The two highlights of my past week in Vienna:
1. Getting swindled by some young boy on Mariahilferstrasse. He flung a rose in my face, then asked me for 2 Euros, and I gave it to him because I was actually terribly charmed, and now the rose is slowly wilting away in a tea bottle on my desk.
2. Petting a passing dog in the U-bahn. The problem with dogs here is they are either itty bitty or attached to intense-looking Austrian men - fortunately, this one was at the perfect height for a discrete head-scratch, and that dog smiled and wagged its tail and I don't think anyone's been that happy to see me since I left my own dog back in Tulsa.
Your mission is to find connections between these two events, describe why exactly they were the highlight of my week, and then tell me what the hell's the matter with me and prescribe some form of change.
Not that this week was bad - far from it. You, out there, whoever you may be, are probably nursing hangovers and prepping for another rollicking night of debauchery (apparently that Buffers spandex party is tonight, marking the only night I've ever been completely black-out drunk), and I'm in my dorm room on a Saturday night, sober as a stone, waiting for Adventure to come knocking and smoking Lucky Strikes in the bathroom in the meantime.
We went tromping around the grounds of the Schoenbrunn Palace one afternoon, and, just like Potsdam, the experience would have been tenfold better if it was actually 1911 and we were all decked-out like bourgeois (I totally misspelled that) nobility and cantering about on ponies. As it was, we settled for photographs a-plenty and gandering long and hard at the actual palace, which is, to me, a lemon cake. Vienna does enjoy its yellows. Other than that, our adventures have been slow, solely because its really damned cold outside - we've made many trips to a gelateria a street away from giganto St. Steven's cathedral (where, one day, some dude dressed up like Darth Vader was just chilling), loitered in bookstores, and had Doeners that will never be as good as the ones back in Schwaebs. Also, despite having been to the nearest sushi place three times in the past week, I am still hopeless when it comes to chopsticks.
And then there are classes. I know now that Hamilton has been a very individualized experience for me, because Wednesday afternoon found me in a lecture hall with 250 other students, most of them coming and going as they pleased, with a professor rambling auf Deutsch for 2 and a half hours. Fortunately, my other classes through the University of Vienna (which, needless to say, also looks like a cake to me and is full of busts of important old man and ornate staircases and basically Hamilton is, as we've always said, a summer camp in comparison) are in English, so maybe I won't resort to doodling that caricature of myself that I've perfected over the years. I'm also enrolled in three courses through Central Abroad, taught American-style (with assignments and midterms, versus the European way of take a lot of notes and then a final at the end) but also in German, which are nothing noteworthy as of yet, aside from the readily available cheap coffee. On a whim, I signed up for the Music Seminar, which met today and yesterday and concludes with a concert on Monday night, and all I really learned was how much I miss Booker T orchestra and that Beethoven still kicks Mozart and Haydn AND Bach's collective dead asses. And that I need to listen to more Steve Reich because someday someone will also love Steve Reich and we will bond over how his music, in the immortal words of my old Milbank neighbor, is like an "ear bath."
An honest question, then, if I've still got your swiftly-wavering attention: How'm I doing with this thing? I have no idea if this is what people (what people? exactly!) want or expect from a "study abroad blog." I'm not fishing, so much as wondering if you're wondering about those things my father gets mad at me for neglecting to tell him - like my dorm room or my meal plans or hell, I don't know. Lemme know.
Also, who wants a postcard!?
08 March 2008
04 March 2008
schnell!
I AM NOT DEAD I AM IN VIENNA. More to come when I get the internets in my dormitorium.
Two Hours Later Edit:
To reiterate: I AM NOT DEAD I AM IN VIENNA. I AM IN VIENNA. I AM IN VIENNA. These are the things you forget when ansteigening and aufsteigening on the Strassen-Bahns and the U-bahns and pretty much every Bahn you could ever dream of. We got in on Thursday night, after a long, lovely bus ride where we bid farewell to Dear Old Schwaebs, took a plane from Stuttgart, were thrown in a cab and deposited in our respective dormitories all over this glorious city of ours. And now it's Tuesday. I mean daaaamn.
