The Mummy Exhibit

The other day my friend and I crashed a live mummy exhibit.

It was the music that drew us. My friend Rick was visiting from the States, and he was sitting with my husband and me over dinner, when we became aware of music competing with the CD we were listening to. When the CD ended, we had no choice but to listen. We heard operatic music, identifying it as the theme every Italian would know - the choral anthem from "Nabucco". Rick loves Italy and adores opera. We had no choice but to follow the music. You probably know the piece, that thrilling chorus from the opera about the Hebrews slaving under Nebuchadnezzar in Babylon. I don't know if you'd hear classical music in America blazing from outside somewhere, but it is conceivable here in Germany, especially in convivial Cologne, where there is lots of noise. So Rick and I rushed outside to find out what this was all about. I thought, maybe there is a village festival going on that I knew nothing about. Maybe there will be fireworks! So we followed the sound, walking around the block until we came upon an ancient half-timbered house with torches and candles blazing in the garden, and loud music blaring for half of Cologne to hear.

Germany has ordinances about just about every aspect of life. For instance, you aren't allowed to wash your car, and you can't mow your lawn on a Sunday. You also can't make a peep after 10 pm. Here we had a clear infraction of the the right to peace and quiet. But no one was complaining! In fact, there seemed to be a crowd gathering around this house. I, eager to please my guest, ventured to ask the nearest person I could find what was going on. "It's a mummy exhibit!" He explained. "A mummy exhibit?" "Of course! Don't you see the sign here?!" And there it was in black and white, a sign with an arrow pointing to the garden for the mummy exhibit. He went on to say that someone was celebrating his fiftieth birthday, hence he qualified as a mummy. Since the sign was hanging on the wall for all to see, he explained, we had the right to venture in and have a look. So we did.

We discovered a huge party going on in the garden, with candle-lit pagodas, hanging colored lanterns, and torches planted in the ground. It was quite romantic. There must have been a hundred people there talking, laughing and filling plates from tables in pagodas where food was being served, and grabbing drinks from a table with bartenders. Over on our right we were stunned to see a group of solemn, pompous-looking people dressed in turquoise and gold, with turquoise headdresses and painted eyes. I believe we must have walked into a time warp, Americans in Germany, suddenly finding ourselves in a jumble of Egyptian Pharaos, and listening to Italian music about Jews in Babylon!

We heard a speech in German about the mummy celebrating his birthday, welcoming his guests to this historic event. The music started again and the Pharaos solemnly marched away from the garden, carrying a six-foot tray with long silver handles. I leaned to see what was on the tray - nothing but a hundred little tea candles! Was this how they preserved mummies?

Like the Pied Piper's little children, we followed the Pharaos out of the garden onto the street. One by one the headdresses came off, revealing modern-day men and women of Cologne, thirsty for a beer. They were not disappointed. One of the bartenders rushed to them with his much smaller tray filled with slender Kölsch beer glasses, losing no time in quenching their thirst.

Somehow, they must have forgotten us party crashers, so we left the mummies, walking back into the 21st century.

Scooting through Town

Twice a month I walk four easy minutes to my local tram stop, hop on the tram and disembark fifteen minutes later at Ebertplatz, from where I walk just five minutes to join the other women in my writing group. Getting there is usually so easy, I don’t even think about it. During the past summer, however, tram and subway service to this station, which turns out to one of the nuts and bolts of Cologne’s public transportation system, was unexpectedly disrupted. I grumbled to my other writing friends while looking for alternate means of reaching this and other stations in Cologne. A few weeks before they so rudely closed the station, I was curious to find the station an increasingly pungent cloud of dust, with bagfuls of concrete fragments piled high. I would see transit workers at 11 pm, painstakingly blasting away at concrete at deafening decibels, welding pieces of train track, entertaining me with evening fireworks. Every week there seemed to be more boarded walkways , exposed wiring and blocked exits. The station was a mess, and even now that the station is again open, it’s not much better. The other day I saw a man standing there sneezing while waiting for his tram. The only difference I could see was that you didn’t have to climb steps anymore to get on the tram, and there were some pretty tiles that had been laid among bare, exposed concrete slabs. During the summer, when getting around Cologne was such a nightmare, I wondered what the big deal was. Now I understand completely and heartily approve. Ebertplatz is the first of several tram stops which is in the process of being transformed into a disabled-friendly station and transfer point.

Last week I had the opportunity to discover first-hand what it means to get around a city as a disabled person. We had my friends Bonnie and Andrew, who is disabled, as guests for a week. Andrew is able to walk, but he has a back condition which makes walking or climbing excruciatingly painful.

