Now, I love me some Bratkartoffeln, but this Einbeinsülze, what, where, how? I turned to Johnna, trusted friend and arbiter of all things good here in Germany.

“Pig knuckle,” she surmised.

I put in my order expecting pig knuckle, something akin to what Steve here enjoyed.  I love taking chances on the unknown dish. But the plate that arrived quickly changed things.

My brother* is the world’s biggest fan of Better Home and Gardens’ Cookbooks from the late 60s when brilliant photography joined forces with adventurous typography and whimsical drawings to create something beyond cookbooks, more like works of art. We often tittered over the photos of ‘aspics,’ meat and vegetables encased in gelatin molds.

Who would eat this? Why would you do this? Can God exist in a world where this would be allowed?

Based on what was brought to the table, I can neither disprove the existence of God nor confirm why he would ever do such a thing if he was even here. The bratkartoffeln were handily cared for and had those specks of black on a crispy, edge that softened on bite giving way to a delicate, flavorful potato delight.

But what was this thing beside the fried potatoes? Being a beginner in a language, it’s exciting to take a dare, make a leap and jump through the flaming hoop you’re presented with (see the previous post on stage fright at a picnic table).

While others questioned whether I really wanted to commit to this choice, I dove in with only slight hesitation. The weird thing was that it really did have flavor. It may have been a trick by the clear gelatin; the way that Pepsi Clear, by it’s very lack of color, seemed as if it should lack any flavor at all.

But then I bit into some of those bits of pig knuckle and knew I was in flavor town. Hammy, smoked knuckle accompanied by vinegary bits of pickle pop in your mouth and make you forget that it’s all contained in this gelatainous mash.

Who thought this crap up anyway?

*Speaking of my brother, you really ought check out his Back in Church blog. Eye-opening, side-splitting and fantastic observations.

This is what comes up as an image when you search scheiss Deutsch

I pulled up a seat at the Gut Ostler Farm Saturday Afternoon Open House in mid-October.

“Sprechen sie Deutsch?”

“Ja, ein bisschen,” I replied.

“Nein, Kyle sprichst gut Deutsch,” my friend interjected.

And then I froze.

As a person familiar with the stage and mostly comfortable in front of people, it was surprising how an intimate gathering of four around a picnic table could suddenly become the largest, most ominous audience in the world.

My throat tightened, my eyes searched for a way out and all looked at me expecting something to spring forth. And it didn’t.

I stuttered and stammered, and tried to remember how to say simple things. And eventually I excused myself to get some food.

My vocabulary continues to grow and my confidence has picked up a bit, but I am nowhere near to what I would call a good German. I’m not even sure if what I wrote up there is correct and I’m too lazy right now to go check, so please just apply a ‘(sp?)’ to it all.

I eventually returned to my table with a plate of meat.

When your language skills are right on the verge, you’re bound to occasionally end up with something you’re uncertain of (check out my next post for more on that). Being affirmative and smily can often carry you through to the the next contextual contact and may make the difference between interrupting the flow or finding a verbal lifesaver to pull you back into the conversation. Other times you end up with a large plate of gristly meat when you thought you’d be getting the potato salad platter with lamb shank.

My friends looked at my plate of meat and I proceeded to tear at it with razor-sharp incisors as if it’s exactly what I ordered. Fortunately, that gave me something keep my mouth busy until the conversation changed to a direction I could follow.

“Is that all you need?”

“Of course it’s all I need. If’ I’d wanted more, I would have put it there, bitch!”

I added the ‘bitch’ part because I thought it would make this post more entertaining. But that was the gist of a three-page story in this book and helps explain how I learned impatience and crotchetiness and how to be ornery.

It saddened me to see he will be retiring at 92 years of age. If you ever read this Andy, stop being such a lazy ass. Just kidding, I salute you and I’ll miss you dearly.

Here is a video you might enjoy.

Tonight I found out that she passed away after talking with a friend. Even though she was only about 60 years old and looked like she was at least 73, she seemed so full of life that age would never suffice to describe her.

I think fondly of the nights when she’d show up at my door with fresh, handmade tortillas wrapped in a dirty towel, ‘Coma su tortilla, Don Ronaldo’ she would implore. And then we would have a chat about the weather and she would stroll back to her house. This is a brief story I wrote up about her back then.

