I Live, Indeed

If you are reading these words, it means you still occasionally frequent this blog, despite no apparent signs of life from my direction in some time. I thank you for that.

If my absence is not forgivable, I hope it is at least understandable. Like so many, the Christmas season has been somewhat chaotic for me. I have returned to New York for Christmas, a welcome respite after the whirlwind of the past couple of weeks. You see, the third phase of the CBYX program, wherein participants are supposed to be employed, begins on or around February 1. As my departure date loomed, the quiet life I have developed in Cologne began to rumble with the tremors of responsibility: end-of-semester rehearsals and concerts filled my evenings, and mornings began earlier and earlier in order to attend job interviews before class.¹ Fortunately, in the midst of this merry maelstrom, there has also been time for a little bit of culture.

A couple of weeks ago, I had the pleasure of watching a performance of Pretty Ugly Tanz Köln, Cologne's premier contemporary dance company. Led by Amanda Miller, an American ex-pat, the company currently resides at the Schauspiel Köln, Cologne's most important theater. The performance which I witnessed, a medley of both Monteverdi and modern music, exhibited both the company's modernist leanings as well as its ability to construct a dance narrative. I particularly appreciate when a company makes that extra effort to communicate, because quite frankly, I usually just don't get modern dance. What Pretty Ugly does, however, is pretty nice.

That's it for now. Suffice it to say I still live, and regular updates will now resume. For my English-speaking readers, a happy new year to you. To the German speakers, ein frohes Silvester. To everyone else: who the hell are you, and how did you find this blog?

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¹An often miserable experience, since the December sun does not rise in Germany until shortly before 9 am. My heart breaks for the Swedish.

Explanations and Addenda

An associate recently took me to task regarding my comments about the English and their drinking habits. I would like to take this opportunity to publicly clarify that I am no Anglophobe.¹ For instance, I usually prefer England's literary and philosophical traditions to all others. As for my dislike of English beer, well, there's no accounting for taste. I've also mentioned I don't particularly like Kölsch.

There we are. Now everyone I interact with on a regular basis should be angry with me. As it should be.

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¹It's a real word. The internet told me so.

Glühwein, Women and Song

The Christmas season is in full swing here in Cologne. The Weinachtsmärkte opened fully last weekend, and to solicit them came both locals and travelers from abroad. As I have discovered, many of these seasonal travelers come from Britain specifically to visit the Christmas markets. I don't fully understand the logic behind purchasing €100 plane tickets in order to eat €2 roasted almonds, but then, the English also enjoy warm beer, so the lunacy is not without precedent.

To my great fortune, along with this English en masse emigration came Meagan, the lovely hostess of my last two visits to London. Together, she and I braved the extensive network of Weinachtsmärkte that have sprung up across Cologne like cinnamon-scented mushrooms. I bring to you now some highlights of our discoveries, which, we being hungry travelers, ended up being mostly culinary:

1. Glühwein -- For a full explanation of this marvelous substance, see last post. Suffice it to say that we drank our fair share.¹

2. Poffertjes² -- To be fair, the credit for this one goes to a Dutch acquaintance I made in Bonn a couple of weeks ago. Evidently a seasonal favorite in Holland,³ Poffertjes is breakfast transformed into the most unhealthy confectionary dessert imaginable. While Poffertjes poses as a mere waffle cup filled with miniature pancakes, the real magic of this dessert comes in the condiments. Appropriate toppings include syrup, butter, powdered sugar, whipped cream, Nutella, or preferably, all of the above. Sprinkle that bad boy with Baco-Bits and you've got the next American breakfast favorite.

3. Reibekuchen -- Also known as Rievkooche in Kölsch, these deep-fried potato pancakes make an excellent follow-up to Poffertjes if you somehow haven't managed a heart attack yet. Reibekuchen are usually served immediately after being cooked, so it is customary to eat them with a cooling condiment such as apple sauce, or if it's your second helping, Pepto-Bismol.

4. Himmel un Ääd -- I must exonerate Meagan and clarify that she did not at any time sample this unique dish. Himmel un Ääd translates to "heaven and earth" in the local dialect. It is so called because it is a mixture of mashed apples and potatoes, the apples which reside in heaven (i.e. on branches) and the "apples" which reside in earth (i.e. potatoes). Somewhere along the line, the Kölsch community decided to make this culinary concoction their own by adding blood pudding into the mix,⁴ a development I can't help but think of as the cooking equivalent of the snake entering the garden.

There's more to do at the Weinachtsmärkte than just eat and drink, of course. Particularly predominant are small shops and rides for the children. That said, having too little funds to purchase €15 Christmas tree ornaments and too much self-respect to ride the carousel,⁵ Meagan and I mostly browsed.

With the arrival of Advent also came my first major concert of the season. I have been singing with three choirs at the Hochschule, two of which are directed by Marcus Creed. Professor Creed has proven to be a prodigious conductor. He is generally reserved and quiet in demeanor, but he brings out a superb level of concentration and execution from the singers with whom I have seen him work. Among his other obligations, he directs both the Hochschule's main choir and its chamber choir, the latter of which I performed with on Wednesday evening.

I sang with the Claremont Chamber Choir through college, and I have grown to appreciate the sound a group of dedicated singers of that size can create. Even with that experience, I was very curious to hear what the chamber choir here would sound like. Though many of my colleagues in Claremont were music majors, this was an entire choir of music students, many of them with years of vocal training behind them. Thus I had little idea what to truly expect from the experience.

Our concert on Wednesday took place at St. Georgs, one of the smaller old Romanesque cathedrals. One could guess (rightly) by the modern look of town around St. Georgs that it was heavily damaged in the War. In its refurbished form, St. Georgs offers wonderfully resonant acoustics, ideal for an a capella choir. We performed two song cycles, one by Reger and another by Brahms, as well as a modern setting by James MacMillan of a medieval prayer titled "O Bone Jesu." It is easy to forget in the midst of preparing works of music that an audience will be listening with entirely different ears. So as the final note of the concert faded into the walls of the church, I was not sure what to expect from the little crowd in St. Georgs that night. They must have liked it, because they brought Professor Creed back for a total of five ovations, generous even for a German audience.

The past wonderful week did not come without repercussions. Regrettably, after spending my days out in the rainy markets and my nights rehearsing in a cold church, I have finally fallen ill. The doctor doesn't think it's anything serious, just a winter virus. At first, when I heard all I needed was probably some rest and lots of fluids, I was delighted. As it turns out, however, Glühwein doesn't count.

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¹Which, at €2,50 a glass came to one cup each. I can get a full bottle of wine for less than that. And I do.

²Pronounced by saying "Puffered? Tch! Yes!" quickly.

³I have no way to confirm or deny his claim, but I have my doubts. Almost all the Dutch I have met are very thin, and no one could eat Poffertjes with any regularity without resembling a Germanic Wilford Brimley, both in weight and diabetic condition.

⁴And you know they didn't pick something like blood pudding on a lark. There had to have been trial and error involved, which just makes me wonder: what didn't make it?

⁵Fine: they wouldn't let me. Are you happy now?

Genießbare Getränke, Part Three: Glühwein

Did you know that Christmas is available as a warm beverage?

To be precise: as booze?

I speak of Glühwein, a traditional German drink of the Christmas season. Similar to mulled wine,¹ Glühwein is the traditional drink of the German Weinachtsmärkte, the little markets that spring up in major cities about this time of year. Weinachtsmärkte are an institution unto themselves and deserve their own post. More on that goodness later.

Glühwein is essentially sweetened red wine seasoned with cinnamon and cloves and served hot. I do not engage in hyperbole when I say that this stuff is Christmas Cheer made manifest. I think if you vaporized Santa Claus, then collected his essence as condensation and warmed him in a pot, he would taste just like Glühwein.²

Similar to my often-inappropriate sense of humor, no one Glühwein recipe is for everyone. Some Germans liven theirs with fruit, particularly lemon or orange; anise; and for a really good time, liquor. Casually strolling through Cologne's markets, I have seen a number of patrons give their glass that extra kick, brought from home just for the occasion.

Copious drinking is fairly standard operating procedure as far as German celebrations go, but it's a more complicated affair when turning Glühwein into a cocktail. As someone who enjoys a little Sambuca in his coffee, I can tell you from experience that it is unwise to heat hard alcohol and inhale the fumes. Thus I took pause this afternoon when I witnessed a group of Weinachtsmarkt patrons each add liberal amounts of schnapps to their Glühwein. One young woman paused before drinking. She gazed at the steam rising out of her cup, probably getting a little lost in the joy of the season, and leaning over-- in Hollywood slow motion -- breathed deeply.

On the plus side, the stains all over her sweater will remind her of the Christmas season all throughout the year.

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¹Though there's really no comparison between the two. Even mulled wine's name is inferior. As opposed to a wine that "glows," what good is a drink that has merely been pondered?

