The Return

I am back.

More of Me in Print

I almost forgot to mention that The Local, an English-language website about Germany, published my article about the German Integration Course.

Are you thinking, "What is the Integration Course?"?

Well, it is a government-mandated course for immigrants to Germany. Germany does not have a long history of immigration, so there was not an official framework for creating new citizens. Until very recently, a German citizen was someone who was born in Germany of German parents.

In the 1950s, Germany needed help rebuilding the nation, so it invited the world to come work. Turkish people heeded the call. Instead of assimilation, they made their own communities within the country. Many people who have been there for decades maintain the same lifestyle they had in Turkey. Of course, some pretty bad inequalities surfaced. Anyone with a passing knowledge of the Civil Rights Movement knows that separate is not equal. Turkish people have high rates of dropping out of school, crime rates, etc., etc. etc. All the gangsta rappers in Germany are Turkish. They are pretty angry people.

To ease some tensions, the government created a framework that required new immigrants to be officially integrated into the country. All foreign-born people, regardless of how long they have been in Germany, can take the course. The newer ones must take it if they want to get a settlement visa.

So I sit in a classroom from 8:50 am until 1 pm every weekday learning Germany language and culture. This lasts for six months. At the end of the course, there is a test. I must pass the test to get a settlement visa.

The diverse buffet created by students who hail from countries around the world. I brought the American-style Pringles chips and Doritos. I worked the night before class and did not have time to cook anything. Of course, a few people made fun of me.

The course is all in German and moves pretty fast. The European Union has a classification of language understanding that goes A1 for beginners to A2, then B1, B2, and then C1 and C2. C2 means you talk like a native speaker. I need to be at B1 at the end of six months. There are tests about twice a week and our progress is monitored. People who are not doing well are asked to leave. Three people disappeared from my class. I don't mind learning German. I want to learn German. I just wish it wasn't so regimented. Things could much faster if there was a class for people who understand some English. Because the class is filled with people from all over the world, it is taught only in German. So there is lots of drawing, exaggerated acting and pointing. I have done two months. I have four months to go.


I also wish a few people would leave. There was a man who stank. There were the two women who always called out answers. There was another guy who liked to criticize me. A whole group of people snickered if you gave a wrong answer or pronounced a word incorrectly. I have found that many people lack the grace that America instills in its people. I was silent at first [See. I am graceful.], then I had to tell people to back off [Although, I never told H that he needed deodorant. More evidence of my grace.].

I missed a month of class while living in London. I cannot join the third module of the course until March. I will not miss my rude, pushy classmates but I will miss their constant company. As immigrants, we are all in the same second-class boat.

Free at Last!

It has been a busy month. I did the job search thing in the midst of a super-recession. I have been rejected for writing jobs, editing jobs, and, best of all, internships. Your ego takes a beating when you cannot get an interview to work as an intern. I assume that I am over-qualified but I have been a fan of that term. It is an internship. Of course, you are bored and too qualified to make coffee and photocopies. Anyone over the age of 12 is over-qualified to make copies. But damn it still stings.



It hasn't been all pain. I voluntarily [Read: work for free.] edit the food, health and culture pages for Pride magazine. Pride is a British Essence.











I work for free as an incentive for cash-strapped editors to consider me. When the Pride editors allowed me to work with them, I get British experience to put on the resume, more clips, connections in the British industry, and more people to use as recommendations. Plus, I like the work. I got a rush coming up with the story ideas and finding this sources. My work is in in the February issue of Pride . I am in even in the staff box.

So run out and get a copy of Pride. I am pretty proud that I made flossing interesting and I love my blurb about the new production of Othello by the Royal Shakespeare Company. Pride is available in large bookstores in America. Better yet, why not subscribe to Pride.

Living my dream

I am in the midst of a dream. An actual dream come true.

I spent my last semester of college in London. I remember being restless in early 1993. I wanted to do Something. I am not sure what was wrong but something needed to be done. It struck me like lightning – I needed to go somewhere.

I did not come from a family of travelers. My parents grew up poor and were quite satisfied with the middle-class life they had acquired through hard work and gritting of teeth. Between paying for private school for me and my two sisters and no urge to leave the house they bought, there was little travel. Twice my family visited my father’s hometown of Rocky Mount, North Carolina.

