the online journal of jordan e.: juni 2003

måndag, juni 23, 2003

Pit Stop
Now I am home.
But those few days in between were not spent curled up in my Duluth bed, sleeping away the jet lag. Instead the summer solstice was spent carooding with my mom in Iceland, one of those strange places where the sun doesn't set on the 21st of June.
More to come on our nordic adventures...

torsdag, juni 19, 2003

Onward to the Motherland
As Peter, Paul and Mary once crooned from the bumper of their Volkswagon van, "my bags are packed, I'm ready to go." I wonder, however, if P squared and Miss M's bags weighed about the equivalence of a really fat man and a full grown gazelle, because mine do. Thanks goodness my mom is here to escort me across the border. She has made it through a week in a station wagon with my grandma and uncle, traveling from the Netherlands to Poland then Berlin and is now living it up east German style in this little oasis we like to call Jena. We have been eating ice cream, Turkish sandwiches, seeing the town and having pillow fights every night while singing the Haley Mills' classic, "Let's Get Together (Yeah, yeah, yeah)."
But now it's time to head out. I really am going to miss this place - people, surroundings and these keyboards with the already umlauted vowels äöüöäößöü. See you all soon!
äöüöäüü üö äö

måndag, juni 16, 2003

Locker Room High Fives
There were glory days for me in high school physical education. Oh yes indeedy, there was glory. There were days when I hung for more than ten seconds from the pull-up bar, days when people actually passed me the football in two-hand touch and there was the day I was goalie in a particularly suspenseful game of floor hockey.
I remember peering through the severely scratched goggles that were more suited for work with a jigsaw and a drill bit; lefthand snug in a catcher's mitt, the right clutching a hockey stick with the widened goalie paddle. The masses came at me, masked in the same thick, translucent eye protection and cloaked in blue and red mesh muscle shirts. Blue equaled good. Yellow equaled tyranical friends of Satan. As for me, my mission was to keep that netted 30 cubic foot zone free of any puck - I was guarder of the sweet spot.
Klink - Stop - Chink - Stop
They were coming from all directions at all speeds, paying no heed to the high-sticking rule. I saw you, Billy Patton - you and your illegal ten foot backswing. But I endured.
I endured until it came. It wasn't one of those that could be kicked away with the heel of my size 9 Nike or deflected by a switch of my hip. No, this one was coming like a full speed sparrow at shoulder level, making to sink into the knotted ropes of my precious net. It was a split decision, it was; just a few blinks to change the fate of this hurling black disc and save the reputation of the Blue Men.
So I wound up. I wound up like Sammy Sosa at the plate, imagining that my hockey stick was of the Louisville Slugger variety and that I was being served the fastball. And then, like I was fixing to maintain my .300 average, I cracked that blackened tuna fish can across the Hermantown High School gym, clear into yellow territory. I had upheld the title, "Keeper of the Goal"; I had led my blue people through the exodus; I had established a fear among Team Yellow.
And then Mr. Russ, who was nestled in between the bleachers with his wind suit and clipboard, stood up and said, "Pull that crap again and you're out of here. You're going to hurt someone."

Unbelonging
Who is leaving Jena for good on Thursday? It's me, it's me. I have already packed up everything, scrubbed, scoured and spit polished every nook and cranny of our apartment, unregistered/closed accounts/said toodles at 4 of the six offices and said a few goodbyes to people. And after all of the busy work, I am left with the strangest feelings of sadness, relief and curiousity.
After all, how does one pick up and high-tail it out of a place where they have lived independently for almost a year? I have nine months' worth of friends here, nine months' worth of stuff that I have accumulated (including a very tasteful horse head cutting board) and nine months' worth of experiences that I have a feeling just can't be translated over a walk in Canal Park. I know that any response I come up with for "How was your year?" won't do justice to the past months - even trying to describe the lumpy, gray sausage known as the Thüringer Bratwurst just can't be done just right.
So I fear that I am left to myself for the great debriefing of my year abroad. I'll have to sift through my days in Jena, reflect upon people, places and experiences until I understand exactly what happened here. And once I have it all straightened out, I'll let you know so you can understand too.

fredag, juni 13, 2003

Ordnung Muss Sein
The commonly said expression above, "there must be order," illustrates quite clearly that the art of analness comes shortly after sauerkraut on the list of innately German things. They freak out if you walk across the street when the signal is still red, yelling things like, "Helloooo, it's not green yet! and "Red!!!". You will be labeled a crazed, dirty scoundrel if you drink tap water instead of bottles of bubbling Quelwasser. You will be scolded if you put that Milka chocolate bar wrapper in the regular garbage - that purple plastic wrap belongs in the yellow sack. And no, you cannot check out your books until 2:00; therefore, yes, you will have to wait another seven minutes.
I am waiting out my seven minutes right now, but come 2:00 or so, I will be back outside doing some mad jaywalking and sipping water straight from the faucet.

