Christmas

Merry Christmas from the City of Heidelberg.

We got you pants this year.

We hope you like them.

A lesson in trust

"You should know - it looks a bit girly", she warned me.  But I thought she might be exaggerating - perhaps overly fearful that I'd be immediately put off by a few flowery embellishments, or a spot of lavender text on the box.  I never know to what extent my manliness, which I can't turn off, might inadvertently conceal my softer side and open-mindedness.  In any case, it was a kind offer not to be missed, and it would surely be worth overcoming any misgivings for the sake of improving my German.

So I was bit taken aback when she produced the DVD for me to borrow.  Eight shades of pink, fourteen little hearts, and two direct references to chocolate on the cover.  Which glittered.

Whether there is more truth in the tagline ('Men are the best medicine') or the title of the first episode ('Men are pigs!') remains to be seen, but I expect that neither is true in any absolute sense.

That'll probably be the last major comedy DVD swap for a while.

Omphaloskepsis

Friday evening.  When the young and the hopeful throng the streets, eager to notice, to be noticed, to be noteworthy, possibly to be notorious.

There is no better place than outside McDonalds to gauge the pulse of the youth.  To see an entire cross-section of society, or at least a cross-section of one particular section of society that looks mostly the same, except for differences in shirt colour (males) or ability to totter upright convincingly (females).

Like Attenborough with the bats, it's a chance to surreptitiously observe the fashions and interests of a crowd it would probably be fascinating, but impossible, to join.  To see what they get up to.  What drives them.  What they talk about with their peers.  While trying not to show weakness or fear, I cast a glance towards a particularly intriguing group.

It's belly buttons, apparently.  Belly buttons are where it's at.

Business opportunity

Last time I was back home, I was out drinking coffee and drawing, when I suddenly felt more like a house with several bottles of milk and newspapers slowly congregating outside than usual.

I looked up to see a young man, sling-armed and unkempt, standing above me.

It's sort of nice when someone talks to me when I'm out drawing, especially when they make it so obvious where I should punch them before running off if it starts to go badly.  It turned out, he was starting a t-shirt printing business and wondered if I'd like to join in as a supplier of designs.  He looked through my drawings and asked if he could take a picture of one or two on his iPhone.  I couldn't think of a good reason not to at that moment, and I was still trying to work out whether I could get something out of this conversation beyond slightly nervy encouragement.  In the end, I had to take the pictures on the phone anyway, using my preponderance of hands to the full, so if anyone committed a crime against my work it was me.

He showed me some of his pictures.  They were fantastic.  Skulls and the like, but very cool.  "I used to be a graffiti artist," he explained, adding "if you know what I mean", which I had thought I had done before he introduced the doubt.  He asked for my contact details.  I asked for his instead, since I'd be out of the country again soon (or some such irrelevant truth), and said I'd send him an email.

"What did that guy want?" asked my man-on-the-coffee-shop-inside later.  "Seems a nice fella.  Was in last week.  Stoned out of his head."

Looking back, it would probably have been the right thing to nip any suggestions of my participation in the bud from the very beginning, rather than just never sending that email.  But I think that, as a partnership, we probably weren't really compatible, so the ultimate outcome was the right one.

Schillervogel

Alnatura has recently opened up beside me.  Everything there is organic, except possibly for the man in the funny hat doing the greeting at the grand opening, who seemed nice but might well have been synthetic.

I thought this would mean I'd start eating healthily.  Which, given my limited cooking skills and suspicion of misshapen vegetables, means I thought I'd put chickens that had had happier and less drug-addled existences into my fajitas and curries.  Realistically, I'm not going to go into a butcher's and use my clumsy German to utter the names of body parts I wouldn't dare mention elsewhere, so until now I was left with only the suspiciously cheap bits of particularly well-endowed three-breasted birds stocked by Netto.

But it turns out that funding the sort of lavish lifestyles and thorough educations that Alnatura birds have presumably had doesn't make me feel any better.