²What?

The Art of the Deal, or the Deal with the Art

New York is not Mecca. It just smells like it. -- Neil Simon

An anonymous editor at the New York Post -- I have a hunch I know whom¹ -- makes a strong argument condemning the strike of tech union Local One, which has kept most of Broadway closed through Thanksgiving weekend. The Post presents a point that would be self-evident anywhere but Broadway. A monopoly is an inefficient method for providing a service, and the New York theater scene is undoubtedly monopolistic.

To be clear, I do not mean that there is insufficient competition within New York; I would argue that's actually quite strong. Rather, I bemoan the pervasive perception that New York is America's performing arts Mecca. While I love New York, I think this common conception is unfortunate. I also understand why it prevails: it's true. No other city in the US can match New York pound-for-pound in quantity or quality of its museums, theaters, and concert halls.

It doesn't have to be that way, however. America's other major cities also offer strong cultural exposure. Those in the know have been long aware of Chicago's status as America's number two theater town, as Terry Teachout discusses in the Wall Street Journal this week.² Mr. Teachout goes on to lament the double damage Broadway's monopoly causes. With limited supply comes exorbitant prices -- Chicago is far cheaper, incidentally -- as well as limited exposure. Thus the monopoly is, in the long run, self-destructive, as Broadway undermines its own cultural relevance, becoming more and more a mere amusement for the wealthy, much the way American opera did a century ago.

Mr. Teachout sees an escape from this problem in the form of regional theater,³ where prices, if still appalling to the average middle-class tourist, are far more reasonable. As Ceaseless Rosemary⁴ brought to my attention, off-Broadway remained largely open in light of the strike. Astoundingly, it turns out front-row tickets need not cost $500 for a theater to function.

Cologne has taught me much in this regard. With only a fraction of New York's population, the Kölners keep over 30 independent theaters running. True, the quality varies between inspirational and insipid, and you don't see a lot of productions with 42^nd Street budgets, but the shows are well-attended, well received, and well within reasonable prices. And it's worth noting that this is not Berlin, or Munich, or even Hamburg, Germany's true metropolises.⁵ So why can't Boston or Dallas or Cincinnati achieve their own claims to culture?

With the amount of talented actors, writers, musicians and technicians who remain both non-unionized and unemployed, there exists plenty of opportunity for American cities to contribute, to have their arts scenes thrive and be recognized for that achievement. No city can topple New York. Mecca will remain Mecca, and the hajj to New York will continue to be the apogee of the American art experience. But I hold out hope that the monopoly need not continue, and a freer, more accessible arts scene can still thrive, both in New York and elsewhere.

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¹Update: all right, I guessed wrong, but I'm leaving the link in place because I enjoy name-dropping.

²Might need to register to read this one. Apologies.

³This one, too.

⁴Merely her nom de plume, I assure you. Her parents aren't quite that hippie-esque.

⁵Metropoles? Metropolii?

Deutsche Dankopfern

I've done a fair amount of good-natured griping on this blog. Today, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I share a few of the things for which I am thankful:

1. Thanksgiving in Germany -- While the holiday is obviously not celebrated here, InWEnt, my sponsor organization, was good enough to put together a feast for us heimweh Americans. Last Monday, many of the PPPler's living in my province gathered at a brewery in Duisburg for a massive meal. It's truly the most I've eaten in one sitting since I arrived here, and it was completely worth the gastronomically induced nightmares.¹

2. Did I Mention It Was in a Brewery? -- Self-explanatory.

3. Malleable Accents -- According to one guest at Monday's feast, I have adopted a convincing Kölsch accent. Germans tend to spot American visitors through linguistic giveaways² such as strong R's and certain word-choice oddities. Since I've managed to jettison most of these habits while unintentionally adopting Kölsch pronunciation, the Duisburgers thought I could almost pass as a local. I thought this curious since Germans used to tell me I spoke with an Austrian accent. Maybe I should try to pick up Plattdeutsch and really start screwing with people's heads.

4. Bored Seminar Groups -- One of my more interesting classes at the Cologne Academy of Music has been a graduate seminar, whose title translates as "Qualitative Research Methods: The Interview." Though the class is intended primarily for grad students working towards a Diplom,³ I decided to sign up since the central research focus is contemporary arts institutions. As it turns out, the class is experiencing a dearth of available experts for interviews, so next week a panel of students will be researching... me. It's about time, too. It's been weeks since my last round of "Embarrass the American." I was beginning to feel neglected.

5. My Family and Friends -- My fondest wishes to you all. Happy Thanksgiving.

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¹I blame the "cranberry paste."

²After first checking for cowboy boots, white high-tops, or an aggressive foreign policy.

³A German degree acquired before the doctorate but after the Vordiplom. In case you were wondering, Vordiplom is German for "You poor bastard, you have sooo many years of school left."

Blessed Are the Buskers1

I love street performance, I really do. I do not think there is any manner of art more equalitarian. These extroverted entertainers create a free market in spectacle, where passersby may choose to sample or enjoy the wares for so long as they like, and they never need pay a cent. It's the Pandora of theatre.

I discuss buskers in economic terms because I believe that is how they should be perceived, with donors as buyers and performers as sellers. Buskers are not beggars. Rather, I would contend they are a sort of professional, offering a service. True, buskers resemble beggars in their method of collection, and donating to either increases the incentive for the activity. But the distinction becomes clear when one thinks about the incentive of the donor rather than the performer. When a donor gives to a beggar, they want the beggar to go eat, find shelter, and in short, to stop being a beggar. When the same donor throws coins to a busker, they are saying they want this activity to continue.

In any market, if there's money to be made, people will seek to make it. And if there's lots of money to be made, then talented and intrepid people will seek to make lots of it. Thus, a humble suggestion: give to the buskers.

Why, you might ask? Why should your hard earned pocket change go to drama students without enough common sense to work at a coffee shop? Answer: incentives again. It's no coincidence that the best street performers appear in crowded tourist spots, usually where shopping -- and thus, spare change -- is abundant. In every major European city I've visited, I have seen buskers everywhere. And just as frequently, they have their admirers. People constantly stop to listen to the music, watch the dance, or witness a painting materialize before them. But most pass on without offering any token of appreciation to the artist who has brightened their journey.

Buskers, like beggars, bankers, and the rest of us, like to eat, and if they can't manage it performing in the street, they'll do something else instead. Thus, the absence of donating is not a neutral response to the performance. Every person who walks by without giving a coin or two encourages the street performer to pack up and become a barista. Even more damaging to the performer's morale, I would argue, is the person who both lingers and pinches his pennies. That tells the busker: I have considered your performance and found it unworthy. Go and seek your apron.

Conversely, generous donations will draw better and better talent. I saw one such talent this past weekend while on another trip to London. While walking through Covent Garden, I noticed a very large throng of people. They had formed a circle about 20 meters in diameter around not a flower girl², but a busker, and an odd-looking one at that. There, atop an unsupported two-legged ladder, wielding three very nasty looking scimitars, stood a fellow named Pete, his baby-bald head offset by a black kilt³ and combat boots.

Pete is a true showman. He drew a crowd, kept them there, kept them laughing and gasping. And he did it balancing ten feet in the air, in a dress, while juggling cutlery. What stuck with me about Pete, however, was the brief appeal he made before his final stunt. He told the crowd that this performance was his job. It had taken time and effort -- years, in fact -- to get the act right. And he wanted to keep giving it, he wanted to keep performing and pleasing the crowds like he did that day, but he couldn't do it for free. Then he thanked the audience, black-flipped off the ladder, and made a two-point landing just in time to catch both his tumbling appartus and his thunderous applause.

I found myself thinking about Pete when I went to the National Theatre that night. The professional production I attended there was precise, witty and thought-provoking. But the audience in the black box couldn't have been much larger than Pete's crowd. In fact, it looked much smaller. I do not mean to slight traditional theatre with this comparison. Rather, I hope to give some perspective to Pete's achievement. Through nothing but hard work and creativity, he managed to entertain an audience larger than that of a playhouse, and for an almost laughable fraction of the price.

That is why I give my spare change to fellows like Pete. I don't pity them. I appreciate what buskers do, and the laughter and pageantry they bring to the city streets. A little unsolicited jollity is worth at least that.

And if you see Pete, please be extra generous. Maybe then he'll be able to get himself some pants.

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¹Slang for street performer.<sup>a

aMy apologies to those of you who read the footnotes only after the rest of the text. Some people aren't as resourceful as you, what with your clever googling. Also, you're pretty.

2</sup>Though wouldn't that be lover-ly?

³An odd fashion choice, I thought, for someone who earns his daily bread perched out in the wind above large crowds.

Standard Blog Boilerplate1

Apologies for the lack of posting. My life of late has been jolting back and forth between periods of uninteresting languor and frenzied travel. Posting makes for a boring read during the former, and it's unfeasible during the latter. A more substantial post to follow soon.