Crazed Dirty Scoundrel

torsdag, juni 12, 2003

And One More Thing
When we were in the Belfast airport we came across a large, plexiglass box filled with sharp and/or potentially dangerous objects that had been confiscated from travelers. While Roger and I were admiring the Swiss Army knives, scissors and squirt guns, he suddenly discovered a pair of furry handcuffs buried under a pile of butter knives. Furry handcuffs! I nearly watered my pampers thinking about #1) the embarrassment of having your furry handcuffs discovered, #2) the various explanations you might give to justify your possession of furry handcuffs in your carry on (self defense. book 'em Danno, I'm 5-0) and #3) the sadness of departing from your furry handcuffs in front of a crowd of fellow travelers and airport personnel.
That was golden.

tisdag, juni 10, 2003

Side Note
As I was using the public facilities a moment ago, I noticed that there is a 'stop' button on the toilet's flusher. Do you think someone is really going to wish, during mid-flush, that they hadn't sent the goods to the sewer and then attempt to stop their departure?
If you ask me, the whisk that takes away Number One and Number Two should never be interrupted.

The Emerald Isle
I really didn't want to leave Ireland; I especially didn't want to rise and shine at 4:13am. I knew that Easy Jet flight #255 had a lovely orange and grey seat for me, but it was darn difficult to pull myself away from the beautiful green landscape and the charming people with the charming dips and doodles in their accents.
Plus, Sunday had been a great day. No, I didn't get to go to the Belfast Vineyard, which I really, really wanted to, but instead went to the Magheragall Presbyterian Church - just a little walk from their home on Hungryhouse Lane and the place where her dad is minister. I enjoyed the friendly congregation who warned me about the McClelland sisters, the church's cemetery with stones from the 1700s and the way I could use the pew as a shield as her dad told the congregation about my passport catastrophe and that I was in town to "sponge off of them." Afterwards we went to Granny's for Sunday dinner and tea and then for a drive with Christine and her mom who took me to Hillsborough, where the Queen stays during her Northern Ireland visits, her cousin's sheep farm and to the sites that the protestant Orange Men have made infamous.
She took me to Drumcree where every 12th of July, in commemoration of some ancient battle, the Orange Men, fashioning orange sashes, march to a church service and then march through the streets, eventually reaching the Catholic district. Five years ago the residents of the Catholic neighborhood refused to let the Orange Men pass through, resisting their parade with stones and police reinforcement. Since then, it is said that one Orange Man is continually at the site waiting to get through.
We didn't spot the single Orange Man on waiting duty in the neighborhood, which is rough looking and has a distinctive line where protestant and Catholic meet, but we did see the field of old tires, which the Orange Men plan on burning during their 12th of July celebration. Christine said people aren't sure whether to stay away from the festivities or gawk. Her boyfriend, Roger, who as a child had nightmares about the IRA instead of the Boogeyman and experienced a bombing across the street from his house, prefers to stay away from it all.
And as for me, I think I could endure a little Orange Men hoopla in exchange for some more time in this place where Christine's mom says has "forty shades of green." Since my departure was unavoidable, though, I said my goodbyes, took my pictures and snatched up 80 bags of northern Irish Nammbarrie tea. Sadly, I am already down to 78 chances to bring back my trip with a little milk and hot water.

lördag, juni 07, 2003

Just a Wee Entry
Okay, so I made it to Northern Ireland a little later than expected...on the train to the airport I realized that I had left my passport in my room. Wowsers, that was really dumb. But the good news is that I still arrived in this beautiful place of grazing sheep and tea and milk.
Tea and milk and Guinness, that is.
On Thursday night we went to a pub quiz, a sort of team Jeopardy thing with various trivia. No, I didn't ace the "70s and 80s British Sitcom Theme Songs" round, but I did have my very own Guinness and found out that the rumours are a lie - no, you can't float a 2 pence coin on the foam - she'll be sure to sink. Oh well, the company was still merry (Christine, Roger and Mark), as was the jolly Irishman, Clyde, the man running the quiz.
Friday morning was spent in Belfast eating an Ulster Fry, which is another one of those sensible Weight Watcher choices. We got to choose seven foods from: bacon, sausages, fried mushrooms, fried soda bread, fried pancake, fried potato bread, baked beans, fried eggs and blood pudding (that was fried, too, I'm sure). Num, num, nummers, said me belly. But as for my cardiovascular system...well, I found myself smacking the general area of my heart afterwards, just to keep her a ticking. Later we drove up to New Castle and the Mourne Mountains, speckled with sheep and lined with those lovely stone walls.
And as for today, we went to the north coast - those jutting cliffs and cold waters. We walked across a freakish rope bridge and romped around Giant's Causeway - what Christine's dad claims is one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Wonder #4 or not, it was absolutely beautiful.

onsdag, juni 04, 2003

Blarney and Potato Pie
In two hours I will be off for the green island of Ireland. Christine is hosting me in her Northern Ireland home and has promised that I will not be stoned by any Belfast citizens.
I believe a celebratory jig is in order.

tisdag, juni 03, 2003

Attack of the Eighties II
So last weekend I went home with one of the Nadines (not the naked saunaing Nadine, but the Nadine with the grandparents who can't say my name). On Saturday night we went to an outdoor music festival on a mountain called Horba. After climbing up that big old hill, Nadine and I needed to use the public facilities, if you will.
While perched in my stall, I heard the beginning chords of the band. The do re mi fas sounded all too familiar - I immediately knew I had encountered this sound before. Then, as I reached for the raw, tree bark toilet paper I suddenly received visions of eighties hair and colors that are preceded by the word "hot." Could it be that 1984 was making another collect call? I quickly washed my hands and scampered over to the stage for a look.
It couldn't be.
But oh yes, it was.
While "Sledgehammer" was busting out of the speakers it was confirmed that the same eighties band I had seen in Neuhaus with the other Nadine was now upon the hilltop in Horba. Totally righteous.

the online journal of jordan e.