I do intend to ponder animal rights and ethical eating issues one day, but preferably at a point in my life when I live near a mid-priced organic store.

Frankfurt 3 v Wolfsburg 0 and/or 1

I went to my first German football match last week.

So now I'm a Frankfurt fan.  That seemed the most sensible option.  Approximately 40,000 of the people were Frankfurt fans, with just one miserable sliver of Wolfsburg green nestled in the far corner of the stadium.  Best to stick with the majority, especially when the majority of the majority are drunk, even if they are cheerfully drunk.

And polite.  It's nice for English-tuned ears to hear loud German crowds chanting in entirely non-sinister settings, and the interactions between the announcer and crowd typically went something like this one when Gekas scored:
- Theofanis...
-- GEKAS!
- Frankfurt...
-- THREE!
- Wolfsburg...
-- NIL!
- Thank you!
-- YOU'RE WELCOME!

So they can be polite, even if they'd elbow you out of the way in a queue.  I was impressed that everyone knew, seemingly instinctively, what to shout back.  Although there were suggestions of revisionist history whenever they all stuck stoically to 'nil' for Wolfsburg, even after they had scored.  I didn't approve of that.

But I suppose it shouldn't be surprising, given that their common word for 'history' is the same as for 'story' (Geschichte), and the word that means 'history that really definitely properly happened' (Historie) looks stolen from another language, and doesn't turn up that much in daily life.

Medical Zoo

I walk past this sign most days.

I've not yet felt compelled to visit either the medical clinic or the zoo, but I'm curious.

Regrets

Sometimes, when I walk to work before really having woken up, I faintly catch the scent of events going on around me, but saunter sleepily on without paying any real attention to them.

Then, a few steps later - when it's too late - I suddenly realise that, actually, the scene was intriguing enough that it really would have been worth checking out more carefully.

That I will now never know the story behind the morning with the lady, the older gentleman, the brushes and the mysterious tantalising cloth is one of my bigger regrets in Germany, and in life generally.

The Effortless Skateboard

Although it is quite natural to make less effort in some (or all) aspects of life whenever one senses that a relationship is rock-solid, it should nevertheless be kept in mind that there is always a danger of pushing this reduction in exertions too far, so that the other might even begin to feel taken advantage of.

The Owner

I'm not quite sure if I saw a man with his dog or a dog with his man, but in any case a quick computation of their relative strengths led to the conclusion that the whims of only one of them could really determine whether their walk would, in the final analysis, be considered a pleasant stroll or a terrible bloodbath.

The Spectator

Even if (almost) everyone loves a good love story (provided it's not too sickening), it was striking to note, from the momentary observation of a brief flicker of an expression, that when a young lady does happen to find her handsome and (remarkably) tall prince, the whole world might not necessarily join wholeheartedly in the celebration.

Living the dream

The racing blue convertible.

The young, blonde girlfriend.

The large, green leafy plant.


Most genies offer precisely 3 wishes.

His satisfied grin as they waited at the traffic lights was the proof that, if you're clever about it, it's enough.

Maltesers

Last week, I had a delicious, if mildly unbalanced and slightly overwhelming, conversation with a very friendly girl about Maltesers.  Although, looking back with the benefit of some extra googling, it might have been about Malteser.

The musical relationship

After watching a little girl drum up quite a bit of support, I have concluded that there exists an inverse relationship between the innate cuteness of a street musician and how talented they need to be.

Ought to be able to hold a violin, more or less unaided.

Should be able to play pretty well.

Must be incredible.

Although there would then be a lower bound, below which musical talent is no longer particularly necessary.

May benefit from an ability to hold eye contact.

Safety first

Irrespective of whether or not the child is already rather well padded and protected, and independently of whether the street is actually completely dry, it seems the careful and attentive German mother doesn't overlook the additional security that only a good-quality pair of swimming goggles can offer.

The Shoe Watcher

On Saturday morning, in front of a flower shop on the road into town, I saw a shoe watcher practicing his craft.