On Thursday, I threw my ungodly rolling luggage (Dear Ariel Weaver: if you are reading this, many thanks for the use of that big blue beauty of a suitcase) into my room, left a note for my anonymous roommate, and flew through the streets to a strange venue in some random sector, because, babies, I had to get my indie on, and I'm not sorry because it was awesome. Showed up halfway through Frog Eyes' set - after seeing the first half of a Frog Eyes show in Chicago, I can successfully say I've seen an entire set - ran outside for a Doener during Six Organs of Admittance (though the chick in the band is admittedly intensely hot, my ears couldn't take it), had unnecessary front row viewage for Dirty Projectors (too many notes! but still pretty sweet), scooted upstairs for Deerhoof and Final Fantasy. My new mission in life: join Deerhoof. The poor drummer spoke some ass-backwards German and the Viennese just lapped it up - meanwhile I was asking every passerby for a light, AUF DEUTSCH, because I wrongly assumed the entire crowd would be Europeans. Not so. This merits a new paragraph:
The Anecdote of the Indie Grandma commences like this. I'm hungry, got a new shirt tucked in my purse, so I buy a Doener outside, and while my dinner is being prepared, some 70-odd year old woman in a white sweater and trademark old lady glasses asks me, in perfect American English, "What is that?" So I explain. "It's chicken?" she says. "Where does it say chicken?" "Huehner means chicken," I say. And then I sit and have myself a Doener and ponder - is this lady lost? Clearly this is an event for 20-somethings with asymmetrical haircuts and clothes bought in the wrong size on purpose. Not only that, but you can't be in a German-speaking country for 10 seconds without encountering a Doener - like going to the U.S. and asking what a McDonald's is. Also, shouldn't she be in Florida? Retired? So I go back inside, and who do I see but Indie Grandma, sitting in the midst of a crowd of chain-smoking indie kids, with a cigarette in her hand herself. If anyone can explain this, I'll give you a shiny 2 Euro coin, which is worth about 15 American cents given the exchange rate.
Another night, following a dinner of sushi and broken German interactions with Asian waitresses, Robinson, Annie, and I took to the streets for a night wander, where we discovered that Vienna, like the name itself, is IMPERIAL itself. Look up "imperial" and there is Vienna. Every corner there's something huge and ornate - Germany was all about castles, but Austria is all about palaces - and we spent a good hour just sitting on an oversized statue of some Kaiser or another, looking at this big old palace and hoping to see some ghosts. We didn't. And apparently it's just me, but all these buildings look like cakes, with the exception of the Rathaus that looks like it should be full of bats and shadowy figures and maybe a wayfaring mummy, so every time I pass a church or the hyper-secured American Embassy up the road, I just want to slice that building up and eat a piece.
And though this entry is already bordering on "Rachel please shut up" (ala DOING THE COCKROACH MEREDYTH I'M LOOKING AT YOU), I have to announce that I am SO AMPED about my internship, which, from what I gathered from my visit today, involves me sitting at a small table and speaking English with TINY VIENNESE CHILDREN. The enormously tall Principal of the school took me through the classrooms, and a sea of little faces just stared at me, and a few brave ones actually waved. It's going to be awesome.
The whole group went out to dinner and racked up a 600 Euro tab, which is pretty impressive, but not as impressive as the mere existence of a 500 Euro bill, which is green and which I doubt I'll ever see again. We visited the zoo and a giraffe got all up in my grill. I've already begun my Third Man tour of the entire city, because THE Harry Lime doorway is all of ten minutes from where I'm sitting right this second, and because the main cemetery is always good for a quiet wander.
I mean, all in all, this is pretty legit. I'm broke, I'm tired, I'm happy.
Two Hours Later Edit:
To reiterate: I AM NOT DEAD I AM IN VIENNA. I AM IN VIENNA. I AM IN VIENNA. These are the things you forget when ansteigening and aufsteigening on the Strassen-Bahns and the U-bahns and pretty much every Bahn you could ever dream of. We got in on Thursday night, after a long, lovely bus ride where we bid farewell to Dear Old Schwaebs, took a plane from Stuttgart, were thrown in a cab and deposited in our respective dormitories all over this glorious city of ours. And now it's Tuesday. I mean daaaamn.