Even while planning their trip over from England, we had to discuss the logistics of getting around. Andrew had recently purchased a “mobility scooter”, a vehicle which looks a lot like a golf cart. This has to be stored in a vehicle big enough to contain it, which meant that they had to buy a new car. Andrew and Bonnie couldn’t fly to Germany because there was no way Andrew could get his scooter onto a plane, and he wanted to use the scooter to have some independence of movement. They decided to drive here. This meant that, once his scooter had safely arrived with the car, they would need to periodically charge up the battery. Which meant they had to have access to a power outlet. I live in an apartment, so we had to find a way to get an extension cord to his car. We would also need an adaptor, since English plugs are not the same as German.

Charging the battery proved to be more of a challenge than I had anticipated. I figured we’d just let them park outside our building near the laundry room, and I would put an extension cord through the window. But the parking spot there is allocated to someone else. So Andrew parked his car underneath our apartment in an available parking spot, and we started improvising. It was a little like letting Rapunzel’s hair down. One extension cord down the window, clanking on its way down on the neighbor’s window. Fears of damaging the window. The cord was not long enough. Up went the cord, and we added another to it. It worked! But the question arose, what if it rains? The extension cord is not waterproof. Back up the window again. We looked in the dark in our outdoor balcony storage area, using our flashlight until we found the all-weather extension cord. Finally we had a system which would work, and Andrew’s scooter could be charged all night, even if it should rain.

The next morning we were all set to go. Andrew painfully walked the twenty steps to street level, and we all climbed into his car, off to the Cologne Cathedral. It was awesome to see how cheerful he was, as long as he could drive his own car – or mobility scooter.

Off we drove, chatting amiably while anticipating handicapped parking underneath the cathedral, which we surmised to be the most popular parking garage in Cologne. We found the garage and began looking for the familiar wheelchair sign, but we looked in vain. After circling around a few times, we finally decided to simply take a spot, thinking we had somehow missed the handicapped spots. I found an attendant and asked him where the handicapped spots were. “There aren’t any,” was the curt answer. “Do you have an elevator we can take to get out of here?” “Nope, we don’t have one of those either.” “Well, then, how are we supposed to get out of here?” The nonchalant answer was that we could simply take the scooter out through the exit, where the cars leave the garage, and then find our way through the streets and sidewalks of Cologne.

We gamely rolled out of the garage, forcing the car behind us to wait, only to land on a huge construction zone and no sidewalks! We had to roll on down a road and even onto gravel, which the scooter doesn’t take well to. We eventually got onto a sidewalk. Now the problem was to get to the cathedral, which is uphill from the parking garage. I knew about steps from the street to the plaza level. The question was, could we find a way there without steps? We did! The long way around. But no matter. We made it into the cathedral, and were able to move around there at liberty. As the resident of Cologne showing my guests around, I was overjoyed that there was a way for a disabled person to get into the cathedral, even if it was a bit difficult.

Our adventure continued. We found an outdoor café/brewery near the cathedral where we could park Andrew’s scooter. He managed, with a few pained groans, to climb out onto a chair. We enjoyed the afternoon sun and a delicious Kölsch with our lunch. After lunch, our courage fortified, we continued our adventure, heading over to a two-story music store where Bonnie could browse through sheet music. Here Andrew’s fortune came to an end. There was no way for him to get upstairs, so he waited downstairs, entertaining other shoppers with his jokes. I wondered if he found it funny that there was no way he could look at or buy sheet music if he needed it.

We continued on down the main shopping street, stopping for an ice cream cone. We noticed that Andrew’s was the only scooter amongst thousands of pedestrians. Where were all the handicapped people of Cologne? Weren’t there any, or were they hiding? I suspected that they were hiding somewhere.

On another trip to Cologne, we decided to try taking the scooter onto the tram to a Saturday afternoon jazz concert. We grinned at each other in relief after we all managed to get onto the tram with now mishaps. We only had to share the space with bikes and baby strollers. Andrew flirted with a baby. Someone on the tram assumed that we wanted to go to the zoo, which stop is also along the same line. He informed us that there was no possibility for a scooter to get off the tram there. This proved to be one of the stations still needing to be overhauled. But our station, Appelhofplatz, had a high platform and an elevator! So we were all set to hear the concert. We only needed to take the elevator onto the sidewalk outside, go into a city-center shopping mall, and get on another elevator which would take us to the basement, where the jazz concert was to take place. All went well. After the concert we went grocery shopping at a health food supermarket with aisles wide enough to handle the scooter. Shopping in a department store also proved to be no problem. This was fun!