In the interim, go watch my new favorite inappropriate British farce, Father Ted.

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¹Have you noticed every blog seems to have an announcement like this now and again? I suppose there is comfort in knowing that life occasionally trumps blogging.

City of All Saints

As several notable bloggers have already mentioned, this past Wednesday was Reformation Day. I celebrated the occasion in proper Protestant fashion: I went clubbing.

The club was Gebäude 9, the same venue where I experienced a rather bizarre passion play during last month's Theater Nacht Köln. A former factory turned bar and dance club, Gebäude 9 houses parties much more successfully than it does theater, particularly bad theater with painfully obvious metaphors. The play, as you may recall, was a passion play with Jesus as an indie rocker, preaching authenticity and warning against selling out. It would have been clever if it weren't so heavy-handed.

Dance clubs are an interesting experience here. Cologne is often touted as the center of gay culture in Europe, and the KölnerInnen pride themselves on being "multi-kulti." Thus I was not surprised to find partygoers of every stripe. What did surprise me was the communal experience the club offered. I am not normally a fan of drum and bass music -- I'd never even heard of it until the night before -- but somehow, the pulsing music and heavy cigarette smoke¹ combined to create an atmosphere that was almost warm. I was particularly struck by the absence of sexual tension across the dance floor. To be sure there were couples about, doing what couples ...erm, do, but the general aura was much more simple and free-spirited. It was lively, and it was fun. And that was all.

The crowd had filled Gebäude 9 from wall to wall, a somewhat surprising sight for a Wednesday. No doubt this resulted from the next day being All Saints Day. This being a Catholic region of the country, All Saints Day is an official holiday. So the next morning² I went to the Dom, the cathedral, for Mass. In the plaza in front of the Dom, I passed a street performer doing balancing tricks on a unicycle. He had gathered a sizable crowd, so I paused briefly to watch. Upon entering the cathedral, I noticed attendance was sparse, which normally would not have surprised me. It occurred to me, however, that the crowd in the cathedral was far smaller than had been on the dance floor the night before. Indeed, it was even smaller than the gathering watching the street performer outside. My surprise waned throughout the Mass. While outside the people laughed and enjoyed the spectacle, inside they murmured through the hymns without enthusiasm and beat their breasts over their "ewige Schuld," their eternal guilt.

While the Dom lacked the festivity of Gebäude 9 or the street performer, the Mass offered contemplation, a reflection on what community is all about. In his homily, the priest spoke of both the consolation and the hardship of Christianity. He spoke of finding comfort in the family of the Church, but also of living up to the demands of what that community stands for. Community, in other words, is more than just a good feeling, more than a party or a good show. He was inspiring; it's unfortunate more people didn't hear him.

I have been thinking about these rather dichotomous twenty-four hours ever since. Many people in Germany, especially the younger generation, are by and large disaffected in regards to faith. And many of the faithful are disaffected in regards to them. I doubt anyone else from Gebäude 9 went to the Dom the next day. Nor could I imagine too many of the attendants of that Mass at a drum and bass club. I have heard it said that Cologne is a city of contradictions. The city shares a history with the Catholic Church since the middle ages, and its influence has continued into the twentieth century. As recently as the Second Vatican Council, the influential Josef Cardinal Frings hailed from Cologne, bringing with him an intelligent young theologian named Joseph Ratzinger. Yet the history of diversity and "Multi-Kulti" also has a strong tradition in Cologne, evident in the city's history of commitment to art and culture, and the amazing assortment of people who live here.

I am not so sure this dichotomy is a contradiction at all. In both Gebäude 9 and the Dom, I saw the people of Cologne seeking, in different ways, the same thing: a sense of community, a sense of belonging. It reminds me of that amateurish passion play I saw at Gebäude 9 last month, with Jesus as indie rocker. Perhaps the image is not such a bad metaphor for this city, with its different groups of identical desires.

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¹Among other unmistakable aromas.

²Okay, fine, afternoon... late afternoon.

Law of the Land

Evidently, there is a secret to meeting beautiful women on a German university campus. Are you ready?

Take a law class.

Go ahead, read that sentence again. I'll wait.

I discovered this little tidbit of college lore a few weeks ago, near the end of my Sprachkurs at language school. My instructor took the class to the University of Cologne for an informational scavenger hunt, the type where rather than collecting particular objects, participants seek the answers to a list of questions. The purpose of this excursion was to begin inoculating us to university life, before our imminent plunge therein. One question asked, "In which academic departments can the best-looking students, male and female, be found?" I wondered what questions of this sort were supposed to prepare us for, but that's for another day.

Every student asked answered consistently that the most attractive men studied Sport¹ and women Jura, or law. Apparently, these are commonly accepted stereotypes in German higher education. Since I am not on the market, nor am I at a large university, the veracity of this claim is, for me, largely academic.² The results intrigued me, however, for what you will undoubtedly conclude is a far less interesting reason. I am considering becoming a lawyer, but something holds me back: I think America has too many lawyers already. I raise this topic because my observations of German legal education have given credence to my concerns.

Before we dive into that topic, a little background: ever since I read my first John Grisham novel at age ten,³ I have considered law as a potential career path. I took a number of courses on law and legal philosophy in college, and I also spent two summer internships in law offices. Since my arrival, I have also done some casual research into German legal practice. I have observed some differences between the day-to-day practice of American and German lawyers, but the more notable distinction is between American and German law students.

University structure undoubtedly plays a role in this difference. General education receives far less emphasis in German universities than it does in the States. German students enter university with both their major area of study and their terminal degree in mind. Thus, German law students do not have a four-year period to study something else prior to law; they study it immediately. This means the opportunity cost of studying law in Germany is much higher than in the United States. A student cannot decide to become a lawyer after four years of studying German literature without finding himself significantly behind his peers in the field. I suspect this diminishes the number of German students who find themselves studying law.

I use the phrase "find themselves" because I believe many American students in law school end up there almost by accident. In my personal experience, American students often have very vague notions regarding why they attend law school. I suspect the promises of high pay and a respected profession often play a large role in the decision. Additionally, I have often heard Americans talk about how a law student need not necessarily practice law after getting a law degree.

Leaving aside the accuracy of that claim, the very idea of studying law to do something else is pretty foreign to the German mindset. You study law to practice law. Law is not considered a stepping stone to other careers in Germany as it sometimes is in the States. For instance, I know many bright and ambitious Americans my age who are considering running for public office some day. Many of them think a law degree will boost their political career. Not so much in Germany. Here, most politicians rise out of the civil service. While a civil career is not a requisite for public office -- Chancellor Merkel's training, for instance, was as a physicist⁴ -- it is seen as the standard approach, much the way law is viewed by many in the States.

The comparison between German and American law students leads me to certain conclusions. There are more lawyers in America partially because Americans see law as a more versatile education than Germans do. Additionally, my observations here have reiterated a concern I have had for some time: legal education is creating a brain drain in the United States. Every year, thousands of bright, capable students who want meaningful, fulfilling careers choose to pursue law not because they want to practice law, or even because they find it interesting, but because of the structure of the educational system. Unsure of what to do after college, law school provides an answer to that difficult question, and the students are assured the answer they have chosen will be both rewarding and respected, and possibly financially lucrative.

I have heard similar concerns from some pretty reputable sources. Last year, Justice Antonin Scalia of the United States Supreme Court visited Claremont McKenna, and I had the honor of sitting at his table at a formal luncheon in his honor. Perhaps the most enlightening part of the afternoon was when he was asked, "What would you say to a young person today considering going to law school?" After pausing for a moment, Justice Scalia answered, "I think too many promising young minds are wasted on it."

I was astounded. Here was one of the sharpest legal minds in the country bemoaning his own profession. To my gratitude, Justice Scalia explained himself. Of course he considers the law a worthwhile pursuit, but it is his belief that the best law schools are drawing many of the best students of my generation away from pursuits where they could be put to better use. The best legal minds in the country should not be writing merger contracts for deals in major New York firms. There is nothing wrong with such work, but an overemphasis on it can be to society's detriment. In a sense, these career choices, societally speaking, are a zero-sum gain: every bright young person on Wall Street is one less medical researcher, one less government reformer, one less entrepreneur or composer. Put too many of them there, and these other fields suffer.

In light of all this, I look at the massive number of lawyers in America -- I have read some estimates that put the number at nearly 1 million in practice -- and I wonder whether my services, and those of my peers, could not be put to better use elsewhere. Of course, one million is just a number. Perhaps in our modern economy, that is how many lawyers are required. Besides, I still think law is a noble and worthwhile profession. But after considering the German perspective on a legal career, I want to make sure it's where I can do the most good.

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¹Yes, it turns out you can major in soccer at some German universities. Not sure what I think of this yet, or how it compares to the practice of lick-and-a-stamp degree conferrals at some of the Big 10. More on this later.