Doña Carmelina

Doña Carmelina

25 August 2005

With a smile like the sun she waits in the fields watching her sheep as another day closes. Carmelina is an old woman with weary eyes ringed by wrinkles from years of happiness in the face of a rather tough life.

She’s only 55 years old, but her eyes and languid gait make her seem decades older. She’s tall and rail thin in contrast to the majority of stocky indigenous women in the area, and her black hair is tied back in two foot-long ponytails with ribbon woven through.

Every day on my way home from work I pass through her family’s backyard. Their home consists of one small adobe building with a terra cotta roof next to another small adobe with a thatch-roof. Black, inky creosote dappled with condensation hangs from the ceiling after years of cooking over an open flame on the dirt floor. Carmelina lives with her husband Pio, two sons, Faustino and Jesus, her daughter-in-law and her two grandchildren.

Each day I pass through her yard and Carmelina ducks out the front door and beckons me with, “Ma’ tzuli!” (You arrived’ in Mam), then she smiles and lets loose with a chest-rattling cough brought on by years of cooking over an open fire indoors.

Carmelina delights in hearing me struggle to speak Mam, the indigenous language, and so every time I pass she asks me questions and I stammer and stutter. Then I ask what she said and she tells me. And then I ask her how to reply and I reply. And the next day I forget how to reply and we do it all over again. But every time I say a single word in Mam her face lights up and she gives a hearty laugh before breaking into her trademark cough.

Carmelina’s family is typical of the poorer families in town. They cultivate 1/2 acre of potatoes a year and own 19 sheep of a dubious lineage. The family survives on less than $50 a month. Each day Carmelina’s husband and son hike over the hill to the forest to look for wood for fuel. Occasionally they slaughter the sheep for food, but usually they hold onto the animals in case of an emergency when they sell them for quick cash.

But there are no complaints of how tough life is. She doesn’t complain about the years she had to work for nearly nothing in coffee plantations when her husband couldn’t work because of a hernia. The hacking cough from cooking over that open fire? It’s okay. God knows and God is good because we’ve all lived to see another day.

And so she smiles while holding her grandaughter’s hand. Carmelina and her granddaughter are always together. Some days they’re in the backyard watching the family’s sheep eat. Other days I return and they are sitting at the top of the hill looking out over Chiabal as the sun sets.

And that’s where I would find her, like most days, waiting in the sun.

It's okay, don't worry. It's all good.

It’s okay. You don’t have to worry. When you came up to me that other night as I was walking down the street, you seemed very nervous and agitated. You talked at me for a while about something urgent, but all I could make out was ‘black man’, ‘fear’ and ‘I live down the road’. I figured it was no use trying to explain to you in my limited German that black people are just like other people. They have hair, and feet and noses too.

Maybe I should have stopped and introduced you to the person, but I was a little taken aback by the urgency in your voice. I thought that you were in some sort of legitimate danger. Instead of trying to help you understand, I decided to help you home.

Okay, though, I can understand. It was a bit dark out and I have to admit, I was carrying some fancy camera equipment and when I saw those two Turkish guys catching up to me rather quickly on the street I did a double take as well. But really, you don’t have to worry.

I wish I could have told you how I had seen him on the bus with me and thought he seemed like a nice person. Or maybe I could have robbed you to teach you a lesson, that maybe you should be frightened of your neighbors instead. Ha, ha, no, that’s just a joke. But seriously, don’t worry. People are okay.

Sincerely,

Your Neighbor

PS Thank you for dropping off that chocolate bar in my mailbox the next day to thank me. If you would like to continue dropping off chocolate bars, I would be happy to walk you home whenever you are ‘gefüllt mit angst’ for any reason.

PPS Speaking of racist old German women, check out this great short. It’s a bit slow in the buildup, but the payoff at about 9 minutes is more than worth it.

Hello happy friend.

There are cats, cats all around. There are cats on the streets and they are wandering through my mind by day, by night and in my private times. I thought this was going to be an interesting post, but then I realized that everyone else in the world had already experienced the overwhelming quantity of stray cats overrunning Turkey. And they do a better job explaining it than I would.

Like this one, one of the few useful stories I’ve ever found on Fox News, “Stray cats strut Istanbul’s streets, a symbol of tradition in a churning metropolis.