I remember the excitement of waking up early and hopping the Amtrak train at Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station (the name does not do justice to the station’s grandeur) for a faraway land. We stayed with my father’s second cousin in a small town and I loved it. I just liked seeing hearing the accents, eating barbecue pork sandwiches instead cheesesteaks, and sleeping in a different bed.

My grandfather would take us to Atlantic City occasionally and except for a senior trip to Florida with my high school best friend Elisa that was it for my travels.

Pompano Beach, Florida, the destination of my first flight

When my mother graduated from nursing school when I was about to enter high school and my older sister, Lorie, was set to enter 11th grade, she asked us if we planned to go to Temple University. Children of university employees could go to school for free. Mom considered getting a nursing job at Temple University Hospital. Lorie and I said we would never attend Temple. I was going “away” for college. After a one year at Rutgers University, the lack of tuition money found me enrolled at Temple University and sleeping in my childhood bedroom.

I am surprised that I lasted until junior year before needing to bust out. I was carrying my normal courseload and working at the college newspaper. I was catching the bus and subway to and from school and getting home at insane hours. I did this all while my sisters complained about my refusal to wash dishes on a regular basis and sharing a bedroom with my younger sister. Everything was the same and yet too much. I had to get out. I decided to get way out. I had to go to Rome.

Why Rome? Because I studied Latin for four years in high school and had segments in elementary school. It would great to see the places I learned about in person. Plus, Temple had a campus in Rome. I had to fill out a one-page form and I would be in. I soon found a wrinkle in my plan – the language requirement. Participants needed to take an Italian language course before they go or while they are in Rome. I don’t know why but I just didn’t want to learn anything. I just wanted to Go. So my dream switched from Rome to London. I speak English, Londoners speak English. It was a match.

I got into the program. Then I had to make sure that I fulfilled all the requirements of my education minor and history major before I left. I made some crazy machinations and dropped the minor (and my safety net of being a teacher. I was officially set on being a journalist. Scary.) I had two required classes that had a half hour between them but were on campuses that were 45 minutes apart. I missed half the classes for both courses. I needed a C in both and I am pretty sure that I was on the southern end of the C in each. With my degree safe, I bought a plane ticket.

Heathrow

Exactly 15 years ago, I arrived in London. I flew over with my roommate, Sarah. Before taking off, a British Airways flight attendant said we should arrive at Heathrow on “Shedule” and we both grabbed each other and squealed with excitement. I was a ball of excitement. I don’t know why. Before I left, people were giving my mother what some would call advice but I would call fear. She relayed their tips about plane crashes, bombings and the British hating Black people. For some reason, those things did not bother me. I was going to London. I would stare at my passport over and over again when it first arrived.

When we arrived in London, I took a deep breath and felt at home. There was no period of adjustment or homesickness. I felt normal. The difficult part was adjusting to the six roommates but the city was great. It was alive and I felt alive. We would go to pubs and just meet people. Television sucked, so we all spent a lot of time in pubs. Much of my life was spent at the Black Lion and De Hems. I made friends and lovers (not Lovers but Makeouters). I went to the movies. I was disappointed by the commercials but I loved reserving a seat. I went to one of the Curzon theaters and my chair was a massive easy chair. I liked the cheap plays that allowed you to bring drinks into the auditorium. I liked the noise of the city. I was awed by the speed of the Tube and the escalator that lead to them. I liked saying, Cheers, all the time. I was so damn sad to leave. When I returned, I was graduating the next day and I was start working at a Philadelphia weekly a week later. My jet set life would be over.

My life hasn’t been that boring. Life immediately after London was boring, teetering on dreary. I was back to the childhood bedroom and washing dishes. I would slowly make my life the adventure I always wanted it to be. Today, I am back in London. This time with a partner, Asmus. We spend almost all our time together. I can’t tell you why but we don’t annoy each other. After living in Germany, London is so welcome. First, I know what people are saying. My German lessons are progressing but I don’t have a good ear. I can say things but I can’t understand things. If I could walk around just telling people what I think, my life would be fine. But people are always asking me something or replying. I must admit that they are gracious. Quite often when people detect an American accent under the broken German, they switch to English. But I miss being able to just talk to someone. One day, I forgot my watch and I could not ask any for the time. I know how (Wie spät ist es? That is pronounced, “Vee spayt ist es.” See.) but I know they will reply in their normal speed and I will be lost. In London, I can ask the time AND understand the response. Plus, people react in the way I am used to. They say, Good morning. They say Cheers. They say, Excuse me. No one pushes me so they can get onto the train ahead of me. I say something obviously funny and people laugh. I am eating Hellman’s mayonnaise, drinking Twinning’s Earl Grey tea, eating pork chops, using pre-chopped mushrooms, drinking Tropicana orange juice, and chomping chicken wings. Despite the push by the European Union to go metric, much of life is measured in standard units. I don’t have to convert meters into feet and kilograms into pounds.