As I approached him, on the same footpath, I thought that he must eventually look up and see me, and I was trying to decide between giving him a smile or a more appropriate look of incredulity.  But with the dedication and focus of a true professional - or perhaps someone who had already lost too many shoes through moments of distraction - he just continued on with his detailed observations, ignoring me or oblivious to me.

He picked the shoes up briefly, but as "the eye is not satisfied with seeing", so too it seems the fingers are not satisfied with fondling, and so he put them back down to ponder some more.

Two hours later, as I walked back that way, he was away.  So were the shoes.

As if it had never happened.  But it had.

The Printer Room

When I was in the printer room, gathering up my freshly printed goods, suddenly the door flew open.  There, in the entrance, stood a girl I had never seen before, clearly also with printing on her mind.

She smiled at me, with a short, delicate smile.  We were alone in that small room: just her, me, two printers, a photocopier, and a giant plotter.  One rarely experiences such poetically perfect moments.  It was fate.  She felt it too.  Probably.

In a moment, a thousand pictures of the future flashed and danced before our eyes: the shy, uncertain getting to know one another, the discovery of unexpected commonalities, the superfluous printing trips, the surreptitious letter-writing, the growing affection, the nervous exchanging of our stories, the active listening, the hair-stroking, the comforting, the perfected affection, the house on the island by the river overlooking the meadow between the forests, the forgetting of a birthday, the music wafting around the campfire, the silly argument in which I was right but magnanimously don't dwell on too long, the paint on the walls, on a canvas, on a cat, the passive speaking, the new ways of thinking, the forgiveness, the end.

But sometimes a moment is simply too huge, feelings are too strong, possibilities too deliciously boundless.  One gets scared.

This, I can only assume, is why she quickly gathered her papers, turned around, switched off the light, and left me alone in the dark with my thoughts, as if I hadn't been there.

The Offer

Recently, there were several people on the main street holding signs to indicate their participation in the Free Hugs Campaign" ('Free hug' being translated as 'Umarmung umsonst' in a less huggable language).

It's a very beautiful idea: random(ish) acts of kindness to promote connectivity and an appreciation of self and others.

It is only if one starts to assign too much worth to the identity of the hugger that the delightful purity of the empathetic endeavour is somehow diluted.  But one must admit: the hugger's identity does in large part dictate whether or not 'free' is good value or not.

Examples of instances in which sharing a 'free hug' might still be considered a net loss.

The Phone Licker

Lest there be any doubt, this really is a drawing of a man on the main street enthusiastically, but carefully, licking his mobile phone.

Then, when he was finally satisfied that it was clean as a kitten, he put it back in his pocket.

Otherwise he looked like a normal parent.  But sometimes it can be difficult to see beyond the phone-licking.

Hair

I'm planning to return home for a week or so at the end of August.  I intended to come sooner, but didn't quite figure out the details of that sensibly in advance.

The planned visit is, obviously, primarily for the delight of seeing family and friends, followed by the relief and joy of interacting in shops and restaurants with less confusion, eating entirely recognisable things in a fully equipped kitchen, and being able to go to the toilet in a house without having to first swing my sink into the shower.  Nevertheless, it's not quite irrelevant that I need to arrange regular trips back home in order to avoid a regression back to the fateful 'long-haired months' of 2006/07.

I really don't want to go somewhere here to get my hair cut.  I try to avoid situations in which I might need to talk too much to strangers without any clear idea of the outcome, or explain anything more complex than could be expressed by pointing and grunting if absolutely necessary.  I've only just recently managed to pluck up the courage to ask for bread rolls ('Brötchen') in bakeries, partly because I've been told foreigners pronounce it amusingly (we do) and partly because there is a risk of follow-up questions*.  Nevertheless, shops generally aren't the worst.  It is comforting to know that, if the required interactions go badly, at least I can leave a shop fairly quickly.  What I don't want is to know that, instead, I will have to stay seated, replaying the foolishness in my mind while caped like a superhero whose only power is linguistic incompetence, as a stranger touches my head.