On Thursday, I threw my ungodly rolling luggage (Dear Ariel Weaver: if you are reading this, many thanks for the use of that big blue beauty of a suitcase) into my room, left a note for my anonymous roommate, and flew through the streets to a strange venue in some random sector, because, babies, I had to get my indie on, and I'm not sorry because it was awesome. Showed up halfway through Frog Eyes' set - after seeing the first half of a Frog Eyes show in Chicago, I can successfully say I've seen an entire set - ran outside for a Doener during Six Organs of Admittance (though the chick in the band is admittedly intensely hot, my ears couldn't take it), had unnecessary front row viewage for Dirty Projectors (too many notes! but still pretty sweet), scooted upstairs for Deerhoof and Final Fantasy. My new mission in life: join Deerhoof. The poor drummer spoke some ass-backwards German and the Viennese just lapped it up - meanwhile I was asking every passerby for a light, AUF DEUTSCH, because I wrongly assumed the entire crowd would be Europeans. Not so. This merits a new paragraph:
The Anecdote of the Indie Grandma commences like this. I'm hungry, got a new shirt tucked in my purse, so I buy a Doener outside, and while my dinner is being prepared, some 70-odd year old woman in a white sweater and trademark old lady glasses asks me, in perfect American English, "What is that?" So I explain. "It's chicken?" she says. "Where does it say chicken?" "Huehner means chicken," I say. And then I sit and have myself a Doener and ponder - is this lady lost? Clearly this is an event for 20-somethings with asymmetrical haircuts and clothes bought in the wrong size on purpose. Not only that, but you can't be in a German-speaking country for 10 seconds without encountering a Doener - like going to the U.S. and asking what a McDonald's is. Also, shouldn't she be in Florida? Retired? So I go back inside, and who do I see but Indie Grandma, sitting in the midst of a crowd of chain-smoking indie kids, with a cigarette in her hand herself. If anyone can explain this, I'll give you a shiny 2 Euro coin, which is worth about 15 American cents given the exchange rate.
Another night, following a dinner of sushi and broken German interactions with Asian waitresses, Robinson, Annie, and I took to the streets for a night wander, where we discovered that Vienna, like the name itself, is IMPERIAL itself. Look up "imperial" and there is Vienna. Every corner there's something huge and ornate - Germany was all about castles, but Austria is all about palaces - and we spent a good hour just sitting on an oversized statue of some Kaiser or another, looking at this big old palace and hoping to see some ghosts. We didn't. And apparently it's just me, but all these buildings look like cakes, with the exception of the Rathaus that looks like it should be full of bats and shadowy figures and maybe a wayfaring mummy, so every time I pass a church or the hyper-secured American Embassy up the road, I just want to slice that building up and eat a piece.
And though this entry is already bordering on "Rachel please shut up" (ala DOING THE COCKROACH MEREDYTH I'M LOOKING AT YOU), I have to announce that I am SO AMPED about my internship, which, from what I gathered from my visit today, involves me sitting at a small table and speaking English with TINY VIENNESE CHILDREN. The enormously tall Principal of the school took me through the classrooms, and a sea of little faces just stared at me, and a few brave ones actually waved. It's going to be awesome.
The whole group went out to dinner and racked up a 600 Euro tab, which is pretty impressive, but not as impressive as the mere existence of a 500 Euro bill, which is green and which I doubt I'll ever see again. We visited the zoo and a giraffe got all up in my grill. I've already begun my Third Man tour of the entire city, because THE Harry Lime doorway is all of ten minutes from where I'm sitting right this second, and because the main cemetery is always good for a quiet wander.
I mean, all in all, this is pretty legit. I'm broke, I'm tired, I'm happy.
25 February 2008
this schmecks awesome!