²Ba dum ching.

³What? It's not like I didn't watch Power Rangers, too.

⁴Props to Jeff of "The Ruling Zeitgeist" for fact-checking me on this one. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

Because It Is My Name

As I have said here before, I am not an official student at the Cologne Academy of Music. I am enrolled at the Center for International Arts Management, which is an institute for graduate study only. Since they do not permit students to register fully for only one semester -- and since I probably will not be taking final exams anyway -- I was forced to register as a Gasthörer, literally someone who has formal permission to visit the classroom. It might give some sense of scale if I use a completely unrelated analogy. The Gasthörer is to the German university classroom as an unnamed ensign is to the USS Enterprise. No one knows his name. No one cares to know his name. He has nothing to say, and the most valuable contribution he can make is to die on an away mission to highlight the seriousness of the situation.¹

My status as a Gasthörer has made a number of situations, ranging from administrative to social, somewhat awkward. New acquaintances never react well upon learning my registration status. Sometimes they suddenly seem uncomfortable in my presence, while others have actually made piteous "aww" noises. I have discovered the best reaction I can hope for in these exchanges is shock, as in, "I am shocked to hear that you are one of them."

Such was my experience while speaking to a student yesterday. Ralf, a local installation artist who is pursuing a master's at CIAM, met the news that I was a Gasthörer with a flattering degree of indignation. As many artists are wont to do, Ralf immediately sought to remedy this grave injustice. He assembled a number of other CIAM students whom I had not met, introduced me, then explained my plight² to the group.

They unanimously agreed that the term suited me poorly. Instead, my status would be better referred to as a stipendiatender Austauschstudent, or a "fellowship-holding exchange student." Despite the mild horror I always experience when hearing Germans concoct such serpentine phrases, I was intrigued. The group explained that, in general, German sentiment towards American exchange students is tolerant at best. The average American student in German classrooms is there for a semester abroad, often with little or no grasp of the language. Conversely, my little ad hoc counsel told me that American students who speak German are usually met as a pleasant surprise, particularly if they are intelligent enough to be in Germany on a scholarship.³ They were quick to add that this change of title was also not a deceit. Rather, the real fault lay with the administration for diluting my status.

My confidence bolstered by this conversation, I decided to try out my new title. After class, I headed to the little coffee bistro on the ground floor, and introduced myself to the first friendly face I saw. Upon hearing that I was not a lowly Gasthörer but a mighty stipendiatender Austauschstudent, the girl's eyes widened, and a shriek of glee escaped from her lips. She called her friends over, and they immediately began clamoring to introduce themselves, ask me questions, or just to touch the hem of my coat, even for an instant. The crowd around me quickly grew until I was forced to hastily retreat, lest I be arrested for causing a fire hazard.

...Or not. Though actually, I have discovered I am met with more warmth and curiosity than I was before. German culture makes a big to-do of titles and certificates, especially with regard to education, so I probably should have been less surprised. In any case, it feels good to have risen a little through the ranks. I also have a freshly minted and equally unrelated analogy for my new status: The stipendiatender Austauschstudent is to the German university as the comely alien woman is to the USS Enterprise. This character is only here for a short while, and her allure results from her exotic background and accompanying entertainment value. Kirk will probably sleep with her, but at least she's not getting eaten by a space lizard.

I can live with that.

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¹The German word for away mission is "Seminar."

²Ralf's word choice, not mine. Technically, he called my situation a Bedrängnis, which could also be translated as "affliction," but I thought that made for too weepy a translation. I am beleaguered by paper pushers, not tuberculosis.

³I decided to be discrete about CBYX's dubious status as a "scholarship," as they were all being so nice.

Damn You, Robert Moses or: A Feather in the German Cap

Thus far, my exultations of German culture on this site have been... restrained. Perhaps a symptom of culture shock is reticence to laud one's new home's achievements. Maybe it's because they're weird foreign people who smell funny. Whatever the cause, today I break my silence. Today, the Germans get their due.

Public transportation in this country is awesome.

You may find this a mild source of adulation, but I give this complement with a healthy amount of perspective. I grew up on Long Island, New York. It is not hyperbole to say that Robert Moses designed modern New York as we know it. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the man, Moses was a civil engineer whose vast political influence allowed him to design the New York transportation system as it is today. He is not, however, remembered particularly fondly. Though he managed at one time to amass a full 25% of the federal urban planning budget in New York projects, the results of that work, as New Yorkers would say, pissed off a lotta people.

Forget Levittown; it was Moses' decision to favor highways over railways that led to New York becoming the largest commuter culture in the world of its time.¹ It was Moses who designed the Long Island public beaches (one is even named after him), and it was Moses who decided to build his highways through neighborhoods in Brooklyn and the Bronx, eventually leading to a generation of urban decay. A lot of people have never forgiven Moses for the ramifications of these decisions. It's said he deliberately made the toll bridges to the beach too low for buses in order to keep the black community out. My grandfather's just mad he made the Dodgers skip town.²

Obviously, I come to bury Robert Moses, not to praise him. But I raise his example not because of his bigotry, but because of his single most influential decision: he favored automoblies as a mode of transportation over trains. I can only imagine this seemed a forward-looking perspective in the thirties and forties. Today, however, the result is near unfathomable congestion and traffic completely surrounding the city. Long Island alone -- which, by the way, is geologically nothing more than a silt deposit scraped off a passing glacier's shoe -- has over 7.5 million inhabitants. That's more than Ireland, and they all live on a strip of land the size of Yellowstone National Park.

Urban planning has a better history here in Germany. Following the near total destruction of the country's major cities in World War II, the Wessis³ advanced on the old railway system to produce thorough transit lines around all of the densely populated areas, as well as an efficient system of connections between all of Germany's medium- and large-sized cities. Modern consensus is the latter was either a wise investment or a Keynesian Wunderwerk. In either case, the trains streamlined reconstruction, and make travel around Germany an inexpensive and relatively environmentally friendly affair.

I raised this topic now not despite the strikes going on at Deutsche Bahn, the national train line, but rather because of them. The recent series of strikes is the first in the company's history, and while the German press has been in quite a huff, it is still possible to get pretty much wherever you want to go. Since arriving, I have not once found myself thinking, "I wish I had a car." Regional travel is cheap, accessible, and even during a strike, service is reliable. I'll miss that.

As a last note on the subject of civil engineers with bad reputations: Cologne's current most influential civil architect has the unfortunate burden of being named Albert Speer Jr. If the name sounds familiar, it's probably because you've heard of his father. Please note Speer the younger had apparently little relationship with his father and is highly respected for his work throughout the architectural community.

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¹I don't have the figures, but having braved LA freeways, I have to think the City of Angels has since claimed this title. If they haven't, I really don't want to know who has.

²For the full story on Moses, read Robert Caro's biography. I've only read portions of this 1300-page tome, but the book gets almost nothing but praise, and is the definitive work on Moses.

³West Germans.

His Name is Schulz, Does That Count?

This definitely counts as a "miscellanea" post.

I don't know who David Michaelis is, but his new biography of Charles Schulz, creator and fifty-year author of the Peanuts comic strip, received reviews from not one but two authors far more famous than himself.* You can read Bill Watterson's review here, and John Updike's review here.

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*Michaelis, not Schulz.<sup>1

1</sup>How impressed are you? Two line post, and I still fit in not only a footnote, but a footnoted footnote! Now that's consistency.

Out of the Internet Cafe and Back in School

Good Lord, it feels good to be in college again.

…After a fashion, anyway. Studies at the Cologne Academy of Music are definitely handled differently from my typical fare of the past. The Hochschule is as distant from CMC curriculum-wise as it is geographically. The most obvious difference from Claremont, however, is the manner of dress. Instead of flip-flops and board shorts, the young men at the Hochschule tend to wear dress coats and scarves. I have no qualms about this attire, but taken en masse, it does give the school the impression of a Doctor Who convention with cellos.

There is also very little in the way of what I have heard some Germans demeaningly refer to as “handholding.” Over the last century, the trend in American higher education has gradually been to make university a home away from home. Dorms commune, departments eat and drink together, and an entire array of activities take place to form what we in the USA call “campus life.” No such thing at the Hochschule. Students certainly befriend one another, and they bond through performance groups and research projects. But a visiting American would probably say the organization of the Cologne Academy of Music more resembles a high school than a college. Most of the studies, rehearsals and even performances are contained in one building, which itself is very reminiscent of all those concrete industrial behemoths built in the States to educate the baby-boomers of the sixties and seventies.