But, realising that the trip won't be for some weeks, and inspired by the unexpected support of my mum (a sure sign that my hair must have been getting pretty unruly), I finally mustered the courage to implement the emergency plan of shaving my head myself.

It was arguably the most difficult thing I have ever attempted.  Arms do not contort enough, eyes cannot see far enough, two mirrors cannot be arranged well enough to make this really possible**.  It was early the next day before I was finally able to stand triumphantly in my hair-lined flat, and even then uncertainty was a more dominant emotion.

I don't know for sure whether it worked.  My mum was able to offer vital advice and diagnoses through video-conferencing at important stages, and in the end she said that she thought it had gone all right.  But I knew that it was somewhat like an expert trying to judge the severity of an oil spill from BP's grainy footage.  It wasn't quite the same as seeing it in person.  So now I need to wait until Monday, and hope that my colleague's honest side will overcome his mischievous side when I solicit his opinion.


*-I'm getting better though.  Last week I asked for sunflower-seed bread, which is 'Sonnenblumenkernbrötchen'.  Yes.  One word.  'Sonnenblumenkernbrötchen'.

**-I realised later it might have been better to try it in Cafe Extra Blatt.  Here, if you choose the right (or, if you're paranoid, wrong) seat, there are enough mirrors around that I once calculated you can see yourself from approximately 10 different angles just by moving your head slightly - thereby making it the ideal cafe for the self-obsessed cubist.

The Photographer

It looked like a normal date - maybe a first date - and she didn't seem scared at all.

But, while I am not a photographer, there is something about the appearance of a massively oversized zoom lens pointed at a girlfriend not one metre away that raises suspicion as to whether he has ever photographed a woman before.

Or, if he has, whether it was done with her knowledge and consent.

Argentina

OK, I was wrong.  Perkeo isn't a lovely, quiet place to watch football after Germany have progressed past the second round.  It's a seething cauldron of sausage, beer and patriotism.

Or maybe the Germans are just loud everywhere now.  Perhaps everywhere there's one particularly loud German wearing only glittering pink trousers and suspenders.  I can't know for sure, because I only saw the one they had in Perkeo yesterday.

When the first goal was scored, I actually felt a bit scared.  I thought it was good that Germany were winning 1-0.  At least, I thought it wasn't bad.  I celebrated a little bit within my own mind.  That was enough for me.  Maybe there would be other goals anyway.  It was much too soon to draw any conclusions.  So I was happy to return to my simultaneous game-watching and sketching.

It seemed like the others weren't so calm and philosophical about it.  I wasn't ready for that level of noise.  It's not easy to keep drawing under those circumstances.  I don't think anyone else there even tried it.

It only got worse after that.  4-0 in the end.  The streets were full of jubilant supporters, with superfluous black, red and gold decorations on their clothes and faces, and even children squealing their love for Deutschland.  Cars drove around, while their occupants expressed delight by the undelightful sound of their horns - as if all humanity had suddenly changed its predilections and decided that traffic jams were the best things ever.  I don't know how the level of joy can be raised if they actually win the thing, but I suppose we are all aware that that probably won't be necessary.

The Horn Blower

I like to try to find a quiet place to watch football.  I wasn't really designed for unrestrained celebration, and I never feel (and have never felt) quite caught up enough in the moment to shriek or dance or wail or swear whenever there is a goal.  Mostly I just smile (irrespective of the scorer), or laugh a little if someone does something particularly amusing.

That's why I prefer to watch the main matches in Perkeo.  There are some other people there, but not usually too many.  So it's possible to watch in company, but without needing to think too much about displaying conspicuously less enthusiasm than everyone else.

When Germany played England it was particularly perfect.  One could do almost anything (or nothing at all) without being noticed, because there were already two unbeatable distractions: the football itself, and the elderly lady with the horn.