Google does a pretty good job of compiling mentions of the stray cats in Turkey, so I’m not going to bore you with all sorts of observations on the subject.

Though I was impressed at how tame they all were and I don’t think I even got lice or feline herpes or anything from handling this little fellow.

In the Grand Bazaar

Today while walking through my 8th bazaar in Turkey I got quite sad at what was on sale and what was on display. Same, same, same. Supposedly hand-woven rugs probably made by children in China. Small painted bowls that were the same ones we saw everywhere else. Though some bore the words ‘hand-painted’ on the bottom, a small touch conferring elevated status on that particular batch.

Same, same, same.

This issue plagues every tourist haunt I’ve ever visited. A plethora of once unique items, expressions of identity and culture, are whittled down to what sells and then repeated ad nauseum throughout every shop on every street. Variations are slight to reduce loss and ensure turnover. Prices are driven down by imported copycats of ancient art forms piled haphazardly and sold as ‘handmade in Turkey by skilled artisans’.

I eventually found one antique store in Urgüp that sold something different, things he had collected and things farmers found in fields and brought in. Hanging items forced visitors to duck as they wandered. He had ancient worn books, silver pieces from the time of Caesar and old seals for waxing envelopes.  Giant key chains filled with rusted keys for doors that don’t exist anymore. Wool combs for carding and unique serving platters hand painted by people in the surrounding villages. Every nook and shelf was jammed.

I found a small silver frame that I coveted and carried it with me as he showed me everything he had available. We looked through boxes, and cigar boxes under boxes stuffed with dusty, dirty coins and Byzantine treasures.

Tea feet

We talked and as usual he offered me some apple tea. I had to decline because I knew couldn’t afford anything.

At the end or our visit back near the entrance he told me the small silver frame I was still clutching was pure silver and cost $40. I couldn’t do that and continued looking.

He made an offer of $35 and that he would value me as his first customer of the day. I really couldn’t. I began to feel bad, but couldn’t justify $35 for a 4X6 frame. $30 was his final offer and I had to say no.

Then he showed me some earrings for $6 that looked just like everything else at the other bazaars.

Not sure what this sign said, but no open container laws here, gang!

“Hi Kyle, yes, um, yes, we have a long parade,” he observed. “Do you think you could throw a little less candy?”

“Yeah, sure, absolutely.”

Cut to massive amounts of screaming children, men and women, and copious amounts of tossed candy.

“Yes, Kyle, umm… maybe you want to throw a little less candy.”

“Uh huh (cheer, cheer, throw, throw).”

Finally he approached. “Here we would like you to carry this sign.”

Back in December, I met a friend of Helga’s who was a bigwig in a local political party (the Social Democrats – better than the Christian Democrats, but not as cool as the Greens from what I understand). As she waxed poetic about Karneval season and the excitement that spreads throughout the town, I floated the idea that it would be really great to march in their parade. Three months later, I got the invitation from the local chapter of the Social Democrats.

Random outfits worn by children and adults alike.

Kessenich is home to the Haribo candy company (HAns RIegel – BOnn, get it?) and the Karneval parade here is renowned for the staggering amount of candy thrown. Parents and children line the road in random costumes with little rhyme or reason. The most popular seems to be any iteration of full-body furry costumes, owing more to the springtime chills that dominate Germany in March than any sort of kinky fetish fascination.

The parade goes on for an hour or two and the average person walks away with roughly 3 kilograms of sugar in its many-splendored forms. Special edition Karneval gummis straight from the Haribo factory fly from outstretched hands to the eager throngs. Old women in old costumes elbow small children out of the way as they struggle to get their fix. The competition is cut throat, but tinged with a strange dignified restraint.

Our float was a wagon pulled and pushed by a small group of five and followed by a crew of ten. We each chipped in 25 Euros to pay for the motherload of treats. I felt tricked by the preponderance of tissue packets mixed in with our candy. But I quickly discovered that people don’t care what you throw, just as long as you throw something.

My relegation to sign-carrier was a relief of sorts. By that time we were starting to run out of candy and I was feeling increasing pressure to throw more though there was none. The sign gave me an excuse, even though I had no idea what it said. Something about some sort of dissatisfaction with the road conditions in our community.