Now I can watch television anytime I want. I haven’t watched much television since September. In Germany, I watched MTV during the weekend because those shows are in English with German subtitles but that is it. Here, I come home from a long day of nothing and I turn on the television and there is communication. In London I go to the movies all the time. In Hamburg there are two movie theaters for me to see movies in English or with English subtitles.

I dragged Asmus to two of my haunts – the Black Lion and De Hems.

Black Lion

De Hems

When I got the idea to visit them, I was prepared for them not to exist or not match my memories. Fortunately, both places exist but, unsurprisingly, they are nothing like they were 15 years ago. The Black Lion was this massive bar in Kilburn, an area that was brimming with Irish and Jamaicans. The Black Lion was filled with Irish people; the average age was 35. Today, the Black Lion is cut into two parts – a bar and the restaurant. The restaurant serves Irish food with a twist. We had a pot pie with Guinness and steak followed by crème brulee with Cointreau served to us by an Italian. In place of lively conversation, there was loud pop music. Despite these changes, the Black Lion retained its friendly feel. De Hems served a majority of Dutch beers but dance music thumped. People came in groups and left in the same group. It is impossible to meet new people with Song 2 blasting. I regretted the inability to be gregarious. My friend Mary and I would meet the most interesting people. Mary met her boyfriend at De Hems. We had interesting conversations with a bunch of cameramen we bumped to at this pub.

Even though De Hems and the Black Lion are not exactly as they were in 1994, I am warmed that they still stand. Enough people had an attachment to them that owners decided to keep them alive.

If Asmus and I do not find work, all of this will end in three weeks. I am trying to enjoy life now and not obsess about how gray life will become.

I am in my favorite town with my favorite person. I am living my dream.

Us in London (by Asmus)

A new year, time of hope.

Monica (your normal host of the previous entries) and I have definitely our hopes up. At Boxing Day we moved to London to test if we can live here.

How hard can it be to find work here in the middle of a giga-, mega- or super-recession? You never know the answer until you really tried. And that's what we decided to do. We really want to try before we may resort to some vague, ominous plan B.

Here in an old (no telephone line old) appartment in Dalston in the Borough of Hackney, London truly seems to be the capital of the world. The streets here are filled with immigrants from all ends of the world trying to make a living here. It is comforting and intimidating at the same time to be part of these masses.

Of course nobody in this city waited for us to show up or to give us jobs, but maybe we will have just this little bit of luck that is necessary. If not we just have to make it with hard work, skills and stubbornness.

Dear reader, Wish us luck.

P.S. If somebody has, by chance, a job in the UK to offer to an experienced Journalist or a VBA / MS Access developer, please don't hesitate to contact us.

Our First Christmas Tree

This is the first tree Asmus decorated on his own and the first one for me, too. I kinda like creating my own design. I knew I would.

I went from my mother's house to sharing apartments with various roommates. I followed orders as a child. As an adult I never had a Christmas tree. With a roommate I would have to listen to her demands. Plus, I never had a place to put the decorations. The hallways was already full with my bike. Boxes marked "Christmas Stuff" would be tacky.

This photograph does not do the tree justice. It has white lights, glass angels and a few pale gold ornaments. The camera only picked up the gold. Trust me. The tree that Asmus and I created is a sight to behold.

Have a Merry Christmas!

And the Winner is . . .

In the match between the Torhaus and the Ahrensburg Schloss to decide which site would serve as the location for the wedding of Asmus and I, it wasn't even close. It was a unanimous knockout.