The classroom experience, however, is pure university fare. Indeed, I would say students at the Hochschule are much more engaged than the average university student. They are all aware how lucky they are to be in such a specialized and highly regarded school, as opposed to navigating the madness that is the main university system.* The average student I have met here is very happy as well as industrious in their chosen instrument and/or field. This has been particularly exciting for me since I have resumed singing. Somehow, over the past week, I’ve ended up in three different choirs: one intentionally, one through a lucky audition, and one by accident. And since every student in the school is a musician of one sort or another, the level of quality and professionalism is already evident.

I’m taking actual lecture classes, as well. These have been a little dizzying thus far. It’s amazing how one little variable can completely trip up a well-honed practice. Over the last four years, I acquired the necessary college acumen for following a discussion on social policy or qualitative research methods while simultaneously producing a transcription and contributing my own points to the progression of the dialogue.**

Suddenly, the whole thing’s in German, and now it’s a crap chute.

That said, my particular program is proving exciting enough to be worth the effort. The Center for International Arts Management, like most fledgling research institutes, isn’t so much a building or even a proper organization yet. It’s more an assemblage of faculty going about their particular projects while roping in graduate students as contributors/slave labor. Which is fine by me. This field is still mostly foreign to me, so I’m happy to soak up whatever experience I can.

Provided, of course, that I don’t alienate any more faculty. I have begun attending the Center’s central lecture series of the semester, which revolves around something called “Voices and Vocal Concepts.” As a singer, I was intrigued, so I swung by the first one to see what it was all about. As it turns out, the first lecture was to be given by the same gentleman who led the Voice Department meeting I ran out of so suddenly last week. When he was introduced, not only did I learn he was the school Rektor (i.e. president), he is none other than Josef Protschka. He is also Josef Protschka. And Josef Protschka. Hence my additional frustration when, as he entered the ninetieth minute of his sixty-minute lecture with no signs of stopping, I realized I was late for dinner plans and had to leave. The room was dark, and I probably could have made a decent getaway, had I not managed to knock over what seemed like every chair between mine and the exit.

Next week, I’m going to act like a proper American, and sit in the back.

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*If you dare, see last post.

**Not to mention writing sentences like that without triggering my gag reflex.

Teutonic Travels, Part Two: The Difference a Week Makes

[Typed on a laptop, saved to a USB drive, posted in an internet cafe]

My Sprachkurs ended this past Friday, bringing the first part of the CBYX program, Language Training, to an end. All those members of the program not remaining in Cologne bid their goodbyes this past weekend and departed for cities throughout Germany. I intend to visit a number of them throughout the coming months, so I will share more about our adventures as they occur. As for myself, I am staying here, though I have relocated. I moved out of my Gastfamilie's home Monday morning into an apartment in the southern Cologne neighborhood of Zollstock.

I should note that the first part of the CBYX program is by far the most structured. More than half the program had been located in Cologne for the first two months, and we all had a very regimented schedule: class began at 8:45 am sharp, five days a week. I knew coming into this second part of the program that life would be more independent and less regimented.

I had not known that the first few days would be complete and utter chaos.

There is no simple way to summarize the past week. Instead, I'll just give you the full run-down day by day.

MONDAY:

I left my Gastfamilie behind, with one last parting gift from my Gastvater in the form of a free ride to my new apartment, and with one last parting shot from my Gastmutter regarding a couple of stray foodstuffs I had left in the fridge (you may recall my former Gastfamilie's distaste for leftovers). After crossing the Rhine, I arrived at my new apartment, where I found the former tenant still in the process of "cleaning." I use this term loosely, because despite the fact that I was witnessing his attempts to scrub the floor, it was obvious by both 1) his poor technique; and 2) his lack of success in affecting the state of the floor, that housekeeping was a relatively new concept in this apartment. Indeed, though I had found the apartment somewhat dirty upon visiting it a few weeks earlier, the place appeared to have degenerated ever further since. The kitchen, bathroom and bedroom were all coated in the vague sticky coating that easy-to-clean surfaces like linoleum and tile acquire when they are never... well, cleaned. To add insult to injury, the former tenant is a chain-smoker, and although the bedroom window has been open more or less constantly for five days at this point, the room still smells faintly like W.C. Fields, Winston Churchill and the Marlboro Man used to bunk here together.

While the former tenant finished rearranging the filth, I decided to drop off my bags and attend to some of the various chores I needed to accomplish this week. Thus began this week's adventures in German bureaucracy. My intended tasks for the afternoon were relatively simple: 1) sign up at the University of Cologne in order to access the internet account in my new student housing; and 2) purchase a "Mensa Card" at the main Mensa (i.e. dining hall) so that I might use the laundry machines in my building. I arrived at the student services office at the University to find that internet service registered a number for my matriculation, which I had never received. Worse yet, my actual studies are taking place at the Cologne Academy of Music, which is located across town. I had already been there once to register as a Gasthörer, essentially the German equivalent to auditing classes, and I was not enthusiastic about revisiting their own labyrinthine offices. Nonetheless, off I went. Upon arriving, I learned that Gasthörers do not in fact receive matriculation numbers, and the Academy would not be able to provide me with one. Frustrated, I called the registration office to explain to them what the Academy had told me, only to learn that they could in fact provide me with a "künstlich" matriculation number to get me through the system. They said this was standard operating procedure for Gasthörers. Rather than ask why they did not tell me this in the first place, I headed back across town to register.

After registration, I was a little low on cash. I didn't want to buy a Mensa Card without any credit on it, so I headed to my local Deutsche Bank to withdraw some funds. Evidently, they've been having some computer troubles at my local branch, because the ATM ate my card. I mean that literally, by the way. There was gnawing and grinding, and I think I saw it drool. Horrified, I went inside to ask for help, where I was informed about said computer trouble, and was redirected to another branch where something was actually operational. Once I got to the other branch across town, I waited in line for half an hour before being told that I would need to order a new card, and that I would not have it for a few days. In typical German fashion, the woman behind the counter also used this moment as an opportunity to chastise me for my irresponsibility (the Germans love to criticize one another). Conversely, I used the opportunity as a test of my own patience, to see how much I could endure in one day without beating someone within an inch of his life.

Following that, I finally headed to the Mensa to buy a Mensa Card, only to find the Mensa had closed mere minutes before.

I'm fairly confident the scream that erupted from me in that moment registered on a Geiger counter somewhere.

Frustrated, I consoled myself that I had at least successfully registered for internet access... that is until I discovered that the internet connection in my room does not, in fact, work. The ancient modem which I am required to use may actually function, but since I can't read the Sumerian cuneiform in which the instruction manual is written, I'll probably never know.


TUESDAY:

Refusing to be defeated, I awoke early Tuesday full of good intentions, optimism, and all the other personality disorders of the naive traveler. My first stop was the Mensa, to purchase the Mensa Card I failed to acquire the day before. From there, I headed to Orientation at the Cologne Academy of Music. I had been told that the first orientation meeting for my program would begin at 10:30. My program is at the Center for International Arts Management, a graduate institute which has a very professional atmosphere. Thus I was quite proud of myself for arriving at 9:30, and took the time to chat with a few students and write one or two short emails from the internet kiosk. Shortly after 10, I strolled to the designated room to secure a seat.

As it turns out, I had been misinformed. Orientation began at 10 o'clock sharp, and I was the last person to arrive. The only remaining seat was an empty chair at the front of the room, immediately adjacent to where the ENTIRE FACULTY of the Center were seated. I was beckoned to this chair, and seeing no alternative, I sat in it, where the entire student body of the Center had opportunity to stare at the stupid American who had shown up late.*

As a Gasthörer, there wasn't much else going on that day that concerned me, save a meeting regarding the singing program that afternoon. I decided to use the afternoon for food shopping since I would not have any time that evening. Megan, a friend from CBYX, and I had plans to attend Theater-Nacht Köln, an annual event where all the theaters of Cologne put on small productions, and for a flat rate the audience can run from theater to theater, seeing as many as five short plays in an evening.

My afternoon was a tight schedule, and I more or less had to run back to the Academy to make my afternoon meeting. I headed to the bathroom to wash up, where I put the tickets on the counter to avoid them falling out of my shirt pocket. About halfway through my meeting, I had one of those horrifying icy moments when one realizes he has done something incredibly stupid. The tickets were still on the counter. Without saying anything, I discreetly got up and gracefully walked to the door. Once through it, I bolted to the bathroom, only to find the tickets were, of course, gone. After asking the front desk if anyone had turned them in, I left my phone number in case they turned up, and ran to the nearest ticket counter to purchase more.

Immediately after buying two more tickets, I received a call from the front desk saying my tickets had been turned in. Now I had four tickets for two theatre-goers. After calling everyone in the CBYX program still in Cologne, I headed to English Books and Tea to see if Chris and his wife might like to come along. Chris was unfortunately under the weather, but one of his regular customers and part-time help was there. Emma, who I had met once before, is a student at the University of Cologne. Originally from The Netherlands, she speaks flawless English (she sounds like she's from Sacramento), and very strong German. A literature student and theater junkie (she worked at the English Theater at Uni. Köln), she happily obliged to come along.

