30 September 2011

Your questions answered!

Q:  What was the barn madness?
Nothing particularly maddening, just that I had two horses to ride at two different barns and not a whole lot of time to do it.

Q:  Do Germans like chocolate mousse?
That they do!

Q:  Do Germans really feed bread to the horses?
Yes, which reads strange to me as well.  There's a giant sack full of old baguettes sliced up, and the horses eat it.  And I though feeding them peanut M&M's was weird.

Q:  What is the thing you couldn't tell us from the last blog entry?
Still can't tell you!  But trust me when I say IT IS AWESOME.

Q:  SHBF??
I'm working on it!  I have spoken with the people involved, but it is unfortunately terribly far away. :(  But I have not lost hope!

Q:  What is your favorite German dish?
Käsespätzle.  It's like macaroni and cheese mated with chocolate and produced the most delicious love baby of all time.

Q:  And what's the most disgusting food you have come across in Germany so far?
Zwiebelkuchen with grapes.  First off, the concept of an onion cake by itself sounds like disgustingness, but then you add grapes on top of it?  And it becomes that much worse.
__________________________________

Yesterday I was clomping happily down the stairs, thinking about how culture shock is so last month and I'm over it.  Of course, later that night I was flipping through the channels, when I stumbled across a scene of a lovely empty field.  I stared at it curiously, waiting for something to happen.  The next thing I knew, two naked people came riding on horses across it, and while I scrambled for the remote, the one girl's name popped up on the screen like so:

Meike Schmidt
ENJOYS DIRECT CONTACT WITH THE HORSE

And I was so horrified I couldn't move.

Things that are less horrifying!  I had a spontaneous Skype session with Sam yesterday, which was awesome and hilarious.  Apparently, according to Sam, I have ceased to say "um" like an American, having traded it out for what she described as an:


But according to Sam, for accuracy, umlauts need to be added to every letter, just to make the pronunciation clearer:


and that, my friends, is how you say "um" in German.

Off to Köln for the weekend, with Marina and one of her coworkers (who I dreamt was an Irish midget, but who, as far as I can tell, is actually just a British man of average British height). see you Monday!

28 September 2011

Ask me things!

For starters, we are having what old people and not-indians refer to as an Indian Summer, which means the weather is banging, it never rains, and I love everything!

Lots and lots of barn madness has gone down today, plus also I made chocolate mousse, which does not violate the terms of the baking strike because it's not baking, it's just mixing and refrigerating.  I've been doing lots of Di exercises with the crazy mare, and the difference already is pretty astounding, she almost looks like a real horse.  Hooray for Di exercises!

Otherwise, I've been doing a lot of sneaking off to the bookstore, just so I can read Water for Elephants in English.  This is how I set myself up to fail the mega language test, unless my essay has to be about Water for Elephants.

On a positive note, I have friends, and not even imaginary ones!  Barn friends, which is so fabulous.  And some are even my age!  Today one of the ten-year-old girls was grilling me on what Americans eat.  I asked her what she thought we ate, and she replied "hot dogs."  Yes, ten-year-old, among other things, we do eat hot dogs.  She almost had an excitement heart attack when I told her I would bake chocolate chip cookies next week, which, for the record, does not violate the baking strike because I'll be bringing them to the barn(s), where people  appreciate my culinary magic.  And if they don't, there's always the horses.  Who are used to these things because bread is a regular part of a German horse's diet?  I don't understand either.

In other news, I've had a lot of traffic from Russia this last week?  Hello Russia.  Your mullet looks fabulous today.

On that note, I'm out of things to tell you, and I haven't even seen a questionably gay man (although I did the homeless and crazy guy who was dressed in the exact same clothes as the first time I saw him, probably because they're the only ones he owns). So, I've decided to do a second installment of a post from my first time in Germany, and it is called:

ASK ME THINGS!


Anything you're dying to know about Germany, me, or my living situation that I haven't answered in the blog? I solemnly swear to answer any and all questions, no matter how deep, dark, probing, invasive, offensive, or racist.  I have faith that you will ask profound and educational questions, but feel free to take out my faith in you with a gatling gun.  It's why we're friends in the first place.

Adios!

26 September 2011

Horses and Inglourious Basterds

Lots of highly entertaining things have gone down since I last posted, and I have conveniently arranged and titled them for easy perusal.


The Horse Story

Last week, the owner saw me riding her horse and commented that she's never seen the mare go so well.  Then she said, "Maybe she'll go with you to Göttingen."  What a funny joke!  I laughed and said, "Totally."

The problem with this situation is that I had forgotten that Germans always say what they mean, and when the owner said "Maybe she'll go with you to Göttingen," she meant, "Make sure your dorm has enough room for a stall in it."  Today the trainer approached me about taking the horse.  Not buying it.  Taking it.  With me.  And having it.  I said I would consider it, and I'm flattered by the offer, but really?  The only reason I got through senior year paying for Austin's rent was because my mother paid my rent.  My life is far too unstable to deal with the financial burden of moving to a new city, starting grad school, and dealing with a horse, all at the same time.  It would be nice, but it's straight up impossible.

I did discover, however, that half the barn is working under the impression that I'm 16. When, oh when, will I outgrow the jail bait look?

The Story I Can't Tell You About

Something super exciting went down today, and I refuse to tell you about it until I have the hard proof in my hands to take a picture of for you.  Suffice to say, it involves the Bucket List.  And a professional photographer?  Whose phone number I now have? That will be all.