I am full of sandwiches right now, filthy from my voyage to Frankfurt (8 hours on trains in 2 days? WORTH IT), and it's our last Monday in Schwaebs. Pretty unbelievable. That's all you're getting in terms of an introduction, onto the body paragraphs:
I WAS WITHIN SPITTING DISTANCE OF JENS LEKMAN AND I DON'T THINK I HAVE EVER BEEN HAPPIER. My roster of Indie Shows isn't anything to be ashamed of, but it's definitely pretty meek in comparison to people who live in cities that bands actually tour through (see also: Not Tulsa, Oklahoma). And I've been that close to the stage before - thrashing my brains out basically on stage with Man Man, trying to touch Thurston Moore's sneaker at Cain's, within paper-airplane-flying distance of Stephen Malkmus in a crowd of 1 billion at Pitchfork - but this was pretty phenomenal. I took off for Frankfurt on Sunday afternoon, discovered that my hostel, while very near to the train station, was also surrounded by sex shops, and that Frankfurt itself is pretty seedy and bum-addled, and took to the streets like a vagabond in search of food and photo opportunities. Ambling by myself is almost preferable, because I really don't, and didn't, care where I ended up, so long as I made it to the show - so I had myself another precious and over-priced bottle of Arizona Green Tea (trendy sandwich joints tend to import the stuff), ran into a church, went into another church and quietly watched a Catholic Mass auf Deutsch, bought some postcards, and had a long ramble along the river. Frankfurt's skyline is straight out of Metropolitan, but I was more impressed with my own ability to ask a stranger for the time and interact with dog-walkers in German. And the weather - Germany's under a false spring right now, making my Paddington toggle coat too heavy, and I've busted out that old brown corduroy pocketful jacket from my Booker T days, because its collar is so very pop-able.
So. The show. I got there, after a magnificent cross-city quest, bought a celebratory beer and a T-shirt, and then there I was, against the stage itself, in a crowd full of polite Frankfurtians who did not steal my spot even when I ran back to the bar for another beer. Jens himself was surrounded by beautiful Swedish girls who did not look real or like they were actually playing their instruments, but did look like they modeled for American Apparel in their spare time, and they launched into "I'm Leaving You Because I Don't Love You" which became "The Opposite of Hallelujah" and basically I died of sheer joy and jubilation. Afterwards, I ran into some fellow Yankees and we all made our pseudo-tipsy and meandering way to the U-bahn, and aside from sleeping on a bed that felt like it was made of rocks, and by sleeping I mean lying, and by lying I mean trying to ignore the fact that the bed was made of rocks while some Italian girls whispered and giggled all night, it was pretty goddamned awesome.
When I saw Modest Mouse, before "Lonesome Crowded West" became the soundtrack for my rapid descent into potentially-Accutane-induced insanity of senior year and when we all just thought Isaac Broke was shouting "PIES BURY ME WITH THEM," I was pretty satisfied with the show, but I thought, Damn, they didn't play 3rd Planet. And then, Encore Time rolled around, and whammo--they played it. The exact same thing happened at the Jens show - though he went through all my favorites, I was missing Pocketful of Money, and then, for his 3rd encore (3rd!), we were all singing the chorus and it was glorious. Also: Jens Lekman soloing on glockenspiel. At least, I think it was a glockenspiel. Also also: Jens Lekman WILL YOU MARRY ME AND TAKE ME TO SCANDINAVIA?
The weekend alone was pretty damn glorious, too. We screened The Third Man on Friday and all I wanted to do afterwards was run around Schwaebisch Hall and cast huge shadows and shoot at things and pretend I was part of a penicillin racket. On Saturday we lived decadently, feasting on Chinese, going back to the castle-church in the next town over, and getting the inaugural gelato.
AND ON THURSDAY WE ARE GOING TO VIENNA.