Thus the day was finally beginning to look up... were it not for the fact the theater was all so amateurishly bad. Save the short scene we watched from Beckett's "Kreb's Last Tape," the evening's performances were hilariously bad. I was not particularly impressed by the first piece we saw, a Passion play with Jesus portrayed as Indie rock star, nor the last piece of the evening, which resembled a bizarre hodgepodge of Sex and the City, The Witches of Eastwick and the First Wive's Club.... or so I'm told, having never seen any of those, of course.

WEDNESDAY:

October 3 is Der Tag der Einheit, the German equivalent of the Fourth of July, when Germany celebrates the reunification. The average German celebrates this by sleeping in and remaining completely oblivious to why they have off from work that day.** I planned to lunch with friends from CBYX and to finally tackle the epic cleaning job ahead of me. Lunch went off without a hitch, but my cleaning plans were derailed when an afternoon stroll and catch-up chat with my regional program representative ended up lasting five hours. I was able to see Cologne's beautiful parks -- all of them, it seems -- but the fresh air did little for the state of my apartment. My one consolation is that I celebrated Der Tag der Einheit in true German fashion: unproductively, and with a feeling of mild frustration and helplessness.

THURSDAY:

As you can imagine, I had been feeling pretty bleak by this point. Luckily, I had the opportunity to chat with my mother Wednesday night, which was a wonderful blessing: I hadn't spoken with my family in what felt like ages, and getting caught up on family business was rejuvenating. So I approached Thursday with a renewed sense of determination that I would do something right this week. My friend Sannie and I met early to handle our Ummeldungen, the required change-of-address registration Germans must fulfill every time they move. Despite both of our birthdays being incorrectly registered in the German databanks, the whole process was unbelievably painless, requiring only fifteen minutes. Confident from having finally won a battle against German bureaucracy, I entered my second melee of the day: German shopping.

Emma and I had previously arranged to travel to the local IKEA to pick up to some furnishings for our new apartments. It may have taken two trains and a bus to get there, but IKEA was a sight for sore eyes. I've never liked shopping, especially in big warehouse mega-stores, but after almost a week of government offices, a little interaction with the private sector felt like being waited on hand and foot.

I admit, Emma and I may have gone a little overboard. We were so excited that there were so many cheap deals (I barely spent €60), it was only upon payment that we discovered just how much we had purchased. And so began the adventure of returning home, juggling four large shopping bags, two wastepaper bins, a boxed chandelier, a drying rack and a rug. This proved quite a challenge on a journey that required us to board a bus and two trains just to get back to the city. We eventually evolved a system where we would each board/depart with two of the bags, then Emma would hold the doors open while I threw everything else out the door. By the time we made it back to the city, we were pretty proud of ourselves. Only then did we encounter our greatest challenge. While our combined purchases could be mixed in a way that made them cartable between the two of us, once we separated our purchases, we found that both individual piles were too awkward to be carried by a single person. The bakery on the corner refused, in no uncertain terms, to watch any of our bags for us, so we resolved to take turns lugging our belongings home. I waited with the pile while Emma carried her purchases home in two loads. Afterwards, she helped me transport my own assorted bric-a-brac. Seven hours after our departure that morning, we concluded the day by celebrating out success with dinner at her favorite Indian restaurant, where we had a leisurely discussion about both great English literature and Harry Potter.***

FRIDAY:

As of midday today, my new apartment is half-clean, half-assembled, and half-draped in the laundry that is still drying from Wednesday evening. But I survived the week. I faced the gaping maw of the German "service" industry, and though I am scarred both physically and emotionally, I'm still alive. This week saw the beginning of the real challenge of my time here: finding a place for myself in this bizarre land of tortuous red tape, semi-celebrated holidays and ATMs with attitude problems. It's been tough so far, but I've had a number of small victories. My apartment is homier, my clothes are clean, and I have a new literary acquaintance to commiserate with. And I now fully understand why Kafka wrote his bureaucratic nightmare tales in German.

Oh, well, back to work. These ominous wall stains aren't going to clean themselves.

Bussi bussi.

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*Most Germans have no trouble instantly recognizing me as an American, or at the very least not German, by my style of dress. Though my usual wardrobe does actually resemble German casual clothes, i.e. leather shoes and button-down shirts, I don't typically spend €100 on jeans or shellack my hair with the contents of the Exxon Valdez every morning. I imagine I look to Germans somewhat like Jane Goodall in reverse.

**I'm not kidding. A recent TV news story asked a number of Germans on the street what the Day of Unity celebrates. For someone who's been worn a little thin on "stupid American" jokes, the answers these Germans gave were refreshingly ignorant.

***Zing.

A Well Deserved Plug

One of my college roommates had his first byline yesterday in the New York Post. The subject is Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's visit to Columbia University.

John is a fine journalist, so give it a glance.

Fortwo Admire an' Fortwo See

I read the online edition of The New Yorker religiously, and my zealotry has not waned during my tenure in Europe. Thus am I fortunate enough to be able to bring to your attention the following article from last week's Talk of the Town. The Smart Fortwo, the little European coupe that could, made its first visit to New York recently, where it demonstrated many incredible feats including, but not limited to:

1. Cutting across three lanes of traffic without incident;
2. Occupying, via a perpindicular-to-street orientation, a mere THIRD of a standard New York parking space; and, certainly not least,
3. Deflecting a moving violation ticket from the NYPD

David Schembri, president of Smart USA, hopes to bring the little bugger to the States' major metropolitan areas in order to assuage traffic conditions.* The economists in my readership recognize this argument for the temporary fix it is -- an increased supply of driving space will simply be consumed by more drivers -- but the more assured upswing of the introduction of the Fortwo is that more cars will indeed fit in America's cities, which means more people will be able to drive, should they so desire.

I am not immediately certain what the total range of ramifications a full-scale invasion of Fortwos would have on American cities. The hassle of driving in places like New York and Los Angeles is a mainstay of modern American life, and I doubt that a single model, particularly one that makes the Mini Cooper look butch, will be able to change that.

The Fortwo does come in an electric model, which makes it an ideal purchase for the modern green consumer looking to decrease his carbon footprint. The electric model of the Fortwo is infamous in parts of Europe. When I lived in Austria, I heard it referred to as an "Ohne." This is a Wortspiel off the German system of bottled water; since many Germans and Austrians prefer their bottled water carbonated, one must always specify when ordering water whether one wants "mit" oder "ohne," with or without gas.

There is an additional joke that the "Ohne" is actually short for "Ohne Sex," since no man is going to pick up ladies in a Fortwo, let alone a whining electric version thereof that tops out at 45 mph. Such is the price we pay for saving the envrionment and maximizing parking space.

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*What a saint.

Gushing over Genia

I'm calling it, right here, right now. I want this in the Google cache, so that all may know, from this moment to Ragnarok, that I called it.

Genia Kühmeier is going to be huge.

Though maybe that's not the best choice of words when describing a classically trained singer. After all, there's a good chance she actually will be, erm, huge. She's a soprano. To paraphrase Victor Borge, she could very well end up being four and a half feet tall... lying down. It's kind of an occupational hazard of the profession.

That aside, Ms. Kühmeier is unabashedly amazing. I had the great fortune to hear her at the Kölner Philharmonie last night, where she performed six Strauss Lieder for soprano and orchestra. Particularly stunning were her renditions of Strauss' "Zueignung" and "Morgen." I do not often indulge in closing my eyes at concerts, but Ms. Kühmeier's voice demanded it. She generated a tone, a color, a sensation that filled that house and created the feeling any great musician should create: that the audience is so very lucky, so very privileged to be exactly where thay are at that moment, hearing what they hear.

If you don't believe my word that Ms. Kühmeier is going to be the next Renée Fleming or Anna Netrebko (or at least the next Angelika Kirschlager), just look at her track record. In the past year, this wonderful performer has premiered at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden, the Théâtre Musical de Paris Châtelet, and the Bayerische Staatsoper, undoubtedly three of the most important opera houses in Europe. She will also perform the role of Pamina in Die Zauberflöte at the Metropolitan Opera in New York during the 2007-2008 season's run. Pamina is admittedly not the most important or demanding female role; it's not even the most demanding female role in The Magic Flute. But Genia is too young to be performing roles like the Queen of the Night, anyway. She is, however, cornering the market on performances of Pamina. That she has been so frequently hired for it as of late may mean she is on the cusp of fame.

Long story short, for those of you who are in New York, make the most of this opportunity, and hear her when The Magic Flute returns to the Met. Tickets don't seem to be available yet, but stay sharp.

And just in case you still don't believe me, please feel free to sample her talent as Pamina for yourself.