Inglourious Basterds

I watched it, mostly because it has Til Schweiger and Daniel Brühl in it, both of whose unborn babies I would most happily bear.  It was fabulous.  The End.

New favorite song!  I really just can't get over his hair.  Plus, I'm relatively sure he spends half the video in an empty pool, and everyone knows the last person to do that was Soulja Boy.  Instant gangsta points.

24 September 2011

Raisinets and Reveals

Currently I am attempting to invent the organic version of Raisinets.  In the refrigerator, I've got organic raisin smothered in the organic version of nutella, and now I'm waiting for them to get hard so I can eat them.  Hee.  Heeheehee.  I funny.

Also, I didn't know it, but the drink of choice when you're sick is cultural.  Who knew? In the US, whenever you have a cold, they tell you to drink orange juice and whatever you do, DO NOT DRINK THE MILK.  Here, they tell you to drink the milk, and add honey to it for good measure.

On Sunday we are going to a baby christening, which I am really curious about seeing as how I've only been in a church three times in my entire life, and two of those times were for funerals.  I don't know what a baby christening involved, seeing as how I've never been to one, but I'm going to go out on a limb and guess some Christ. Apparently christenings are the norm here, even if you're anti-organised religion.  In an effort to make myself useful, I have, however, volunteered to bake the Portuguese dessert, although it occurred to me (too late to change it), that I've never actually tried the dessert in question, I only know what it looks like.  So it'll be a surprise, for everyone involved.  And who doesn't like surprises!

Wednesday Latvian friend and I hit up the free salsa lessons, and I had to be ashamed of myself when the face-tattooed Spanish waiter decided to practice his Portuguese with me.  So I need one of my spanish-speaking friends (looking in your general direction, Jovanna!) to tell me how one would say "Sorry Face Tattoo Guy, I only look the part and bake the cookies" en espanol.  Dominican Dance Man decided to give me a refresher course in Spanish, which was only tolerable because he's pretty. Basically, I spent the evening alternating between dancing, and being sad that my (more or less) bilingual state is useless when dealing with Hispanics.  

Speaking of being more or less bilingual, it's official: most Germans can't place my accent, and other foreigners (plus some kinder Germans) don't realize I have one. Hells yeah!

IIGOIIG REVEAL!

The Rihanna painter was, wait for it...straight.  I know this because I have never met a single gay man that would try that hard to get through the blinds while I was changing my shirt.  Awkward, but informative.  That puts the IIGOIIG scoreboard up to:

German: 1
Crazy and Homeless:  1
In Denial:  1
Danish:  1
Gay: 0

Poor Taste in Music:  1


Favorite song of the day?  You got it.  Really, I just like his hair.



This is my last attempt to convince you to write to me, and then I am giving up.  I spent 10 euros at the store way back in August, buying fun postcards with sheep on them, and so far, the only person who I've managed to send one to is Claire.  And trust me, you are missing out, as Claire's card will surely prove.  It had lots of sheep asses all over it, and said "Danke, dass du kein Arsch bist," which translates to "Thanks for not being an ass," but I artfully scribbled over a k, thus rendering it, "Thanks for being an ass."  So WRITE ME GODDAMIT.  For the sheep's sake.

Hugs and kisses.

Tina

21 September 2011

Friedhelm, Evangelists and IIGOIIG Round 5

Hello hello!

Nothing major or terribly shocking has happened to me since Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus, so here are some minor things you might find entertaining:

I met up with Friedhelm last night, also known as The Only Person To Call Me From My Friends-Wanted Sign In The Library Even Though All The Numbers Have Been Torn Off.  And, to be perfectly honest, I was a little apprehensive about this meeting, because Friedhelm was so goddamned German about the entire process, it made me want to call in sick.  He emailed me a detailed biography, plus the websites for his feed inspection company, plus different websites about his various hobbies.  It was almost like he was applying for a job, except I've never had anyone apply to be my friend before.  Which I also don't consider a job.

At any rate, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Friedhelm, despite his anal website-sending tendencies, might actually be the happiest, most pleasant, and most overly friendly German over the age of 25 I've ever met ever.  It was a super good time. We discussed lots of things, like how american politics are stupid, and how american politics are stupid.  I do, however, kind of get the vibe that's he's looking for a wife, which is a little freaky considering his oldest child is only five years younger than I am. Urgh.  Well.  It'll be okay.

While flipping through channels, somehow the host parents and I wound up watching the last part of Jesus Camp, which prompted a discussion of American evangelists vs. German evangelists.  Things I was surprised to discover: the evangelists are the liberal church here, not the church you're pretty sure God wouldn't mind you firebombing.  At first, I assumed that if the evangelists were the liberal ones, that must mean all the other churches are actually agents of the devil, or at least the Tea Party, but no.  Host Mom is friends with one couple, both of whom are evangelical preacher/pastor/reverend thingies.  They lived together before they got married, are all about pre-marital sex, and drink alcohol.

And now...

Is It Gay or Is It German Round 5!

The painter working on our house had Rihanna blasting from his ipod yesterday, and this was followed in quick succession by Journey.  I already know the answer to the conundrum, but allow yourselves to be tested.  The only American men I know who listen to Rihanna are also fond of spiky sunglasses and dressing like women, but this is Europe.  You never know.  What do you guys thing?

Favorite song of the day!  I don't think you get this on American radio, but she's from New Zealand, where it rains all the time, thus why she never has dry hair:


That's all I got.  Adios amigos!

18 September 2011

Weekend and Hengstparade!