I WAS WITHIN SPITTING DISTANCE OF JENS LEKMAN AND I DON'T THINK I HAVE EVER BEEN HAPPIER. My roster of Indie Shows isn't anything to be ashamed of, but it's definitely pretty meek in comparison to people who live in cities that bands actually tour through (see also: Not Tulsa, Oklahoma). And I've been that close to the stage before - thrashing my brains out basically on stage with Man Man, trying to touch Thurston Moore's sneaker at Cain's, within paper-airplane-flying distance of Stephen Malkmus in a crowd of 1 billion at Pitchfork - but this was pretty phenomenal. I took off for Frankfurt on Sunday afternoon, discovered that my hostel, while very near to the train station, was also surrounded by sex shops, and that Frankfurt itself is pretty seedy and bum-addled, and took to the streets like a vagabond in search of food and photo opportunities. Ambling by myself is almost preferable, because I really don't, and didn't, care where I ended up, so long as I made it to the show - so I had myself another precious and over-priced bottle of Arizona Green Tea (trendy sandwich joints tend to import the stuff), ran into a church, went into another church and quietly watched a Catholic Mass auf Deutsch, bought some postcards, and had a long ramble along the river. Frankfurt's skyline is straight out of Metropolitan, but I was more impressed with my own ability to ask a stranger for the time and interact with dog-walkers in German. And the weather - Germany's under a false spring right now, making my Paddington toggle coat too heavy, and I've busted out that old brown corduroy pocketful jacket from my Booker T days, because its collar is so very pop-able.
So. The show. I got there, after a magnificent cross-city quest, bought a celebratory beer and a T-shirt, and then there I was, against the stage itself, in a crowd full of polite Frankfurtians who did not steal my spot even when I ran back to the bar for another beer. Jens himself was surrounded by beautiful Swedish girls who did not look real or like they were actually playing their instruments, but did look like they modeled for American Apparel in their spare time, and they launched into "I'm Leaving You Because I Don't Love You" which became "The Opposite of Hallelujah" and basically I died of sheer joy and jubilation. Afterwards, I ran into some fellow Yankees and we all made our pseudo-tipsy and meandering way to the U-bahn, and aside from sleeping on a bed that felt like it was made of rocks, and by sleeping I mean lying, and by lying I mean trying to ignore the fact that the bed was made of rocks while some Italian girls whispered and giggled all night, it was pretty goddamned awesome.
When I saw Modest Mouse, before "Lonesome Crowded West" became the soundtrack for my rapid descent into potentially-Accutane-induced insanity of senior year and when we all just thought Isaac Broke was shouting "PIES BURY ME WITH THEM," I was pretty satisfied with the show, but I thought, Damn, they didn't play 3rd Planet. And then, Encore Time rolled around, and whammo--they played it. The exact same thing happened at the Jens show - though he went through all my favorites, I was missing Pocketful of Money, and then, for his 3rd encore (3rd!), we were all singing the chorus and it was glorious. Also: Jens Lekman soloing on glockenspiel. At least, I think it was a glockenspiel. Also also: Jens Lekman WILL YOU MARRY ME AND TAKE ME TO SCANDINAVIA?
The weekend alone was pretty damn glorious, too. We screened The Third Man on Friday and all I wanted to do afterwards was run around Schwaebisch Hall and cast huge shadows and shoot at things and pretend I was part of a penicillin racket. On Saturday we lived decadently, feasting on Chinese, going back to the castle-church in the next town over, and getting the inaugural gelato.
AND ON THURSDAY WE ARE GOING TO VIENNA.
21 February 2008
pear nectar, too.
A List Of Good Things That Were They Were Bananas, I'd Have A Whole Damn Bunch, And Then I Would Make A Banana-and-Nutella-on-Toast-Sandwich Which If You Haven't Ever Had Is Delicious Beyond Description, I Highly Recommended It:
(otherwise this entry will be, unsurprisingly, utterly incoherent)
I. Feeding Ducks. Today marks the second day I've gone down to the river in the afternoon, bearing some stolen Brotchens from breakfast, and made friends with the fleet of ducks who go about their duckly business right by one of Schwaeb's many covered bridges. What is there not to love about duck-feeding? GAR NICHTS, that's what. The trick is to feed the ducks without feeding the pesky flock of pigeons that invariably swoop down and peck at your sneakers. All in all, something I plan on doing as often as possible.
II. GOING TO VIENNA IN ONE WEEK. How did that happen? Two months already? But it's true - one week from today, we're shipping off to Austria. And then two weeks later, it's Spring Break. And then three little months of Vienna. And then July. Damn!
III. The Third Man. We're having a private screening of it tomorrow evening and I cannot wait. While we were in a Central Abroad meeting to plan for our internships, I happened to glance over and see my own info-sheet, and there, under how much German I'd studied in the past and what my professional goals were, it said: Third-Man-addict. Das stimmt. A lot.
