffs of Dover, with the thoughts of war behind me and a belly full of stinking cheese - a comfortable trip every intrepid soldier deserves.
Homemade packed lunch - 2.50 Euros Metro ticket - 1 Euro Spot on the park bench - free Sponsors hat - free Sponsors stickers - free Sponsors drink bottle - free 'Been there done there got the t-shirt' T-shirt - 12 Euros Front row seat to the Tour de France finale at the shores of the Seine - absolutely priceless
It feels a little contrived that I gave Nice a really bad review and am about to give Paris a completely flying one. Perhaps I am looking for something to compensate for my misfortunes and disappointments, or that France is just one of those places that can bowl you up and down with their unpredictable nature, depending on the weather, the time of the month, or who serves you coffee. Or it could be just how I honestly feel about the contrast of my experiences in the fast train track in the last short week.
Paris is blowing me away with a seductive charm and tantilising sensual pleasures I’ve experienced no where else before. Comparatively, Berlin has a very ground breaking masculine energy about it and an in-your-face assertiveness. Paris has a gentle flowing femininity, so sure of itself in its ease that it doesn’t need to try to be cool. It purely defines it. At the same time it doesn’t loose the quirky, cheeky and fun elements of French humour and wit. A sense of post-human abandonment seem to take over the way of life here. Form is in preference of function, decadence comes before economy, style before comfort, attitude before efficiency, raunch before sterility, boldness before minimising… There is simply nothing to conform to, and the result is a whole world of continuous creativity and bright busy compositions of pretty things and people.
As I walked downstairs from the apartment into the buzzing street with hundreds of odd characters passing by, I realized that what I’ve been doing wrong in the past 27 years is simply not being in Paris.
The Parisian Apartment
I am again simply a lucky girl. I am crashing with Kathryn and Braedon who has rented a small apartment here for a month. The spot is just perfect, right in the middle of the Marais neighbourhood. Its ten minutes walk across to the Island to Notre Dame, the Left Bank, and a couple of stations from Louvre and Champ Elysee. Its concentrated with cafes, bars, bakeries, quirky interior and fashion boutiques and small old gardens.
While also being the central queer area, you can sit in the neighbourhood sipping an espresso while watching the world and his boyfriend and their lap dog go by in the maddest edgiest fashion possible. Don’t under-estimate these little puppies, they are vicious. I witnessed one, no more than the size of a kitten terrorise two little girls by chasing them out of a gelato shop. The personal activities of the neighbours become some what of an ongoing radio theatre show too. You can hear triple orgasms ringing through the atrium. And contrary to my preconceptions of French people, the locals have been extremely friendly and helpful. Despite looking extremely scruffy in my backpackers gear, I don’t feel that I am particularly excluded or snobbed just cos I am a foreigner.
I absolutely love strolling around the fancy boutiques, bookshops and galleries in the Left Bank, pricy eateries in the Latin Quarter, and the dreamy parks around town where many gardenless city dwellers read and sunbathe. Just taking in the atmosphere and watching interesting scenarios unfold is fascinating and entertaining. For two evenings now I finish the day off by snuggling up to tourists and locals alike to book readings at the Shakespeare and Co. bookshop which holds nightly recitals by their up and coming writers about to publish. There is something I can’t explain about this place that is so captivating.
Let me eat cake (& snails)
It must be a deliberate attempt to insult Marie Antoinette that now Parisians are all cake connesoires. Here are just some of the sweet little gems displayed in the shop windows.
Other culinary exploits included the famous escargot - snails in pesto near St Michaels. I was actually slightly disappointed that it tasted a bit bland. Honestly I thought it was going to be DELICIOUS, but it was a bit "oh well". Never mind better luck next time. In general It was a great night out with Kathryn (fabulous translations, otherwise I would have got some cricket bats in gravy or something like that), Braedon, Jeremy & Anna (who came down from London for the weekend). We had a fab time hanging out in the line to the Eiffle Tower apart from having the beer confiscated...
Rollerblading Paris
I thank my random parents for getting me into crazy sports like spring-board diving and roller skating as a child. My sister, third cousin and I formed a family relay team and took bronze in a speed skating tournament in Taipei for the Happy Angels Roller Skating Club’s 86-87 season.
But that was before the age of rollerblades. Remember those skates with two wheels in front and two behind and you tie them to your shoes and can be expanded in case Dad wants to wear them too? Yep. Those were the days. I am now extremely envious the carefree Parisians on their quick blades whizzing about on the street cutting through traffic and tourists, and have decided to hire my own for a bit of a spin.
Just short of killing myself by plunging into traffic near Bastille, I made it to the beach (as in, temporary sand and traffic closure on the river front for two months) in one piece only having to take the blades off once.
As I was just getting the hang of it, some (hot) guy sitting at the side of the palage yelled out instructions at me like ‘straighten your legs’ and ‘don’t stick your butt out so much’ in an inheritantly bossy French way. He turned out to be the rollerblading coach of free lessons for beginners offered as part of the Paris Beach program. He invited me back to the next lesson for his beginners and I enjoyed an hour of rollerblade tips and hanging out with cute six year olds (they call me ‘madame’) doing loops of obstacle courses on the pavement. Yes it was amusing for all and I had a total blast.
Speaking of kiddies, the other thing I noticed about France is that its very child friendly. There seemed to be heaps of child friendly things going on here, like fun parks, holiday programs, toy shops, children’s music & theatre, not to mention Euro Disneyland just a stonethrow away. Other touristy things I managed to get up to were: - The Verseille palace and gardens – sensational, worth a side trip checking it out - Montemare area – the heavenly Sacre Coeur church, Mouline Rouge club, and the Erotic Art Museum – amusing, particularly the ethnic sexology collection, but in general badly curated and just a kinky joint. - Amelie’s Café – as in the one featured in the film. It was quaint and characterful like in the movie, and the famous toilet had some interesting quips on the back of the doors, but the service was the WORST I’ve encountered in Paris (France, for that matter) so far, and over-priced. But to the fair the coffee was pretty fantastic and the napkins and the sugar sachets did dance on the table just for me.
And finally caugh up with Johanna who was my flatmate last year ;-)
Taiwan is my bones; New Zealand is my flesh. The World is - ahem - my oyster served in lemon juice, shredded red onions, and a dash of kaitaia fire and vodka, or what ever else that suites my budget at the time.
Row row row your boat