Yesterday afternoon I went into town to meet up with some couchsurfers who found me on the internet and were like "yo, let's meet up."  It was hugely fun, and I can't wait to get together again.  There were three Germans and another American there, but she speaks most excellent German and we got along swimmingly.  I also discovered that while I was sleeping, I magically developed the ability to not only keep up with group conversations in real-time, but to participate in them as well.  I can even makes jokes and people actually laugh!  I also learned lots of new and excellent words from the other American, who is doing an exchange year at a German high school.  These words included such useful specimens as abgefucked (totally sucked ass), bekifft (to be stoned), der Ziegel (brick), and steinigen (to stone someone to death).  Don't ask me how any of these words came about.


The family was away until today, so I spend all yesterday reveling in having the entire house to myself.  I celebrated by doing all the things I can't/won't do around my host parents.  I put the orange juice in the refrigerator so it would be cold.  I turned the music up really loud and did retarded dances all over the house.  I left my shoes by the door, my jacket on the chair, and my purse on the table.  I read a book in English. I did not cook lunch.  I had a hot dinner of nudeln (German dinner usually consists of cold bread and cheese) and (under)cooked them just the way I like it.  I watched bad reality TV, plus Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus, which is even better dubbed in German, if such a thing is possible.  I attempted to make chocolate cake with a microwave and a coffee mug, and ate it even though it came out gross.  I even studied for this stupid test coming up.  With a prep book.  Basically, I bee-bopped around all weekend and made stupid noises.


The new horse is wonderful.  I have taken it upon myself to re-work her from the ground up, because she's so insane she's occasionally incapable of functioning.  So we've gone back to the most basic of basics, like how to move forward off leg (instead of up and down), and how to bend in a circle without coming apart at the seams.  Already today she was trotting out like a calm quiet champion, but I really miss having Di standing in the middle of the ring yelling at me.  So I mentally put her there, and yell at myself.  Whatever.  It works.

Today I slept til 11.30 and then headed to the Hengstparade (stallion parade).  Which was totally awesome.  Great Britain was the guest, so there were lots of carriages, marching bands, and English pony breeds running around, including a super cute little Shetland, and a batshit insane Welsh stallion that spent most of his turn in the ring attempting throw himself on top of his handler and beat the poor man's prostrate body into the earth with his little Welsh hooves.  Thankfully he was unsuccessful, else it would have been a rather abgefucked situation.



Random polo demonstration?  Prince Harry unfortunately not present.


Here's the Shetland:


And a Welsh, but not the batshit one:


Look, some shires:


And a sidesaddle drill team.  No thank you, I will not be participating.


When the Germans took the ring, there was an absolutely massive 23-horse drill team thingie.  What do 23 horses in a single dressage ring look like, you ask?  Like this:



Also, they brought in the Thoroughbreds and let them jump around, as an official demonstration of Thoroughbreds Jumping Around.  Which was a surprise unto itself, because I didn't realize they actually kept Thoroughbreds.  As it turns out, they do, and they occasionally add them to the genetic petri dish to keep the warmbloods from becoming too Panzer-like.  And in the fashion of any Thoroughbred worth his salt, these Thoroughbreds distinguished themselves by running around with their faces up in the air, rushing all the fences, and having complete mental breakdowns every time the Irish marching band in the corner played the tubas too loud.


They (the Landgestüt, not the Thoroughbreds) also imported some Hungarians (people, not horses) just so they could get this going:


And for reasons I'm still not clear on, the whole shebang ended with a surprise appearance from Ben-Hur.



All in all, a cool show.  Afterwards I went to the barn, and somehow got sucked into a conversation with an old man who noticed my riding clothes, and decided to tell me his entire life history starting with how his birth place is now in Poland, thanks to Hitler being a terrible Risk player.  But I didn't mind.  It was a super-interesting story, and I think he was lonely and just needed somebody to talk to.  Happy to be obliged!

Also, in case you were wondering, next weekend the pope will be about an hour from where I live.  Already there are signs on the highway for the "pilgrims" to follow, but none yet regarding the proper waste receptacles for smallpox and syphilis.  And I hate to break it to you Squanto, but you are probably not invited to this shindig.  

Other interesting things I've learned: when it comes to furniture makers and people who fix houses and things, Germany is still stuck in the 17th century.  As in, if that's the trade you're going into, you have to dress in the traditional costume, carry all your belongings wrapped up on the end of a stick, and wander around for three years, looking for work and never coming with 50 kilometers of your home city.  Oh, and you aren't allowed to carry money.  You have to earn food and a place to sleep by building and fixing things for whichever random strangers see you on the street and feel bad for you.  Personally, I think this sounds kind of awesome, and I'm beginning to rethink my masters degree in favor of running around the world in a dirndl.  On foot, of course, because you're also barred from public transportation.

Now I have to go study, but in the meantime, you can have my new favorite song of the day, by some guy named Tim Bendzko.  He has quasi-MJ moves, plus a pretty kickass cello going on in the background.

15 September 2011

Lots of little things

Woah, look at me posting like a fiend the last few days.

My sister pointed out that I left exactly three months ago today, which is both cool, and a little sad.  I also realized today that in the month of July, I sent out not one, not two, but thirteen letters.  In return, I have received one letter from Jen, one from Claire, and an E-card.  Also two from my mother, but she was not part of the group I originally sent letters to.  Guys, I love you and miss you, but ya'll suck at the pen pal game. Write me, goddamit!