Another time we went out on the Rhine, driving with the scooter in the back of the car to a town near the vineyards where glorious Rhine wines are produced. Before planning the trip we phoned the shipping line and were told it would be no problem to take the scooter. What a delight it was to see Andrew’s scooter rolling steadily up the gangplank, onto the boat, and then to find an elevator on the boat that could take us right to the deck! I was so excited, I bought us all cakes and tea. The weather was glorious, warm and sunny. My pleasure at watching the scenery was intensified by the feeling of gratitude that this was all possible. Life did not have to end, I discovered, if you are in a wheelchair. The only question remaining was, where were all the others?

Our return Rhine trip was a little more difficult. This boat was an old, romantic steamer with no elevator. However, even here there was a sort of make-shift lift you could use on the stairs, but it was too narrow for the scooter. No matter. We sat out on the deck on the main level, where we also had great views.

Since seeing first-hand what life for a disabled person is like, I now seem to always find myself looking for other people on wheelchairs or scooters, and I discover myself constantly checking to see whether public areas are disabled-friendly. Every time the tram stops at the zoo, I hope this stop will be the next one to be demolished. I will cheer, not grumble. I also look forward to the day when the sidewalks, car parks and trams are crowded, packed with tourists and shoppers on mobility scooters! I will happily put up with the congestion.

Original work

This is original work by German students of mine. It is so good, I thought I'd include it for you to read. I asked them to write something that rhymes. Here is the result:

Springtime

When spring comes over fields and hlls
with crocus gold and daffodils
with leaves of green and colors bright
with sunshine warm and light
when the birds come back and sing
the butterflies dance with their colorful wings
you can smell the flowers and trees
and see the diligent bees
then our mood will be light, because we are able to see
how beautiful the earth can be.

The Storm

Rain and storm rage against the ship
Like a crack of a whip
A thunderclap you hear,
Flash of lightning's very bright here
Illuminate the ghostly scene

Staggering through the churning sea
Not a star you can see
Only darkness and thick fog
No harbour, no protected dock
For the old ship which moans and groans

In the storm like a cockleshell
Dancing in devil's hell
Falling in a deep hole
Not a mast or sail was left whole
The trembling fishing boat emerges

Through giant waves, under full sail
A pale man at the rail,
A sail boat scratches by
And crosses the fishing boat's way. -
Flying Dutchman! - God save your soul!

Suddenly storm and wind die down
The fishing boat alone
In the sun on calm seas -
In depressing silence and peace
The fisher thinks of cruel fate.

Pretty good, eh? When you think that these people are not native speakers, that they make lots of mistakes when they speak English. There's something about creative writing that brings out the best, and the most creative.

If you live in or near Cologne, you can hear more creative writing in English at a reading of original writing. It will be held on June 9, 2008 at the Bechstein Centrum in the Opernpassage at 7.30 pm. It will be good, and totally creative. One of our members is a pianist and will also be playing original pieces as well as reading original writing. The reading will be followed by wine and cheese.

Arno

As a foreigner in Germany, I do what comes naturally in order to help pay the bills. I teach English for a living. Teaching is in my blood, and I enjoy it, as well as passionately love the English language. So I actually sort of fit into my profession and am pretty good at it. One of the places where I teach is a large multi-national corporation. Teaching English is big business in Germany, as more and more of the German workday is held in English. Even the fear of future team meetings in English will send these poor victims running to my classes. Longstanding employees of German companies who conducted all their work in English in the past often find themselves at a meeting in some conference room with ten of their German colleagues. If, however, one person who doesn’t speak German happens to be there, the meeting must be held in English. Arno, one of my students, is very keen to improve his English skills so that he can fit into the modern globalized, English-speaking industrial world.

Recently, Arno was promoted to a new position. One day I asked him about his career path, presuming that he, as I imagined all the other students in my class, had a degree in accounting from some university. Since all are controllers, I assumed that they needed to have a business degree in order to perform their jobs. Germany is very much into degrees as proof of competence, much more so than the US. I was shocked to find out that neither Arno nor any of his classmates has had the privilege of gaining expertise in their field in a university. Arno’s first job was in security, as a guard at one of the gates to the corporation's plant. Because of his pleasant nature, hard work and willingness to work wherever they send him (not a typical German trait), he has been able to work his way up the career ladder.

So today, I asked him how his new job is coming along. "Fine," he said tiredly, "but there is so much stress involved!"

"Oh, really! Tell me about it!"

Arno is responsible for communication between colleagues involved in controlling in Germany, Asia and the States. One of the first perks of his new job was to receive a Blackberry pocket organizer/cell phone/computer. The hook is that he needs to be available 24/7. So, he receives emails all night long, every night. In the morning he wakes up to at least six or seven emails, all in English. Then he rushes off to the office so that he can answer them at 7 am, before the employees in Asia go home for the day. Then he has to be available for the emails coming in from America in the evening, which is afternoon their time. I asked Arno when he goes home. "At around 8 pm," he said. He is doing this voluntarily, not getting paid overtime for any of this.