She is the only one who stood up for the national anthems, because she was the only one to show the appropriate respect.  I wasn't quite sure who she was rooting for, since the flag in her hair was German, her accent was American, and she applauded with apparent royalist vigour after 'God Save The Queen'.

At the start of the match, she mostly just sat with her wine and horn positioned on the table in front of her, in a teasing semblance of normality that everyone knew would be broken at some point, but no one was sure when.

It was really only when Germany scored that her loyalties became clear.  I'd never heard an elderly lady toot the German anthem out of a horn before.  I didn't know it could go on so long.  Nor, I think, did the older man who received it directly in his face.  At least, his look of nervous, fearful embarassment suggested it was new for him.

Means of Transport

While walking everywhere, I've noticed a propensity among Germans to find any alternative to relying upon feet alone.  The following is a short inventory of representatives of various modes of transport that I have seen since coming here:

The Skateboarder

I like the skateboarders close to Bismarkplatz because they are resilient.

Twice in six months have I seen one of them flip his board and land on it again, rather than land just beside it with a frustrated grunt, or fail to effect any sort of flipping at all.

We were all so shocked on those two occasions when it worked that I don't think any of us knew what to do.

I pretended not to notice in case clapping would have seemed sarcastic.

The Swivel-Boarder

I tried to draw this after seeing one at a great distance.

As far as I could tell, by gyrating his body he was able to propel himself in a perpendicular direction.

It looks a bit like surfing, which goes to show that a lot of the coolness of surfing originates from the water.

The Scooter

When I first saw her scooting past me while I was on my way to work, I remember thinking to myself that it looked quite silly for a fully-grown woman to be on a scooter, and I wondered why she did it.

By the time I had finished verbalising this thought in the privacy of my mind, she was at the end of the street and I was still grumpily lumbering along.

Particularly good for someone with one energetic leg, and one strong, but lazy, leg.

The Unicyclist

Apparently these were all the rage in Heidelberg for a while.

Not outrageously practical, but not bad.  This typically looks slower than other options, except when one is about to fall off, when it can be very fast.

(It seems that whether one actually is moving in the desired direction of motion or quite the opposite at any given moment on a unicycle can only be calculated probabilistically - but the experienced unicyclist usually gets there in the end, albeit after more peddling than was strictly necessary.)

The Cyclist I: The Arm Folder

What happens when ordinary cycling is practiced by the extraordinary.
For when a loss of control and a considerable amount of extra wobbling is deemed an acceptable price to pay for a look of skill and forced nonchalance.

The Cyclist II: The Promiscuous Leg

The most widespread of all the 'looks', and simultaneously my most and least favourite.
It is ideal for opponents of symmetry, or anyone with only one presentable leg.

Back in Germany

So I came back to Germany in January - as you probably know if you are reading this, since if you are reading this you probably know me (and will hopefully at least have noticed you haven't seen me in a while), and if you don't know me you probably aren't reading this (although if this applies to you, then clearly you are reading it, but I just don't know it).

Anyhow, I decided not to write on this more extended trip to Heidelberg.  But it turns out that, given time and freedom and a whole new country in which to do anything, I still don't do a lot.  So I'm starting again, in a slightly different and considerably reduced way, and adding it here rather than cluttering up some other part of the digital universe.

Admittedly, a large part of the inspiration is that I started some German writing (which, as yet, has both a confirmed readership, and potential counting error, of one) in order to get some more language practice.  I wondered if Google Translator could make it comprehensible in English.  It could not.  One or both of Google Translator and I aren't very good at German and/or English.  So I'll translate it or, more accurately, rewrite it here using a refreshingly less taxing language.

There are more pictures this time because, always wishing to line up birds like skittles so that I might knock down as many as possible with the fewest stones of effort, I'm trying to incorporate my drawing practice, executed in Heidelberg's coffee houses and restaurants and mostly inspired by whoever I happen to have seen on the street.

Hello.

A GAP IN SPACE AND TIME