German skills have improved dramatically.  I went into Hannover the other day to talk to the guy in charge of the language test course.  He made me feel a lot better about this test, but he said that of the 200 or so students that take it each time it's offered, a solid two thirds of them fail.  But he thinks I have a really good chance because my speaking, reading, and understanding skills are pretty sweet.  It's writing I still have a problem with, but I'm working on it.  I did find an educational pamphlet on the test that said that in order to pass it, you have to be at at least a B2/C1 level, which makes me happy.  I was a B2 a month ago, and I'm pretty sure I'm a C1 now.  Or at least close to it.

In other news, I am best buddies with the new horse.  Her owner is thrilled to death that someone with the skill set to manage her psychotic animal basically dropped out of the sky, and I'm happy to have a horse to go to every day.  The owner is also hugely impressed that I figured the horse out so fast, but really, there wasn't much to figure out, seeing as I owned that horse for six years.  The only difference between this mare and Austin is that the mare doesn't have total mental breakdowns when you tell her she can't go fast.  So really, she's actually a step down on the difficulty ladder, although I do find myself missing Austin's signature Triple Angry Stomp.

I've also been attempting to come up with the weirdest nicknames possible for her.  So far Kamikaze seems to be winning, but I'm also rather fond of Kozzi-stan and CousCous.  Which makes no sense, and has nothing to do with her name, it's just fun to say.  Hit me up with whatever you can think of!

Free Latin dancing lessons at the shady bar last night was actually a ton of fun. When Latvian Friend and I walked in, we were the only ones there, and it was superbly awkward because the 40 year old Spanish waiter with tattoos on his face was hitting on me.  But we were eventually joined by a few other girls (who were quite nice), and a really insane old lady who was dancing around in circles in the corner, until she decided she'd rather forcefully pull my hair out of it's braid while yelling, "Let your hair be freeeeeeeeeeee!"  I'm going to try to convince Latvian Friend we need to go again, if only because I thoroughly enjoyed starring at the 25 year old Dominican dance instructor.  But next time, I will wear my hair in such a way as to make it impossible for crazy old ladies to get at it.

I bought a fake leather jacket yesterday, but I can't decide if it makes me look Euro-cool, or just like a poser in a fake jacket.  Could go either way, really.

The other day I hung a sign up on the bulletin board of the local library that read "American seeking conversation partner for German/English practice," but really it should have read "American seeking friends."  I went today to check on it, and half the numbers have been torn off, so that's good.  Thus far the only person who's actually called me is a 48 year old man named Friedhelm.  Feel free to pause now and laugh at his name, because I already did.  I'm meeting up with him and his twelve year old daughter on Monday.

The host parents are going away for the weekend, which means I have the entire house to myself.  Saturday I am meeting up with another American in the area, who found me over the internet.  Sunday is the Hengstparade, the annual stallion parade, so I am definitely looking forward to that.

Favorite song of the day is "Still," by Jupiter Jones:  


And, that's all I got!  

Adios!

14 September 2011

Horse pictures...that's all I got.

There is no point to this post, other than to put up horse pictures.  This is Casy.  Looks like Casey, but is pronounced like the second half of Kamikaze, which is why I have started calling her that.  It helps that she's batshit insane.





Free salsa lessons with Latvian Friend at a shady Latino bar tonight...should be entertaining!  Adios!

13 September 2011

I HAVE A HORSE!!

Things that are unexpected but AWESOME: this.

(Sorry to my non-horsey friends, don't feel obliged to read this).

Last Monday, I gathered up my courage, donned my Rutgers Equestrian Team jacket, and headed over to the riding club to talk to people and figure out how to get myself on something other than the buffalo.  I wandered aimlessly around the club for half an hour until I talked myself up to approaching the trainer. I said I was interested in riding lessons.  She coolly appraised me, read my jacket very carefully, and then asked what I had done.  Like a good American, I launched into everything with Austin, all my experience with babies, and so on.  She interrupted me halfway through my explanation of Fish and just said, bluntly: "This time next week.  Bring your riding gear, we'll put you on something."

This time next week I showed up dressed to impress.  My boots were clean, my breeches were clean, and I put on my Studentenreiter Konstanz polo because a) it looks fancy, b) it has my name on it, and c) it would signal that I've ridden in Germany.  I arrived a half hour early to check out the lesson and watch the horses go, and there was one horse in particular that I was hugely fond of.  He was a little bay thing who was giving his rider a seriously hard time, throwing his head every which way, not listening, and taking off randomly around the ring.  "All that girl needs to do is stop messing with his face," thought I.  "If I got on it, I could make him look like a million dollars in 10 minutes."  I said this, sure in the knowledge that the trainer would not put me on the crazy horse having never seen me ride before.

As soon as the lesson was over, I mosied on over to the trainer.  "What have you done again?"  "Jumpers."  Short and to the point because I'm learning.  "Where are you from again?" she asked. "The US."  "America..." she said, "then you have soft hands. Want to ride that one?"  And she pointed at the crazy bay thing.  I grinned like a small child and said, "Most definitely!"  "How did I know?" she said, and actually smiled.  

The girl on the bay thing was more than happy to hand him over to me (with a highly sarcastic, "Here, now he's your problem.").  I hopped on and we set off.  And I a) made him look like a million dollars, and b) did it in 5 minutes.  The next time the trainer looked over at us, Crazy Horse was going around like a little star, happy and relaxed in a lovely frame.  She was quite pleased with us, and let me hop him over some fences.

