The Wurst year of my life

I have just returned from a year spent in Germany – a year during which I consumed unparalleled amounts of sausage, dressed in some ridiculous outfits, raved all night to techno music, learned to enjoy beer, and fell in love with a nation. Here are some of the most memorable moments.

The majority of my time in Deutschland was spent working full-time in the Private Wealth Management division of a well-known bank – whose decision to employ me proved all the more remarkable when I discovered that my name in both its forms (Rosanna, or Rosie for short) are the names of notorious prostitutes in Germany, who have been immortalised in conveniently catchy songs to ensure that the stigma attached to these names shall never fade. Considering that I was expected to email high-profile clients on a daily basis, the firm’s decision to employ me was my first, somewhat fortuitous, example of the accepting, forward-thinking nature of contemporary German society.

Having settled into the job, it was time to find a place to live. When I came across a house shared with sixteen lovely people, the small matter of having a rather eccentric landlady who insisted I paid my rent in cash in the shisha bar down the road didn’t bother me all that much. However, she did have a slightly bothersome habit of practising her ‘street English’ in email exchanges with me, in which she would begin messages with phrases such as ‘Hey bitch!’ and ‘Yo slut!’, something which was, regrettably, alerted to the attention of the Compliance division of my brand new job. Fortunately, the open attitude of my peers and superiors salvaged me again – in fact, their patience proved inexhaustible in my case, only mildly chastising me when I attempted to send bags of gummy bears to colleagues in the London office via internal mail. Following my first visit to the staff gym, during which I had the misfortune of entering the sauna to be greeted by a senior colleague sat there completely naked, I considered myself fully integrated in the German working world.

Outside of work, I embarked on cultural activities with gusto. I donned a Dirndl and went to Oktoberfest, and discovered it is possible to drink vast quantities of beer from dawn to dusk (just try to ignore the constant, chronic urge to go to the toilet). During the Christmas markets, I resigned myself to the necessity of consuming mulled wine at regular intervals in order to keep warm – the steadily increasing levels of drunkenness that accompany this obligation being only a minor side effect. And in Cologne, as I sat on a bus wedged in between a middle-aged man dressed as a bumble bee and an older woman in a unicorn costume on their way to the Karneval parades, I cherished the thought that fancy dress parties needn’t be confined to childhood memories.

I even began to assume a number of German habits: at work I weaned myself off the procrastination pleasures of the Daily Mail news feed; subsequently, my efficiency surged at a quite remarkable rate. I soon adapted to the Sunday closure of shops, only encountering a few initial teething difficulties when I forgot to purchase toilet roll on a Saturday and, through desperation rather than intention, immediately befriended my neighbours who took a kind of bemused pleasure in providing me with emergency supplies. I even came to master the ‘Pfand’ system of returning bottles for cash, hitting the jackpot each time my house hosted a party – one time I even collected enough to pay for my weekly shop! (This was, of course, no reflection on the quantity of Bitburger and Riesling consumed in our household.)

Aside from alcohol, food is undoubtedly one of Germany’s finest features. The staff canteen churned out a dependable supply of stodgy delights such as pizza meatloaf and (a personal favourite) cornflake-crust Schnitzel, and my sweet tooth reached levels of euphoria when rice pudding, pancakes and giant dumplings with custard were served up as main courses. I did, of course, return from Germany looking wonderfully svelte and radiant.

As time went on, the Germans seem to warm more and more to this inappropriately-named expat, and I found myself in the unforeseen situation of embarking on an alternative modelling career. I was asked to participate in a modern art exhibit involving young women dressed in white headdresses, silver corsets and floaty skirts wandering around a room in an alternative interpretation of ‘The Divine Comedy’, which was filmed and can still be seen in Frankfurt’s Modern Art Museum. A few weeks later, fresh from my modelling debut, my personal trainer asked if I would mind posing for some photographs to advertise their EMS (Electrical Muscle Stimulation) service, which involves being covered in straps which are plugged in so that electric currents can be used to exercise your muscles. The diversity of my modelling portfolio is, in my humble opinion, already quite commendable.

Before I knew it, my time in Germany had flown by quicker than you could say ‘Prost!’. As my experiences confirm, it was a time of varied degrees of hilarity, humility and, most of all, happiness, feelings which culminated in the euphoric 7-1 World Cup semi-final victory that coincided with my final evening in the country. I left filled with amazing memories of the friendships I had made, the places I had visited, and the lifestyle I had experienced – a sense of admiration for a country whose brilliance was confirmed when the national team emerged victorious a few nights later.

Vroom vroom

On the Erasmus Students tumblr here.

I am a woman. Although I can appreciate men’s obsession with cars, I will never understand it. The route to my heart tends to be one that teeters on designer heels, rather than revs with a powerful engine. My kind of suede interiors are those which envelop my feet, not those designed for swanky seating, and I have more experience with safety straps which prevent ankles slipping than bodies escaping.