Arno and all his colleagues have been instructed to work from a 1,000+ page online book of guidelines - in English. The language is so specialized and complex that even I, the English teacher, have difficulty understanding it. If they were to ask the management of their company to explain the differences between the new English guidelines and the old German ones, they would be laughed out of the office.

I live in Cologne. The name of my city stems from “colony”. Cologne was once a Roman colony, and the original Ubii tribe which was settled in and around Cologne, peacefully acquiesced to the Romans, marrying, working with them, losing their identity to become Roman. The pride of Cologne is that their roots as a city go back to Roman times, when they were a Roman colony. To me, the hired representative of the language they are so urgent to learn, they are again vassals of imperialism and I am part of the colonial presence. Cologne, as also the rest of Germany, has once again given up its sovereignty in order to assimilate into the dominant culture. I came to Germany to discover a new culture, but see daily signs of willing submission to a culture they have accepted as dominant.

I hope Arno will be able one day to say, "No more!"

Libation

In our writing group, we recently had the task of writing something about loneliness. This is a subject expats are experts at. We are doomed to experiencing everything about this wonderful (and sometimes weird) culture we are living in, alone, sharing with whoever will listen, but not often hearing the longed-for words, "I've been there and I know what you're talking about." We have to do everything alone! So sometimes we want to shut it all out. Keeping your arms held up before your eyes, shutting everything out, is an exhausting business. But sometimes, when we listen very hard to our hearts, we hear other words, inviting words, words which liberate us, helping us to open up again and move on to a new place. Here is what I wrote:

Libation

Standing alone, arms outstretched,
aching for the relief of relaxation,
barely able to hold her arms anymore
against the window crack, after
years of ticking hours,
pushing with all she is
to keep the waters from
gushing, sweeping
her from the floor,
lifting her up from the muck
out the door.

Whoosh! she would swoop
away, lifted to rush
past junk and debris.

She hates her vigil there,
too tired to cry,
no strength left to feel,
she fears more the source,
and tales she has heard of its force.

Whoosh! she would swoop
away, lifted to rush
to spaces unknown.

Her strength spent, she sits
emptied, she waits.
Before her a sound,
behind her a song
pierces a crack in her soul.

"Come, rest awhile,
you need not fear.
I'll take you from here
to the home of your heart."

Not daring to trust,
too weary to balk,
she listens and hears
the sound of her heart,
the warm trickle of drops
dripping, slowly, to ease her way
through the door,
strengthened for the journey.

15 April, 2008

Here they call me an "imi". No, I haven't misspelled it. I am an "Imigrantin", an "Imi", an immigrant. But not to Germany, at least in these eyes. Oh, no! Where I live, anybody who is not a native of the city is an "imi". So - that puts both my German, Düsseldorf-raised husband and me into the same category! Cologne , the great equalizer.

I am also an immigrant. An expat. At some point along the way, my status changed from tourist to expat to immigrant. As my fellow Americans in the American Women's Club say, I am a "lifer" - here to stay. That has profound consequences for understanding who I am and what you read on my blog.

Some of my fellow expats and I have formed a writers' group, which we are calling "Writing Women". Last night was our first gathering in our new home. It is a veritable "imi's " heaven. Here, we fit right in - with the Turks, Greeks, Eritreans, gays, children, senior citizens and artists. We are meeting in the old firehouse, a building that was meant to be demolished, but was amazingly saved from destruction in the nick of time.

Most of Germany is modern, clean and very efficient. The old firehouse is antiquated, with rusting radiators, lumpy old furniture, and a bit grimy and disorganized. I'd rather come here to this rusty haven than meet anywhere else. Nowhere have we met such a welcome. We were told that we would have to pay €18 for our room last evening. Then, when we wanted to pay, they said, "Oh, that's OK. You can pay next time!" Later, when I asked again about payment, they said, "You don't have to pay the €18 - we'll give you a monthly fee. That way, you'll get a €5 reduction." Here, in this nirvana, it seems that German regulation has been exorcised. Rather than give us a list of what we are NOT allowed to do, they tell us that we can decide on the amount of rent we want to pay, that we don't have to eat at the restaurant across the courtyard (which is very appealing, offering a buffet of food from a different country every week, all you can eat for €9, complete with candlelight and a server!), that we are invited to cook our own meals if we don't want to bother with the restaurant, that we can come and go more or less as we please. It gives our writer souls wings to be granted such freedom in a country where the saying goes, "Nothing is allowed unless it is expressly written as such by law".

Long live the old firehouse! May we writing "imi" women thrive there!