At the end of the riding lesson, the trainer called me over to the side of the ring and asked me how long I was going to be in Germany.  I said I would be in Celle until April, and she exchanged glances with a lady standing at the fence.  "Good," said the trainer, "because we have a jumper for you."  asdfhghjlk.WHAT?  The lady at the fence said, "I was watching you, and you ride very typically American."  I must have made a face, because the trainer quickly said, "No no, that's not a bad thing!"  Fence Lady said, "My horse needs to be ridden like an American, and the German style of riding is far too harsh on her.  She's somewhat insane and doesn't deal with it very well, and I can't ride her myself because I'm having a baby in two weeks.  Would you be interested in trying her out, and if you like her, you can take her?"  So we arranged for me to come check out the horse today.

Her horse is a lovely little chestnut thing with a big blaze and three sexy socks.  And as I discovered when I got on her, she is the Hannoverian version of Austin, which I'm fine with.  Unlike her brothers and sisters in the barn, who are all tanks, this thing is a sleek and sexy sports car.  She's fast, she's agile, and she anticipates like nobody's business.  But because she's a warmblood, and not a Thoroughbred, she's quite level headed.  When you tell her she can't go, she doesn't get upset and throw temper tantrums like Austin.  She just trots for three more strides and then attempts to go again.  You can't argue with her, said the owner, you just have to a) be very quiet, and b) accept that she's never going to be a normal animal.  She's a sport horse.  She's insane.  She hasn't been ridden in over a month.  You can't mess with the fences when she's in the ring because she flips out when she can't jump them.  I love her to pieces.

I have the mare all to myself until October, and then I'll start half-leasing her with another girl, where I can have her 3-4 days a week.  And this half lease will cost me, wait for it...82 dollars a month.  Which is practically free.  Also, the owner is a Grand Prix jumper, who teaches jumping lessons at the farm, which I can join in on.  Oh.  My.  God.  And she was practically beside herself that I was so happy about riding her horse, because, from what I understand, nobody else is.  Apparently everyone who rides her jumps off because they say she's too fast.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, is as fast as Austin when he was mad at you, so this doesn't bother me.

And that's how I went from riding the buffalo to half-leasing a serious sport horse, in the span of two days.

And I am working on pictures!

EDIT EDIT:  Did I mention everyone at the barn is ridiculously nice?  I'm already friends with the trainer's daughter.  ALSO, the guy who is in charge of the entire Landgestüt (where Hannoverians are bred and trained) has horses at this barn.  I met him, he was quite nice!

12 September 2011

Epic Visa Problems: RESOLVED!

Hold on everybody, because my visa problems just got fixed, which means the following story is going to be complicated, dirty, and filled with bureaucracy.

So.  When I first signed the contract with my host parents, they recommended that I get an au pair visa before flying out to the country.  You can always get a visa in-country, they said (and which I did in Konstanz), but getting one before you fly out is easier, less hassle, and you have time to maneuver if something goes wrong.  So I went on the German embassy website, gathered up all the information for an au pair visa, and started collecting documents, of which there were a shit ton.  To celebrate my soon-to-be new home, I was really really German about the whole process.  I had a checklist, I was motivated, and since the consulate recommended making your visa appointment 2-3 months in advance, I decided to be a perfectionist and make my appointment exactly 3 months ahead.

March 15, I headed out the New York City with all my documents carefully guarded in a book bag.  Everything at the embassy went most swimmingly, until the lady behind the counter said, "How long do you need a visa for?"  And I said, "A year."  "Well your visa will be for three months.  Once you arrive, take it to the town hall and they'll extend it into a year-long residence permit for you."  "Is that the way the system usually works?"  "Yes."  And that was that.  I paid $140 dollars for that shit.

While I was waiting for them to send my passport back to me, my mom and I decided to get the ball rolling on Portuguese citizenship, as a back-up plan.  So we hit up the Portuguese consulate in Newark a couple times, registered her marriage to my dad ($180 dollars), and then, as soon as my passport arrived, signed me up for a birth certificate (some $373) dollars.  My birth certificate didn't arrive in time, so my mom promised to ship it to me in Germany.

Once I arrived in Celle, I dutifully headed over to the town hall like a good overachiever, sans the host parents because they said my German skills were good enough.  I politely inquired about the location of the Foreigners Registration Office, headed up the stairs, and walked in.  And promptly got the second blackest look of my life (the first being Drooling Child from this post).  Which intimidated the crap out of me, really, because I walked in all smiles and cheerfulness.  The dude behind the counter was such a dick, I didn't know what to do with myself.  He was all snide comments and nastiness, but I filled out the paperwork in silence.  When I asked him to clarify a few questions, it was like asking the devil to turn the central heating on.  That is to say, he was not particularly helpful to the situation.

After I handed him my forms, he sat and stared at me in silence until I started to get nervous.  Clearly something was expected of me, but I didn't know what.  Finally he said, "You can go now."  And I said "Okay.  Is there anything else I have to do?"  "You mean you haven't registered with the city yet?"  "Well now that I know, I'm happy to do so.  Where do I go?"  He rolled his eyes and couldn't be bothered to explain, so I had to head back down the stairs to ask the kindly ladies at the information desk.

It was back up the stairs for me, where I drew a number and waited outside the offices. When it was my turn, I walked in, sat down, and got asked about a million questions, like is my family still alive and have my felonies been expunged yet.  After successfully gaining my city registration paper, I asked the lady a quick question: if I'm in the process of becoming Portuguese, how does the whole residence permit thing work, and who do I have to talk to?  I got ping pong balled back to another office...unfortunately, it was Dick Man's office.