English Interlude: A Weekend off the West End

Despite having come to Europe primarily for an education in the arts, I have had blessed little exposure to live performance since my arrival. This is largely because summer is tour season in Europe, and the local venues (i.e. the places where cheap student tickets are available) have mostly been closed. This dramatic dry spell is one reason among many I was so happy to be able to travel to London this past weekend. I was given a wonderful inside tour of two of London's theater hot spots, and all free of charge.

My lovely hostess for the weekend brought me to tech and dress rehearsals of the two shows with whom she is currently employed. The first show, which opens this weekend at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art, is titled "Wireless," and is written by Josie Long, a promising young writer who, despite having obvious talent, also works on the hit British television show Skins.* As near as I can tell, Skins is some twisted amalgam of the Disney Channel, "St. Elmo's Fire," the sillier portions of RENT, and bad internet fan fiction about all of the above. But I digress.

Ignoring the at-first-glance-seemingly-pretentious-post-modern-title, I found the play very intelligent, from what scenes I was able to view during tech rehearsal. The plot follows Richard, a young Irishman as he heads to London to move in with this girlfriend, leaves after he discovers she is cheating on him, and eventually becomes involved with Vix, a deaf woman who lives in a massive pile of collected oddities she keeps in her house. This framework developed out of what I am told was originally a somewhat political piece about the horrors of human trafficking.

The end result felt intelligent, and made good use of being a stage script, rather than a screenplay. The play hops from scene to scene in a way that should be jarring, but maintains a sense of connectivity, in no small part thanks to my hostess' wonderful set, a rotating platform which blends one scene into the next as Richard goes about his journey. I had the good fortune to be allowed to contribute a small part to this set, as we spent Saturday morning affixing a few last minute knickknacks to Vix's pile.

Even more exciting was the dress rehearsal I attended Saturday evening at the Battersea Art Centre's Old Town Hall. Punch Drunk Theatricals has come up with one of the most innovative productions I have ever had the pleasure to experience. The company's modus operandi is the transformation of entire buildings into interactive performances, where the audience actually dons costumes and walks about the building as the play is performed all throughout. Their current show, "The Masque of the Red Death," blends the plots of ten short stories by Edgar Allen Poe, with "The Fall of the House of Usher" as the somewhat counter-intuitive hub around which the evening's events turn.

Experiencing this show cannot be adequately described. Though some small portions of the building remained contemporary in appearance (e.g. fire exits), most of it had been reverted to a theatrically convincing nineteenth century manor. Moody lighting and foreboding music haunted every corner, and the actors were absolutely terrific. Half the cast are trained dancers, whose performances, rather than spoken, are acted out through furious duets in their chambers. All the characters travel the building, and you can wait in one room for more to arrive, or pick your favorite and follow. I had special fun following about Inspector Dupin of "The Purloined Letter" as he attempted to solve one of the evening's grislier murders. The plot, I am told, is not altogether important, though I still found myself roped into a couple of its lines. Rather, the point is to experience the show as it happens and allow oneself to get caught up in it. Every element of the performance is pointed towards this goal, including the costumes the audience wore. Each guest wears standard masquerade attire of cloak and mask, which, while giving the whole evening an "Eyes Wide Shut" feel, also helps preserve the illusion since the faces of the other spectators are never seen. Finally, the evening closes with a masquerade party for the audience and cast, where a special last performance is given. I loved this last touch, and I won't ruin it here, in case you get a chance to experience this incredible show.

Though there is no discussion yet of "Masque" touring, its predecessor, an adaptation of "Faust," is coming to New York in the spring. Keep an ear out. If it's half as fun as "Masque," it will be worth every penny.

Though I wouldn't bring anyone under fifteen or so. Let's just say certain performances throughout the evening, particularly some of the, um... choreography... takes a page out of Skins' playbook. I had heard the phrase before, but I didn't know you could actually rip a bodice.

Bussi bussi.

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*I hesitate to even link this trash since I know my siblings occasionally peruse my blog. Molly, go do your homework.

My Kingdom for Some Oregano

I have been living with my Gastfamilie over a month now, and relations continue to be lukewarm at best. There is another boarder here now, a French student whose name I cannot spell and will only embarrass if I try, and his relationship is the same. Thus it has become quite clear to me that I am looked upon as a Mieter, a lodger, and that is all. I suppose that is all well and good, though I was expecting a little bit more from my experience of living with a family in another culture. Thinking some of the fault may fall on my end, I thought I might warm our relationship a little with a token of my gratitude. So, I asked the Langes if I might cook them dinner. They agreed, and the meal was set for this past Wednesday.

My mother has Italian heritage, and her particular recipe for tomato sauce continues to be the barometer by which I judge pasta.* I thought, therefore, that it would be nice to throw something together in this variety, since the Germans don't get a lot in the way of spices. My Gastmutter's kitchen, for instance, has four whopping containers of paprika (the Germans love the stuff), three shakers of cinnamon, a little nutmeg from the Weimar era, and little besides. I could not very well cook tomato sauce correctly with what I had on hand, so during my grocery shopping I went spice hunting as well. It was relatively easy to find garlic to brown, and basil only took a little longer. Oregano, on the other hand, appears to be wholly foreign to German culture. In three supermarkets, I saw not a hint of the stuff. I did find plenty more paprika, God help me. In fact, I asked for help everywhere I went, but this only made matters worse, since no, I didn't want any paprika; it's not even the same color as oregano, and yes I saw the Weisswurst was on sale, but no I don't want that either.**

Anyway, I managed to cobble together a decent spaghetti with baked German sausage and an almost acceptable tomato sauce. It was the first evening of serious cooking I had done since I got to Germany, and I was actually in rather high spirits by the time everyone sat down to dinner: myself; the Langes; Michael, their daughter Lena's boyfriend; and the new French tenant. I served everyone their salad and pasta, and we dug in.

I am disappointed by how the meal itself went, but I suppose I have my own high expectations to blame for that. Nothing particularly bad happened during the meal, but the conversation was not exactly animated, either. My Gastmutter thanked me precisely once for buying and cooking everyone dinner, and no one else made a comment regarding the food at any other point. I also managed to cook too much, thanks to both an unfamiliarity with the metric system as well as being used to servings sufficient for a hungry American family of seven. As such, the remainder of the meal was unceremoniously stuck in my corner of the fridge as leftovers,*** and no one save myself touched it again until I managed to eat it all.

On the plus side, Frau Zielinska-Lange was kind enough to take the occasion to bake a cake for dessert. She and Herr Lange left the table after dinner plates were cleared, but what remained of the evening became a little friendlier as the younger portion of the table chatted over our evening coffee. The french tenant and Michael even bonded over European heavy metal. In retrospect, I must admit everyone's moods may also have brightened because they no longer had to face my cooking. In any case, I was at least able to say that everyone ended the evening in some manner of positive bearing.

I haven't cooked for the family since, and I am not sure if I will again. I have comfortably accepted what is clearly a landlord/tenant relationship, albeit a somewhat odd one since we're all in the same small house. But what can I say? I am still very new to the culture here, and it is probably wise not to be overly sensitive to these early experiences. The experts all say culture shock can be at its worst around this time, so I should be especially vigilant right now about maintaining an open mind. I don't want to slip into a negative, snap-judgment mindset. That would just inhibit my experience here, and hinder my ability to use this once-in-a-lifetime experience to learn about a different place and a different way of life.

Besides, they're all a bunch of assholes over here, anyway.

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*As a good son, I should clarify that the barometer analogy does not leave room for superior sauces. I like to think of my mother's tomato sauce as a sort of Platonic ideal of pasta, to which other Italian dishes aspire through the pursuit of examined shelf life.

**And trust me, neither do you.

***Leftovers are a rare occurence in this house, and it has been my experience that this family looks on revisitng a meal about as warmly as most people would regard revisiting major dental surgery.

Street Music

When I was in Austria last summer, I toured Burgenland singing with a classical music festival. Our little band managed to fill virtually every venue we visited. This experience gave me a real appreciation of what music lovers Europeans can be. Likewise, while I worked in Austria last summer, I was able to hear a number of free concerts in one of Austria's best venues. As I went about my errands today, I chanced upon great music three times, and I thought both the quality and serendipity of the experiences were worth sharing.

Along the west bank of the Rhine lies St. Kunibert's Basilica, one of the more impressive Romanesque churches of Cologne. As I walked past, I heard the distinct sound of a powerful organ as muffled through thick walls. I went inside to find one of the largest organs I have ever seen. At the bench was one Gerhard Blum, who filled the church with Baroque music for the next twenty minutes almost without pause. Besides three assistants of some sort, I was the only other person in the church. After he finished playing, I stopped him for a moment to get his name and thank him for the pleasure of his playing. He seemed in a hurry, so I let him go, but I afterwards regretted not asking him when I could hear him performing again.* It had been a while since I had heard live music that impressed me so.