IV. The ridiculous show I'm seeing the day we get to Vienna: Frog Eyes (who I'll actually get to see this time, considering last time I had to bolt back to the train station to make it home to Hyde Park), Deerhoof, Six Organs of Admittance, Dirty Projects, and Final Fantasy. The Canadian with the violin, not the video game. The line-up is ridiculous and I am crazy amped.
V. Remembering, after forgetting, as I inevitably do, how actually insane it is that we speak only German for 5 hours every day and it makes perfect sense. Right now I feel like I'm flirting with fluency, and it's a dangerous affair to have - because someday I will be old and on an island and surrounded by dogs and think, "Once I knew German. No longer." And then I will be filled with regret. But MAN The Never-Ending Story auf Deutsch is HARD TO READ. I've made solid progress on "The Little Owl," though. And I've watched every Little Bear and Little Tiger video that the Mediothek has.
VI. Banana-and-Nutella-Sandwiches-on-Toast. SELF-EXPLANATORY.
VII. Getting crazy amounts of writing done, despite depriving myself of smokes and consequently still coughing all the time. High five!
Speaking of which, I ought to be a human being and go out into the Schwaebian Streets and, I don't know, seek some adventure or something. GENAU.
(otherwise this entry will be, unsurprisingly, utterly incoherent)
I. Feeding Ducks. Today marks the second day I've gone down to the river in the afternoon, bearing some stolen Brotchens from breakfast, and made friends with the fleet of ducks who go about their duckly business right by one of Schwaeb's many covered bridges. What is there not to love about duck-feeding? GAR NICHTS, that's what. The trick is to feed the ducks without feeding the pesky flock of pigeons that invariably swoop down and peck at your sneakers. All in all, something I plan on doing as often as possible.
II. GOING TO VIENNA IN ONE WEEK. How did that happen? Two months already? But it's true - one week from today, we're shipping off to Austria. And then two weeks later, it's Spring Break. And then three little months of Vienna. And then July. Damn!
III. The Third Man. We're having a private screening of it tomorrow evening and I cannot wait. While we were in a Central Abroad meeting to plan for our internships, I happened to glance over and see my own info-sheet, and there, under how much German I'd studied in the past and what my professional goals were, it said: Third-Man-addict. Das stimmt. A lot.
IV. The ridiculous show I'm seeing the day we get to Vienna: Frog Eyes (who I'll actually get to see this time, considering last time I had to bolt back to the train station to make it home to Hyde Park), Deerhoof, Six Organs of Admittance, Dirty Projects, and Final Fantasy. The Canadian with the violin, not the video game. The line-up is ridiculous and I am crazy amped.
V. Remembering, after forgetting, as I inevitably do, how actually insane it is that we speak only German for 5 hours every day and it makes perfect sense. Right now I feel like I'm flirting with fluency, and it's a dangerous affair to have - because someday I will be old and on an island and surrounded by dogs and think, "Once I knew German. No longer." And then I will be filled with regret. But MAN The Never-Ending Story auf Deutsch is HARD TO READ. I've made solid progress on "The Little Owl," though. And I've watched every Little Bear and Little Tiger video that the Mediothek has.
VI. Banana-and-Nutella-Sandwiches-on-Toast. SELF-EXPLANATORY.
VII. Getting crazy amounts of writing done, despite depriving myself of smokes and consequently still coughing all the time. High five!
Speaking of which, I ought to be a human being and go out into the Schwaebian Streets and, I don't know, seek some adventure or something. GENAU.
18 February 2008
strategies when the weather just isn't enough.
After blatantly stalking the blogs of some of my fellow Hamiltonians, I've decided my life in Germany is about as cushy as they come and that I need to MAN UP and GET AMPED and all those other HARDCORE PHRASES that mean BUCK UP SPORT since there's no reason to be moping. I mean - I sleep in an actual bed, in a room that has a little refrigerator that I keep stocked with beers, and the most dangerous thing that's happened so far has not been pick-pocketing or "auslander" slurs, but a bus nearly killing Rob and I because it was too polite to honk. After that same incident, I fell into hysterics on the bridge and frightened away all the ducks in the river.