The second I walked in, I discovered body snatchers from Mars had taken Dick Man away and replaced him with an alien really excited about doing Dick Man's job.  "Oh! Hello again!  My colleague just called over here to tell me you're actually Portuguese! Isn't that lovely?"  I was totally taken aback, really confused, and unable to think of anything other than how bad the alien was at masquerading as Dick Man.  "I'm not Portuguese yet," I said, "I need a residence permit as an American first."  "Oh sure sure, no problem! Here, just sit your pretty head down, fill out these forms, and my other colleague over there will process your residence permit, no problem!"  So I sat my pretty head down, filled out forms, and headed over to The Colleague.  "I need a residence permit."  "Sure.  We need two passport photos and 55 Euros."  55 Euros? That's a lot of dollars, which I had already paid for in New York.  "That can't be right," I said, "I already paid that for my visa.  The visa is supposed to extend into a residence permit, not be replaced my it.  I already paid for it, goddammit."  "No, it's still 55 euros," said The Colleague.  "I was told the visa would be extended into a valid residence permit."  "Not how it works."  "Can I run home and get the money?"  "Sure."  So I ran home and didn't actually come back.

Instead, I asked Host Mom what the fuck was going on, and why I'm being required to pay 55 euros for a residence permit I had already paid for.  She agreed that the whole situation was bullshit, and suggested I email the embassy in New York.  Which I did, and got a wonderfully German response: sorry you didn't know, but that's the way it is. So I responded along the lines of WTF, no one told me this, why the fuck then did I pay for a 3 month long au pair visa when I could have just entered the country on a free tourist visa, which, coincidentally, is also for three months?  And why was it explicitly told to me that my 140 dollars was for both a visa and a residence permit?  The response: sorry you didn't know, but that's the way it is.

Out of principle, I flat out refused to pay the 55 euros, and decided instead to attempt to get around the bullshit as a Portuguese citizen.  As promised, my mom shipped my Portuguese birth certificate out to me, and the second it arrived, I called up the embassy in Berlin.  I explained that I had just gotten the certificate, and wanted to get an ID card.  The guy asked me if I spoke Portuguese, and before I could responded, he spoke some sounds at me.  And I was like, "Um...quois?"  And that was it.  He flipped the fuck out at me over the telephone, telling me there was no way I was Portuguese. I said I had a birth certificate, and I had every right to an ID card.  He straight up told me that I was either lying, or I had falsified my birth certificate, because no consulate in the world would give me one if I couldn't speak the language.  I said clearly he knew, seeing as he worked at one, that there is no language test, and all you need is one Portuguese grandparent.  To which he responded: "Let me guess.  Your parents are Portuguese, you're American, and you thought you'd get citizenship so you could study here and fuck around and not be Portuguese."  "Something like that."  "Well you're wrong.  You may absofuckinglutely not have an ID card because ID cards are for the Portuguese, of which you are not.  So you can go to the consulate in Osnabrück and let them deal with you."  Then he hung up.

If you're me, when people are mean to you, you call your mother in tears, so that's what I did.  She makes this wonderful sound when she's irritated at something, which I can best render as "AUH."  "Mom!" I cried, "the guy in Berlin told me I wasn't Portuguese!  Which was so accurate but so mean."  "AUH," she said, "This is why I hate the Portuguese.  They're total jackasses."  "And my visa is going to expire and I'll get deported as soon as I get a parking ticket!"  "AUH.  No you won't.  You just need to take your birth certificate to a different consulate."  "They'll chop me up and eat me with the paella!"  "AUH.  No they won't.  Fucking Portuguese."  These are not direct quotes.

So I went online, and discovered that the consulate in Hamburg actually dealt with my area of Lower Saxony, even though they're two different states.  Which is good, because Osnabrück is really far away.  I called Hamburg to make an appointment.  No one picked up the phone. The next day, I called to make an appointment.  No one picked up the phone.  I called every day for two weeks, and not once did I speak to anything other than an answering machine.  Finally Host Mom said, "Your visa is expiring soon, I would just go and hope for the best."  So that's what I did.

My Hamburg adventures I have already documented here, but suffice to say it took two trips, and cost me, when all was said and done, about $140.  So...more expensive than the residence permit.  But less convenient.

Fast forward to today, when I took my ID card and two passport photos back to the town hall.  The (wonderfully kind) lady I dealt with typed some things, printed some things out, and then stamped them.  Then she handed me a pretty impressive sheet of paper, and said, "Do not lose this.  This paper says that you are an EU citizen, with all the rights to live here, work here, and study here.  You can officially do anything in Germany just as easily as a German.  As long as you're in Europe, you will never have to worry about a residence permit or a visa ever again.  Congrats!"

Ever since my birth certificate arrived, people have been asking me if I feel different.  I didn't actually feel different until I walked out of the town hall and did a little dance, because I felt like differently dancing. And then I got on my bike, knowing that my visa was expiring in 2 days but that I was in the clear to chill out in Europe-land for the rest of my goshdarn life, if I so felt like it. I have rights on two continents!  If something goes wrong and I don't pass my language test, I will not be kicked out of the country!  Portuguese citizenship, when all was said and done, ran me somewhere in the area of 700 dollars, but I never have to worry about red tape again.  And I will never have to pay for a visa again.  Hell, I don't even need a passport because you can flash the IDs at the border of EU states.  Which is priceless, really.

And that is the story of how the motherland came to my rescue, and my epic visa problems were finally resolved.  Boom, bitches.