I was not long in waiting for more. I came across another act about a half kilometer south on the Frankenwerft, a scenic part of the western Rhine filled with charming restaurants. This time it was some sort of amateur drum corps, performing an ongoing circular routine to cheer on the spirits of runners in the day's marathon as they blasted past. Their performance place was at the base of a semi-circular staircase between Frankenwerft and the Rhine, and an appreciative audience assembled on that staircase as they played, including a pair of homeless men who managed to get a decent portion of the crowd to dance. I watched this routine slowly develop into a small impromptu street party, which was still going on when I left for the evening.

Just south of Frankenwerft on the Fischmarkt I came across a street band composed of accordion, fiddle and bass. I have seen them a few times in this vicinity, and while it would probably be a stretch to say they have a following, the crowd usually appears pretty appreciative. One would think the band makes enough in tips, since they come around so often. The band's repertory was very familiar: an Oompah rendition of Joplin's "The Entertainer," what I believe was "Monty," and selections from Fiddler on the Roof. If for nothing else, my day was worth hearing two entire outdoor restaurants break out together into singing along to "Wäre ich ein reich Mann."

This town is starting to grow on me.

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* It turns out Herr Blum is the Kantor at St. Kunibert's, so if you're in town and Baroque music is your thing, Mass at the basilica is probably a safe bet to hear him.

Diplomacy, the Musical

I have tried to keep the amount of this blog that is directly about my life to a minimum. My working assumption is that German culture and what it has to offer is more interesting than whether I am getting along with my Gastfamilie. I have been told, however, that this is a pretty funny story, so here goes.

We proud participants of the Parlementarisches Patenschafts-Programm (the German name for my fellowship) attended an event in Düsseldorf last Friday, which was charmingly referred to as a "Stipendiatentag." Germans rarely hesitate when it comes to the creation of new, very LARGE words, so I was hardly surprised to learn that they would conceive a word which means -- and this is the only definition, mind you -- "a party for recipients of a scholarship."

Along with the Cologne contingent of the PPP, many other international students were invited: Europeans, mainland Chinese, and students from various South American countries. We were informed of the existence of this event about a week in advance, and the Americans were encouraged to attend. Some of our number who are more musically inclined were additionally encouraged to prepare some sort of performance, in order to share our American culture with the group. Taking this simply as a suggestion, we did not think we were seriously expected to perform. It was clear that a performance would be appreciated, but I for one did not think it was by any means expected. The party was only a week away, after all. On Friday, as we rode the bus to the party, I spoke with Daniel, a fellow "PPPler" and future orchestral conductor, about what we might hypothetically perform, were this a serious event.

We soon realized our error: Germans do not take such important matters as musical numbers lightly. Immediately upon entering the party, Daniel and I were seized by the regional director. She asked us what we had in mind to perform for everyone there, perhaps 200 heads, as a "representation of American culture." Evidently, the purpose of this performance was an example of that "junior ambassador" stuff they keep talking about. We were to represent America. And were to do it in song. And we were on in twenty-five minutes.

Scrambling, Daniel and I came up with a plan. We quickly ran through which songs Daniel could reconstruct from memory, and then cross-referenced it with which of those songs for which I knew the lyrics. We then triangulated these results with a list of songs silly and campy enough that no one could mistakenly think Daniel and I were taking ourselves seriously.

And that is how I ended up singing "A Whole New World" as both Aladdin AND Jasmine in front of an international assembly.

All in all, I would have to admit it went rather well. I wasn't pitch-perfect, but I had fun, and Daniel came through masterfully on the keyboard. We were silly, we were schmalzy. And everyone laughed, which I guess is all you can ask for in such circumstances. The regional director was very grateful, and I received a number of compliments from both American friends and international students for a very amusing performance. So while the beginning to my ambassadorial endeavors may not have been conventional, it does appear to have been successful.

Genießbare Getränke, Part Two: Apfelwein

This past weekend, I had the good fortune to visit the city of Frankfurt, where I was graciously and generously accomodated. Frankfurt is a wonderful city, one which I would like to give appropriate consideration... some other time. For now, let me say that Frankfurt is a German city with character. It has money. It has museums. It has beautiful views of the Main (pronounced "mine") River. It has money. It has MORE money. It also has Apfelwein.

Even for those of you who do not speak a lick of German, I am sure you can guess that Apfelwein is essentially cider. You'd be right... mostly. Ebbelwoi, as it is known in Frankfurt,* is of an alcoholic content somewhere between beer and grape wine; possesses a tawny, cloudy color; and drank straight, tastes absolutely godawful. It is a traditional beverage, however, and like all proud traditions, this one must be carried on, no matter how painful.

Similar to Kölsch, Apfelwein is also served in its own unique glass called a Geripptes, which to American eyes looks like a lozenge-cut water glass. The apparent purpose of this is to shine light through the beverage at more angles. As for consumption, current custom is to mix a glass of Apfelwein with either water, thus making a "Sauergepritzer," or with lemonade, juice or a soda such as Fanta, the result of which is called a "Süssgespritzer." A Sauergespritzer really just dilutes and prolongs the taste, which holds the same appeal as pulling a band-aid off slowly. Mixed with Fanta, however, Apfelwein is actually very pleasant. Chilled, it makes a pleasant summer drink, and at room temperature I imagine it would be perfect through the fall. In a pinch, Apfelwein can even be mixed with Coca-Cola, though snobby Germans consider this a serious faux pas. In case you were wondering, the resulting concoction in this case is called a "Korea."**

Ebbelwoi is the official drink of the State of Hessen, and this is particularly evident in places like Frankfurt. Sachsenhausen, Frankfurt's nightlife district, is lined with apple decor, and Apfelwein can be purchased just about anywhere. Be warned, however. If you want your cider sweet, prepare for snobbiness in nicer establishments. Apparently some Germans of the region consider all Süssgespritzers in bad taste, so you may get stared down the bridges of a few noses.

Of course, they may be sneering at you already for ordering tap water, so it might not even make any difference.

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* As far as I can tell, there is no apparent etymological rhyme or reason to local German dialects. Every time I think I have begun to understand their mad eldritch logic, another strange example comes whizzing along. If there is a governance to German dialects, that governance is anarchy.

** Q.E.D.

Kölner Kirchen, Part One: The Dom

I have heard Cologne referred to as the City of Churches. The name is apt. Though Cologne began as a Roman colony, that age is most evident in the many Romanesque churches that overlook the streets. Sadly, there’s not much of the city's history to be seen besides the churches. Most of Cologne was bombed during World War II, and virtually all of the current urban landscape was built in the postwar reconstruction or thereafter. Many of the churches, however, survived the bombings. Those that were damaged underwent extensive and careful repairs, a process that went on into the 1990’s, and still goes on in occasional spot work today.

Since so much of Cologne’s remaining architectural history is tied up in these beautiful buildings, I thought I should give them some consideration here. And any discussion of Cologne’s architecture, history, or most anything else really, must begin with Cologne's Gothic cathedral, the Dom.

The cathedral, the center and symbol of the city, is simply called the Kölner Dom, or just “die Dom.” It is the tallest building in the city at 509 feet, and with the exception of a few skyscrapers that have sprung up outside the Altstadt, it towers over everything like a behemoth. The Dom can be seen from just about everywhere, and is often used as a directional guide, e.g. “Head towards the Dom, keep the Dom on your right, etc.”

The history of the Dom is well documented, and I would be doing little other than a disservice, were I to attempt to summarize it here. What I can say is that the building took 600 years to build, and its presence gives a unique character to the city. For instance, when I change lines on my morning commute, I rise out of the U-Bahn to a platform that faces the bridge across the Rhine. This bridge leads to Cologne's central station, which is directly next to the Dom. Thus, if one enters the city from the east side of the Rhine, then the Dom greets your entry.



The Dom is the second tallest church in Europe, and it just barely misses first. Students can climb the southern tower for just 1€, and from there one can see the entire city.



It’s worth the hike.













The interior of the church is also spectacular. Regrettably, the stained-glass windows were all destroyed in the war, but they were beautifully reconstructed… though they do incorporate the occasional oddity. This stained-glass window can be found on the western wall when entering the church. In the bottom right corner, there is a picture of the planet Saturn, a picture that very closely resembles the symbol of the popular German electronics store of the same name, which just happens to have an outlet directly outside the church.




The symbol...

...which can be seen on the store across from the cathedral, on the left side here.

The most difficult thing to explain about the Dom is its size. It is practically impossible to express the sheer physical presence of the cathedral in words and pictures. To give some scale, however, you'll note the two Kreuzblumen adorning the Dom's towers:














Here's a to-scale replica on the ground.

















Even that comparison does not do justice to the impression the Dom makes on visitors. After all, if pictures did the Dom justice, it probably wouldn't be the single most visited building in Europe. But as the Kölners would note, it's not like it's hard to find, either.

See what I mean?