Karneval evidence #1 - scary wig girl

I’ve been meaning to write this up for a while and now I’m so past due on it that anything I write will be mostly irrelevant, but it’s an important bit of local culture so we’ll do a three-parter to give it the proper treatment.

Welcome to Karneval.

There is a special time once a year when the good people of Germany throw off their woes, drop the angst and partake in the debaucherous season known as Karneval. The epicenter of Karneval culture is Köln, about a half hour train ride from Bonn. At first blush this festive time appears to involve:

• Some sort of detailed pageantry.
• Spending a lot of time picking out a costume.
• Gathering with friends in said costume.
• Drinking until you pass out or pee your pants.

I really have no right to talk about Karneval since I skipped out of the most important weekend for a trip to Paris. But that did not stop me from procuring my very own Karneval costume, which actually seems to be the most worthwhile part of Karneval.

Karneval evidence #2 - jaunty barrister

Just like Americans, Germans love giant box stores and on the outskirts of many major metropolitan areas, you can find a small gathering of huge stores warehousing piles of whatever you need bought in bulk and sold cheap. Since Köln is the home of Karneval, one of these box stores is a giant Karneval costume warehouse. I believe it only comes to life in the run-up to the season and sits dormant the rest of the year – much like those weird inflatable Halloween costume stores that pop up around October.

Early on I had decided that I would create my Karneval costume from things I had at home. I entertained the thought of dressing up as Spermüll Man with bits of clothing gathered from quarterly curbside trash piles.

But one day on my way to Ikea I was pulled by tractor beams into the Karneval warehouse. Loud Karneval music blared from the speakers as crowds of people pushed through looking for the ideal costume.

The Karneval music is its own brand of Scottish-sounding highlander choruses best boisterously sung by drunk folk. Or German interpretations of musical styles from around the world (there’s one song about how the boys of Köln kiss just as good as the guys in Hollywood to a weird almost tropicalia beat). It’s all disorienting. A disproportionate emphasis on furry costumes that can be worn outside during cool temperatures makes for high temperature inside the warehouse that remain just under ball-sweat level.

I looked through the racks of costumes unable to reach personal consensus. I knew it had to be something of the furry variety. And cheap, since I’d only be able to wear it one night. But I didn’t want to be completely unoriginal.

Karneval evidence #3 - the struggle

As I meandered through the aisles with a bunny costume draped over one arm I felt voyeuristic as I watched couples debate the merits of different outfits. Strong opinions tested the resolve of the most dedicated couples as the debate raged between cow or dog costumes.

The surprising thing was that prices did not seem related to quality of the stitch. Overall, everything seemed overpriced, but that didn’t seem to bother most.

After much soul searching and internal debate, I finally settled on an amalgamation of the most traditional Karneval costumes. I would transform myself into an indecisive rabbit who couldn’t decide between a pirate or cowboy costume.

That plus it seemed to be the cheapest option. Seriously, who wants to spend 80 Euros for a costume when you’ll likely end up waking up on a curb with soiled britches.

Growing up in a very German area, I assumed our names just appeared, attached to us on a tag as we shot out the womb. No meaning, no history. Nothing but a name. But now as I struggle to learn German, I’m beginning to realize that  these old names have old meanings from the old country and I’ve just turned the corner to interesting-town.

First thing that comes up when you search 'Feucht'

Just the other night while taking a stroll through my dictionary I stumbled upon Feucht – the last name of nearly every third person in Mayville – and it means moist, damp. I’m not sure what that says about Greg, Andrea or George, but they have all transcended the name to become much more than moist.

A friend with the name Stark was more stringy than strong I suppose. The Bauers were true to their namesake down on the farm. And though the Schraufnagel’s had little in common with nails, I haven’t been able to find out what ‘Schrauf’ means, so it may be flattering. Who can say?

I realize this is beginning to sound like some sort of Andy Rooney-esque reflection on my place in the world and such. But it all makes me wonder who was the first person to be tagged with the name Freund and was he/she really all that friendly? Or maybe it’s like the fat guy nicknamed Tiny.

It’s comforting to have the name Freund and I’m thankful to whoever paved the way. I’ve never tired of hearing the old adage, ‘Hey Freund, are you my friend?’ followed by gratuitous snickers.

Actually, yes. I am tired of that and will punch the next person in the neck who says that, but it hasn’t changed anything.

I’m still that asshole nicknamed Freund.