10 September 2011

Strange German Traditions

Last night, Latvian Friend's host parents basically shoved her out the door and said, "You are going to a bar, and you are going with Tina."  Which I found a perfectly acceptable plan, so we got all dressed up and headed into the city.  I wore really tight jeans, the lacy black shirt that remains, to this day, the only shirt random straight men have complimented me on on, and ridiculously sexy heels my sister made me buy that look like sex in a can.  Also, my hair (which has gone from Really Long to Really Ridiculously Long) down for full dramatic effect.  And did we get hit on even once?  No.  Because Germans are terrible at flirting.  The only people who even looked at us twice was a table of overweight Spanish men rocking track suits and mullets.  Also some random drunk man who tried to speak English at me.  Then, when we got home (and in typical graceful Tina fashion), my heel got caught in the bike pedal as I was getting off, and the whole contraption fell over with my leg trapped underneath it.  Now the handlebars are out of line with the front wheels, my knees are a flower garden of bruises.  So all in all, it was a pretty successful night, and we had lots of fun!

On that note, I'm going to hit you up with Strange German Relationship Traditions, that Host Mom broke down for me one day, while we were sitting at a cafe watching a random man sweep bottle caps off the street.  Which might explain while Germans are so terrible at flirting.

If you, a man, are not married on your 25th birthday:
Your friends put boxes on your roof.  To symbolize that you are unmarried and suffering from an excess of boxes.

If you, a man, are not married by your 30th birthday:
Your friends take you to the local town square, hand you a broom, and dump giant boxes of bottle caps on the ground.  Then lots of strangers gather around you in a big circle, drink beer, and throw the bottle caps at you.  And you have to sweep them up, sweep them up, and keep sweeping them up, until a virgin kisses you free. Usually this is a small girl child whose parents are all, "Go kiss the strange, old, sweaty man, Johanna, and I'll buy you an ice cream."

If you, a woman, are not married by your 30th birthday:
Your friends throw a party, and make you clean all the doorknobs in the house.  To symbolize that you are unmarried and thus in the mood to clean doorknobs.

If you, a man, are not married by your 40th birthday:
You are very sad because you have suffered boxes on your roof, and the indignity of sweeping things until small children kiss you.  And now it's even worse, because your friends rent a donkey and make you ride it backwards around town.  To symbolize that you are a) unmarried, and b) have terrible donkey-riding skills, which demonstrates how suave you are to all the ladies cleaning doorknobs.

The things you learn living with a family!

08 September 2011

Club Portugal

I said it on Facebook, and I will say it again here: I am officially a card-carrying member of Club Portugal.  This means that I have a card.  Also, a T-Shirt, as soon as some overachieving pork chop decides to put one up on Zazzle.

I got up at 5 AM to train it to Hannover, and from there hitched a ride to Hamburg with some guy I found on the internet, because you can do these things in Europe.  I got there at 10.30 in the morning, expecting to wait for three hours like I did last time. Naturally, I was the only person there, and at 10.40, I was right back out on the street, +1 on membership cards, -1 on Things To Occupy My Time Until 8 PM When My Ride Leaves.

So, I called up a Turkish friend from way back when in Konstanz.  He had seen my Hamburg pictures on Facebook, and messaged me saying that he was living there, and next time I was in the city to call him.  So I did.  By 10.55 we were hunting each other down in the train station, and by 11.00, there were hugs involved.  We ran around the city for a couple hours, got lunch, and then took a leisurely stroll through the red light district, for some reason which I'm still not clear on.  I saw lots of naked people, lots of naked people holding bad things, and a sign that said "Funky Snazzy Pussy," which did not intrigue me enough to find out what it was.  And then we went back to his dormitory to hang out and drink tea.

The good news is, if I was still on the fence about studying here, I'm not now.  I met a couple of his flatmates, and we sat and talked until it was time for me to almost miss my train.  The one guy was from Berlin, but his parents were from Afghanistan, which meant I had to attempt to explain American foreign policy while avoiding looking him in the eye for shame.  Also, I wanted to ask him if he spoke Farsi, but I was afraid he would ask me how I knew Farsi was spoken in Afghanistan, to which I would have had to answer "I read The Kite Runner."  Awkward.  Best to keep silent and listen to him tell me about a high school project he did where he analyzed the speaking habits of Obama and Adolf Hitler and found them remarkably similar.  Best to nod and say, "Interessant."

Then I called up my ride and was like, "Dude, I'm peacing out early," before hopping a train back to Celle.  All in all, a successful day.  Tomorrow it's off to the town hall to try and get this shit sorted out, because my visa expires in like, four days.

In other news, after a long, dreary, and generally miserably winter, fall has finally come to Celle.  Unfortunately, my beautiful purple pea-coat is what's known as a "fall jacket" around here, which means it's useless after the end of the week.  I've got my mom and my sister hunting down the sexiest arctic parka they can find, my only requirements being a) a hood, and b) pink.  I figure my body will at least be easy for the rescue guys to find when I freeze my ass off.

EDIT:  The pork chops have been hard at work on Zazzle.  Should I get the shirt with the Portuguese flag, or the shirt with the Portuguese flag, do you think?  There's also a nice blue one with the Portuguese flag.

05 September 2011

The Official Rundown and All That Jazz

I hope you guys enjoyed that video, because I said I would be embarrassed about it today and I am.  Because now the whole world knows I'm obsessed with rice cakes. Sigh.