It was thus with muted enthusiasm that I embarked on a visit to the IAA, Frankfurt’s famous annual car show which attracts auto aficionados in their droves. There were traffic jams of people queuing up to photograph the latest models, with cameras flashing and people shouting in a frenzy which I can only compare to that which surrounds the release of a highly-anticipated new collection at fashion week.

My brain must be wired differently, I initially thought. While the intricate embellishments of a couture gown could captivate me for hours and engender a quasi-religious reverence for the talents of its designer, put a car in front of me – whose design has required equally lengthy deliberation, undergone just as many prototypes, demanded the same painstaking attention to detail – and I fail to be moved.

Until last weekend, that is. There was something about the show that swept me along in all the excitement. Was it the glossiness of the bodies, kept optimally glitzy by dedicated helpers holding fluffy cleaning sticks? Or the tone of the engines, appealing to me to reassess their outpourings as friendly purrs rather than hostile roars? Or simply the glamour of it all, with cars displayed in all their glory like catwalk models on display to adoring fans?

Whatever it was, I was completely won over. I watched with wide eyes as new models were rolled out and driven across the stage. I queued for photos inside cabriolets. I pored over brochures detailing the latest hybrid technology with a level of interest formerly only ever exhibited upon the publication of Vogue’s couture reports.

And when we were given a demonstration of an app which parks a car itself, my transformation into a car lover was complete. Now it would be possible to not only wear unsuitable shoes for driving, but also not worry about the consequences of doing so for the car! Genius.

Somehow I think the shoe addiction might have been a safer affliction. Blahniks are certainly cheaper than Bentleys.

Sunday - the German way

On the British Students blog here.

Sunday: the day of rest. A concept which is taken more seriously in Germany than in Britain, it would appear.

I discovered this to my disadvantage when I assumed that shops would be open on Sundays for me to pick up a few essentials. In Britain, corner shops and supermarkets can be relied upon to supply our needs seven days a week, and I blithely assumed the same would be the case here. Which, when you realise you have run out of toilet roll at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning, is a minor issue. Fortunately my neighbours were happy to oblige and found the whole situation hilarious – I doubt I’m the first British student in the flat to have made the same mistake.

So the lesson has been learned, and I now ensure that I’m sufficiently stocked on Saturdays to avoid any further embarrassments. At the beginning, the Sunday shutdowns were frustrating – I had to forgo the milk in my tea on a few occasions, and fried some slightly suspicious-smelling bacon in the absence of any alternative lunch options one time – but I’m beginning to warm to the idea of having one day a week in which you can do very little except relax and spend time with friends and family.

Plus, there’s an important exception to the Sunday closures: cafes and restaurants. And forgetting to buy groceries is the perfect excuse to go out for brunch and get a takeaway for dinner on Sundays. Strolling down the street on a Sunday afternoon, the atmosphere is far different to weekdays: shops which are usually bustling with activity are deserted and locked up, while the pavement tables of ice cream cafes and coffee shops are packed with families sitting together and enjoying Kaffee and Kuchen or huge spreads of eggs, bread, sausage (this is Germany, after all) and cheese.

It’s a concept which I think we’d do well to adopt back home. Certainly, a typical Sunday in Britain might see families tucking into roast dinners or enjoying a walk or picnic together, but these plans can always fall through in favour of a last-minute dash to the supermarket or a trip to the DIY store. In Germany, however, it’s universally accepted that things close down on Sundays and you can do very little except eat, sleep and relax. And I don’t see many people complaining.

The news of the death of an investment banking intern this week has really shocked me – not only was he working in the same field as I am, but he was also a German. Whatever the reason for his tragic death, it made me realise that I need to take my weekends for what they are supposed to be - time off. I’m glad that here in Germany I have little choice but to rest and recharge my batteries. This Sunday, I’m looking forward to a long lie-in, a leisurely brunch and lounging by the open-air swimming pool while the weather is still sunny. You might think me lazy. I’d like to think of it as cultural integration - doing Sunday the German way. Not that my German peers are lazy; far from it - it strikes me that they’ve found the right balance between hard work and time off. And that’s a lesson I know a lot of my fellow students would also appreciate learning.

Opera auf Deutsch

Carmen in German? I must admit I was sceptical. It’s not that opera doesn’t work in German – Wagner certainly saw to proving the contrary – but I’ve always felt that the passion and glamour of Carmen is closely connected to its sundrenched Seville setting. Transplanting it to Frankfurt, amid a backdrop of modern skyscrapers and with an audience of bankers and businessmen, just wouldn’t  come off in my opinion.