On March 14, I will walk down an aisle [Sorry German friends, we will not recite vows from a desk.] at:

Ahrensburg Schloss

A reception will follow at Tio Pepe near our home in the Volksdorf section of Hamburg. We will have the entire Spanish restaurant for seven hours of fun. Even children can have enjoy themselves. They can play kegel [a German variation on bowling that is usually played by kids].

Thanks for voting!

Going to the Torhaus . . .

Here is the other option for a ceremony that Asmus and I looked at last weekend. The Torhaus, a historical house in northern Hamburg.

The auditorium where a ceremony could take place.

This is a fuzzy view of the exterior of the Torhaus.

Going to the Castle . . .

I am getting ready to tie the knot. Asmus is going to make an honest woman out of me soon. Last weekend we inspected various locations for the ceremony and the reception. Here are photographs of my options, Ahrensburg Castle, which is located across the northeastern border of Hamburg.

Garden Salon, where a ceremony could occur.

The Cellar, where a reception could take place

The Ahrensburg Castle at night with a light rain coming down

Giving Thanks the Deutsch Way

I just spent my first Thanksgiving in Germany. It was different. For the eight years that I lived in Brooklyn, Thanksgiving meant fighting the ugliest holiday traffic. I eventually developed various strategies to cope.

At first, I would purchase an Amtrak ticket on the Monday before Thanksgiving. On the following Wednesday, I would catch the subway from Brooklyn to the train station in Manhattan, push through the throng of people trudging through the station, and wait for the train from the secret spot one level below the main floor. One year, I economized and took the bus. I paid economically and psychologically for that decision. The bus never showed up and there was no one in the waiting area who would help, so I hopped a cab to the train station. After those struggles, I would then arrive in downtown Philadelphia. I would either take a lovely commuter train to a neighborhood near my mother’s house and wait for the XH bus that never adhered to the schedule or brave the gross City Hall Station on the subway that took me to the prompt 6 bus.

I eventually tired of that mess and started arriving on Thanksgiving day, about two hours before dinner was served. No travel mess. Just a big, delicious meal with family. There was the traditional post-dinner rounds of embarrassing stories, but once that ended, the movie marathon began.

This year, I was not going to experience any of the Thanksgiving traditions because I was not in the United States. I wanted to miss it but I did not. I didn’t miss it until we made the decision not to mark the occasion at all. Then I missed endless talk show segments on how to create an innovative turkey dinner; the talk show segments that demonstrated how to make a traditional Thanksgiving meal; the thrill of not working on Thursday and Friday; listening to all my co-workers’ and friends’ stories of family fun; the continuous flow of sale ads for Black Friday; the horrible travel; and the general thrill that surrounds Thanksgiving.

As I prepared to teach English Thursday afternoon, everything just seemed so inadequate. No family. No food. No embarrassing stories. No movie marathon. Just soup that I picked up on my way home from German class.

Asmus called me in the midst of my preparations and demanded to go to Thanksgiving dinner. I protested a little, because he had not been feeling well. When he said that he felt fine, then I happily surrendered.

The Hamburg Marriott did not have my nephew but it did have my Asmus. With our first plate of food in front of us [I was determined to follow the American tradition of eating too much on the fourth Thursday in November.], we both listed something that we were thankful for. Fortunately, I was thankful for his entrance into my life and he was thankful for my being in his life. He also said my monologue was too long. Oh well, it seems that one of us is just more grateful than the other.

The cooks at Speicher 52 did a respectable job in replicating the American Thanksgiving dinner. There was an unbelievably-moist turkey, dressing with way too much celery, delicious potatoes au gratin, and sweet potato puree. The other items were delicious but misplaced. Autumn in Germany features lots of fresh corn and that was in abundance on the buffet. There was also various salads. My family eats many things on Thanksgiving but salad is not one of them. However, my favorite salad in the world sat on a table and I had to dig in. I went from full to bursting with a nice helping of Cobb salad. It was so worth it. I trudged from bursting to real problem with the ingestion of pecan pie and creme brulee. I took the pain happily.

The only problem was the lack of couch at the hotel. Usually I would lie until the pain of gluttony passes but we were in the middle of major hotel. I did not want to weather the stares that would naturally follow a Black woman moaning and splayed across a couch in the lobby.
We went home and I tried to sleep with too much good food in my stomach. It was a nice facsimile of the American holiday.