Also, I'm writing this while catching up on Jersey Shore episodes because I experienced a strange nostalgia for guidos while in Denmark.  But it was a distant fondness, the kind where you can't smell the Axe.  So like an Atlantic Ocean's worth of distance, basically.  I just thought you should be aware.

So today is Official Run Down and All That Jazz day, where I put up pictures, write a mini novel, and say "bitch" a lot.  Two weeks is a long time, so forgive me if I don't cover every minute of every day, as I am prone to doing.  This is all about efficiency. Summary, pictures, anecdotes.  Boom.  Bitch.

Like I said in the video, it was a long, long trip.  When we finally arrived at the ferry, we had to chill out in front of the boat for forever while the unloaded all the cars:


Then we packed in like sardines.  Actually like sardines, because we were in a metal box, it was hard to move, and it smelled like fish.


Upon arrival, we discovered our house was called Vossavang, which made me happy for no apparent reason:


And it was lovely and chicken-y, once you got past the whole mold/mice thing:



And there was a super awesome bathtub, which I took a picture of, but did not get to try out.  I know.  Don't judge me.  


Our first day there, we immediately attempted to find the beach.  Our house was advertised as being 600 meters from the beach, which it was not.  We got retardedly lost in the woods, and wound up scrabbling down giant sand dunes and almost dying. We discovered later our house was only 600 meters from the beach, but only if you ignored the mile-long drive to the beach parking lot.


But we found the beach, and the Baltic Sea is lovely!


As is the Snog-A-Bitch Snogabæck harbor: 


The next day we ate lunch on some rocks, and I practiced my mountain-goat skills by scampering around on them:


Also, I found Danish cows:


I don't know what this is, but I took a picture of it:


Look, a bird.


There was lots of climbing on rocks, and almost falling into the sea while doing it:



And glasswork shops with explicitly naked glass-people in the windows:


We spent a lovely afternoon in Gudhjem, where there isn't much to do except look at things.



Look, another bird.


We went to a restaurant, where I made friends with the cat:


Danish signs were cool for the first week, and then my lack of Danish language skills rice cakes got old.


Then we did a day trip to the north end of the island, where we hiked to a castle called Hammershus!  The hike was beautiful:


And I climbed this nonsense entirely in flip flops because no one told me we were hiking that day.  My host parents were blown away that I survived.  I pretended like I managed it just because I'm awesome, and not because I've had too much practice climbing shit in inadequate footwear with Claire.  


DISTANT CASTLES!


ARE NOT AS COOL AS CLOSE-UP ONES!


The castle ruins were SO badass.






Then we went to Rønne, the capital of Bornholm, where I found only two things noteworthy enough to warrant a photograph.  1). The Justin Bieber biography.  In Danish.


2).  Slutspurt.  A most adequate description for pretty much all the people I'm friends with.


Other than that, I really didn't take many pictures.  Bornholm was lovely, but we quickly ran out of things to do and just went to the beach every day.  Which was fine, except I saw so much old naked Danish genitalia, I don't think my eyes will ever heal. One guy was cavorting around completely naked in front of his small children, flying kites, and Host Mom didn't understand why I was horrified and wanted to call social services.  Then she said, "I don't see what's the problem with being naked in front of your own kids.  When I was in school, our teachers even got naked in front of us."  And that actually blew the lid off the discussion, it was about ten minutes before I could say anything besides "What.  The.  FUCK."  It was awful.  I tried to explain how you would lose your job in half a second for that, AND be banned from everything for life, AND be arrested, AND be tarred and feathered, AND be fed to spider monkeys with AIDS.  And she did not understand.  And I did not understand why she didn't understand.  And I spent the rest of the day with my head buried in my towel, trying to avoid looking at Naked Cavorting Man, who was nakedly cavorting too close to us for comfort.  And THAT is when I started missing guidos.  They smell like hairspray, but at least they have pants on.  As a general rule.

Other things of note:  supposedly the soft ice cream on Bornholm is the best in the world.  But I tried it, and I can think of about twelve places off the top of my head that are better, starting with Rita's and the Rutgers dining halls.  Just throwing it out there Denmark, don't feel too triumphant.

All in all, Denmark, though it was at times cold and wet, was a good time.  Lots of hiking and beaching, but I'm glad to be back.  A friend family just got a Latvian au pair, so she and I have already started making plans to go out this week and do fun things.  The country is open again, so tomorrow morning it's off to the riding club and the music school for me.  Also, I just signed up for two seminars in November that looked interesting.  One is called Typish Deutsch? and it's all about critically looking at German culture.  Technically it's meant for Germans, but whatever.  The other one is called Politischer Extremismus (political extremes), which I signed up for assuming the US is going to get mentioned two, three, or a thousand times.  Also, later this week I am off to Hamburg to (cross my fingers) pick up my Portuguese ID card.  My visa expires next week, so all needs to go well or else I'll be like a hobo squatting in Bronx apartment with three walls, except my Bronx apartment is called Germany.  Once the saga is over, I will finally write the Epic Visa Problems post, which is sure to be about as awesome as a Cracker Jacks box of unicorns.

Adios friends!

EDIT:  Oh!  I forgot to give you the favorite song of the day!  

Listen.  Before you judge me, just listen.  It's James Blunt and I DON'T EVEN LIKE IT, but it's been on the radio and I can't get it out of my head.  I hope it hasn't been on American radio, because it blows and it's James fucking Blunt.  And anyone who says Cal-ee-forn-ay-aeeee does not deserve to be on any radio, let alone American radio.  I hate myself for listening to it, but now you can have it!  Hate yourselves!