I am, however, in the midst of my semi-annual "Rachel Smokes Too Much" sickness, which is good for my wallet and bad for my lungs. See also: coughing like an old man all the time, and skipping school today because the lining of my esophagus is trying to escape and no one wants to see that, or probably read about it, so I'm sorry for the details. But this could be a permanent change, and the only souvenir I get for anyone else considering I'm penniless, if that makes sense.
It was a combination of circumstances that pushed me down, and a lot of it was myself pushing myself down, as I am invariably wont to do. The boys go hide in their rooms to Skype their girlfriends, I sit up and read Steinbeck alone. I slept through the Goethe Party on Friday night, missing out on all sorts of shenanigans. I tried to buy some new jeans in town only to find out, the hard way, that I'm pretty much built like a pioneer and better start darning the holes in my American jeans. My Tandem Partner, a native I meet with once a week to practice my German, is pretty much the Anti-Rachel - doesn't drink, hates smoke, is pretty and petite and perfectly put-together. Things that could be funny in the right light, but were just lame in reality.
But there are counters to all of those, too - I bought myself a red plaid cashmere scarf because Tommy kept stealing his back, and now I feel like a little British boy ALL the time. We all went collectively, primevally insane with ennui and malaise one evening (that sentence probably makes you want to gag, whoever you are out there), so we booked it to a bar and were hollering and falling on each other the whole way. We ate a lot of cake baked by Schwaebian Fraus.
Rob and I went on a long wander yesterday, and then I went on an even longer wander afterwards, walking right out of Schwaebisch Hall. I think it was Chutney who told me the sky would just be bluer in Europe, and that's true. We've had uninterrupted sunshine for a week, now, no snow on the ground, hardly any rain. It's Minor Field weather.
And I'm going to Frankfurt on Sunday to see Jens Lekman, and, after doing some research, I am obviously going to go see THE HIVES in VIENNA because some 15-year old version of me will have a conniption at seeing PELLE. PELLE!
Also, everyone should shout "TOR!" much more often. Even when there is no goal to be had.
I am, however, in the midst of my semi-annual "Rachel Smokes Too Much" sickness, which is good for my wallet and bad for my lungs. See also: coughing like an old man all the time, and skipping school today because the lining of my esophagus is trying to escape and no one wants to see that, or probably read about it, so I'm sorry for the details. But this could be a permanent change, and the only souvenir I get for anyone else considering I'm penniless, if that makes sense.
It was a combination of circumstances that pushed me down, and a lot of it was myself pushing myself down, as I am invariably wont to do. The boys go hide in their rooms to Skype their girlfriends, I sit up and read Steinbeck alone. I slept through the Goethe Party on Friday night, missing out on all sorts of shenanigans. I tried to buy some new jeans in town only to find out, the hard way, that I'm pretty much built like a pioneer and better start darning the holes in my American jeans. My Tandem Partner, a native I meet with once a week to practice my German, is pretty much the Anti-Rachel - doesn't drink, hates smoke, is pretty and petite and perfectly put-together. Things that could be funny in the right light, but were just lame in reality.
But there are counters to all of those, too - I bought myself a red plaid cashmere scarf because Tommy kept stealing his back, and now I feel like a little British boy ALL the time. We all went collectively, primevally insane with ennui and malaise one evening (that sentence probably makes you want to gag, whoever you are out there), so we booked it to a bar and were hollering and falling on each other the whole way. We ate a lot of cake baked by Schwaebian Fraus.
Rob and I went on a long wander yesterday, and then I went on an even longer wander afterwards, walking right out of Schwaebisch Hall. I think it was Chutney who told me the sky would just be bluer in Europe, and that's true. We've had uninterrupted sunshine for a week, now, no snow on the ground, hardly any rain. It's Minor Field weather.
And I'm going to Frankfurt on Sunday to see Jens Lekman, and, after doing some research, I am obviously going to go see THE HIVES in VIENNA because some 15-year old version of me will have a conniption at seeing PELLE. PELLE!
Also, everyone should shout "TOR!" much more often. Even when there is no goal to be had.
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