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.
Showing posts with label Theatre. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Theatre. Show all posts
Monday, December 31, 2007
Saturday, November 24, 2007
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 42nd 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?
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 42nd 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.
--------
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?
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
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.
--------
1Slang for street performer.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.
2Though 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.
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.
--------
1Slang for street performer.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.
2Though 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.
Friday, October 5, 2007
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.
--------
*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.
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.
--------
*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.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
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.
--------
*I hesitate to even link this trash since I know my siblings occasionally peruse my blog. Molly, go do your homework.
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.
--------
*I hesitate to even link this trash since I know my siblings occasionally peruse my blog. Molly, go do your homework.
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