Our first impressions upon arriving at the venue seemed to confirm my thoughts. The doors to the botanical gardens, where the concert was being staged in an outdoor arena, were opened an hour before it was due to begin. We arrived a respectable three quarters of an hour early, to find that the majority of the seats had already been reserved with typical German efficiency. We tottered past rows of couples in shorts and sandals, feeling ridiculously overdressed in posh frocks and heels, and settled for a side view.

It wasn’t all bad though – the couple next to us immediately offered to share their picnic spread of Brezel, Bratwurst and Weißbier, and we readily tucked in. It wasn’t a glitzy champagne and oysters affair, but neither was it pretentious and snobby. As I chomped a little too eagerly on their offerings and spilt curry sauce down my blouse, our new friend Herr Fischstein slapped me on the back and lifted his beer glass, proclaiming ‘Prost!’

But how would Bizet’s opera sound in German? Would the beauty of the French original be lost in translation? Even as a German speaker, I struggle to find the phrase ‘ich liebe dich!’ as charming as ‘je t’aime!’ But funnily enough, as the overture set in and then the first few lines were sung, I barely noticed the change in language. The well-known music remained the same, the powerful scenes continued to entertain, and our sausage-savouring companions even showed an unexpected sense of humour as Carmen eclipsed poor Frau Fischstein by sitting on her husband’s lap and helping herself to a generous gulp of his Bier.

It seemed that neither German opera stars nor its spectators take themselves as seriously as I’d anticipated. During the interval, the chorus joined us for mugs of Apfelwein and freshly barbecued sausages, entertaining us with tales of various rehearsal mishaps and performance mistakes. The tiny daughter of the first violinist was seated in the front row throughout and knew every piece off by heart, prompting an audience member to lift her in the air as we applauded the orchestra. Above all, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves – from the drunken parties portrayed onstage to the couples watching from their picnic rugs.

But the powerful and moving scenes ought not to be overlooked either. There was something ominous about the drunken revelry, with the women outlandishly displaying neon-coloured underwear, clutching a gun in one hand whilst caressing a man with the other. The jealous tension that ultimately drives Don José to kill the woman who has tormented him so intensely was so ingrained in his character that we held our breath at every entrance he made. Even as Carmen paraded around the stage, ostensibly revelling in her command over the male protagonists, ominous undertones to her behaviour remained tangible. The inevitable culmination, a dreadful stabbing that imposed a sudden, horrible end on the intoxication, stunned us into a silence that transcended all language barriers and differences.

They say that music is a universally spoken language, and I’m inclined to agree. My mother, who speaks only a few words of German, left lauding the talents of Frankfurt’s Kammeroper, and has already booked tickets to their next production. This time the beers will be on us.

A journey into the dark

When asked about my experience of ninety minutes of blindness at the Dialogmuseum in Frankfurt, the word ‘eye-opening’ tumbled out of my mouth before I could realise its obvious inappropriateness. Searching for a more suitable alternative, I still found myself using terms such as ‘illuminating’ and ‘revealing’ – little better than my initial faux pas. Yet the fact that sight even governs the way in which we describe particular situations confirms the prevailing sentiment I felt during my visit to the museum: the ability to see is one of the most relied-upon and taken-for-granted gifts possessed by the majority of us.

It’s an obvious point, I know. But until you’ve been stripped of that fundamental function, it’s hard to appreciate the extent to which we depend upon our vision. As I entered the blackness, I suddenly felt incredibly isolated and helpless, even though I could hear – and very often feel, by prodding various body parts of my unsuspecting comrades – that there was always someone close by. The fear that I would suddenly encounter an obstacle, or walk into a wall, or become estranged from the rest of the group, never left me. There were ten of us in total; we came from all over the world and had never met previously, but I have never felt more grateful towards a stranger for checking my progress and helping me along.

Over the course of ninety minutes, I found myself becoming increasingly close to the rest of the group; admittedly, I did develop an embarrassing habit of grabbing people in inappropriate places, but above all I found myself continually concerned that we remained together as a unit – be it helping retrieve a stray wanderer, or calling out for help when I had gone adrift, I wanted us to get through it together.

In a world in which appearance can dictate a person’s success, in which friendships – even relationships – have a certain degree of superficial grounding, and in which facial expressions can make or break situations, it was liberating to enter an environment in which looks could play no role. At the end of the tour we never got to see our guide, who had been blind since the age of ten – and I’m glad it was that way. I appreciated him for the care and attention he paid to us on our tentative journey through what seemed like an abyss, for his positivity when we panicked that we had become separated, and for his self-effacing attitude towards a condition which, if my hour-and-a-half experience of blindness is anything to go by, must be hugely limiting. Would my precious memories really be enhanced by adding a visual supplement? I don’t think so. Maybe there’s something to be learned from shutting out the superficial; in doing so, we might connect more closely to the heart of the matter.