ivory towers are for jumping

It's a lovely day. The sun is shining, the sky is a hazy blue, children are playing in the neighbour's garden; in short, it's lovely. Apart from the bugs, that is. They bug me, and they find my coffee as attractive as this stupid fly does find my perfume (What the hell do they do with this stuff?).

In a sudden bout of vanity, I've decided to wear but a T-shirt and my new, white (and extremely good-looking) skirt. I'm intent on getting a tan in one day - and I am quite aware that this attempt is as vain as I am. Even though the T-shirt is a bit of an unlucky choice - exposed arms mean but exposed cuts and scars for me - I hope that said exposure of skin to sunlight will have a positive effect on my over-all mood. The move just lurking around the corner, I will need all the energy I can possibly muster up to survive the following ten days. And I am intent on making good use of the garden as long as I still have it.

I feel somewhat sorry for leaving this house, my dear flat mate Alex, and my little snowman Ana behind. I've grown fond of our little 'threesome'. Still, I'm very much looking forward to moving back to Dresden again. To survive the sterility of Warwick University, you have to be carved out of a different kind of wood. Having the choice between being without a name in Dresden and being without a soul here, I know what I will opt for.

The neighbour's kids just tossed their tennis-ball over the fence and then politely requested in their language - which is not English, either - that I give it back. No need to say I didn't quite understand what those two cute faces asked me for as they appeared behind the fence - I hadn't seen the ball. However, as they repeated their request in English, the situation cleared up. God, they are cute; I'd adopt them readily, but I doubt my Indian neighbours would be too fond of this idea. Tough luck.

Adopting kids - or having some myself - wouldn't be a good idea, anyway. Apart from the fact that I consider myself far too young to take responsibility for a little soul's life and well-being (I hardly manage to take responsibility for myself right now), I still have an academic career in mind. Knowing that the over-all circumstances are not extremely favourable, and being quite aware that children diminish the chances of professional advancement in our culture, I shall refrain from the wish of reproducing. What am I talking about? I wouldn't even have a father for those kids.

This really bugs me. Our government complains that educated women don't have enough children, yet they do nothing to help (prospective) mothers to keep their job. I mean, honestly, the prospect of doing my M.A., maybe topping it with a Ph.D. and then arduously climbing the ivory tower seems less inviting when all these efforts were in vain because of one misguided - or lucky - sperm. I know a girl who does it - studying whilst being a full-time mother - but she only manages to get by because the father's a student, too. Both of them are still being delayed in their studies, they don't find the time to work at home, and I don't even want to mention their financial situation. Plus, she is lucky: she has a devoted father for their little daughter.

Granted, some people do it, and it seems to work. But I still wonder whether I'd be up for the challenge of being a mum and a super-achiever at uni. I doubt it. I don't even manage to achieve anything right now, and although I know this state to be only temporary, it still feels scary to even consider the double-strain these girls must be under. Maybe some of you did it and you can tell me how you managed (taking into account the educational system of your country)? It's not that I was seriously considering having a child, but I'd be interested all the same.

Ana gave me a cafetière for my birthday - it's so damn great! After drinking this dish-water (also euphemistically called 'tea') and this used dish-water (also euphemistically tagged 'instant coffee') for half a year, it's good to have some seriously strong, aromatic, freshly-brewed coffee. I'd almost forgotten how much I missed it in the beginning of my stay here. Soon, soon I will be back to Jan's heart-attack causing, pitch-black coffee and real bread. It's always the same, the first two weeks after being back from Germany, Alex and I find ourselves unconsciously refusing to eat the soft white stuff they call bread over here. Once in a while I venture out to Sainsbury's to buy some ridiculously expensive soft brown stuff and some ham which hasn't been reformed and cut into toast-like squares. The food... the food! Dear English, I love you and your country, but sometimes I wonder how you even managed to survive the first five years of your life - with all the ready-made stuff, the cucumbers only being sold in halves, and what not. It's a new world to me - and, I'm sorry to say so, not a particularly tasty one. Granted, your teas are better and fair-trade, your chocolate is gorgeous, the cookies are lovely, but the rest? Bland. I can't just live on cookies, chocolate and tea! Well, I guess I could - but the point is: I shouldn't.

I've tried to lay off the alcohol recently, and guess what? It works. The decision to only drink in company was a good one. Not only had I been drinking far too much, I was also beginning to functionalize the alc as combined medication for insomnia, depressed mood and anxiety. Certainly not a good idea. I've always loved drinking beer, both frequently and in large amounts, and while I always considered myself as an alcoholic in disguise, I never found that I had to make an effort not to drink for a few days. Yet, this is exactly what happened last week, and when I think about it thoroughly, I realize that it must have been January or December that I last spent two evenings in a row without drinking. By drinking I don't mean getting drunk - usually it is only one beer, but that doesn't really make a difference. So, I am intent to drink only whilst in company. Alcohol used to be a social thing, and that's what it has to become again, else it'd be missing the point. Since I don't have much of a social life at the moment and most of my friends rarely drink, I don't think I run the risk of continuing my drinking habits. My resolution for my twenty-third year of existence: I will think before I drink.

anyway

So here I am again, back from Dresden, back in Cov and dead unhappy.

On the morning of April the 6th I got on the bus, caught the coach, boarded the plane, bought a ticket for the train... and realized that a) the ticket vending machines never work when you need them and that b) I really truly love Dresden. The train slowed down a few miles outside the city, and suddenly I felt the trees and houses and spires grew more and more familiar. Then the train pulled into the station and it felt like home. From a hazy sky the sun shone on the houses and empty lots and the station building, and a gentle breeze rustles the trees that were yet bare.

Jan didn't show up at first, but an eventual phone call cleared up the situation: due to the flood in 2002, the station has several entrances, yet no main one - which always leaves me lost. The first days were a bit awkward, and I found it hard to adjust. To cut a long story short: I'm still not alright, but I know a bit better what I want and where I'm heading. (And I've got my Jan back... I don't know if this is a good thing, but it feels as if it was.)

Anyway, so what do I want? First of all, I have to get out of here. I still love England, love the language and do feel to some extent at home in it; still, and I knew that I was right as soon as I got off the coach, I have to get out of here. Too many things have happened that I cannot deal with. No need to go into detail, but I do know that I want to go back to Dresden as soon as possible. There will be enough time to think things through when I'm there.

Anyway, the trip yesterday was... interesting. Is it only me, or do you have the impression that people lose it completely as soon as they're on public transport, as well? It is amusing, no doubt about it; sometimes, however, I feel like all the weirdos take a day off just to pluck my already strained nerves like the cords of a guitar - you know, one of those the old bums in the precinct have. I feel fucked up, worn out and absolutely out of tune. Plus I had to sit next to very sleazy, greasy guy on the coach.

Anyway. On the plane I got a seat by the window. Right next to the left wing! (I'd like to see when the turbines stop. I'm not in for any surprises.) Some rows behind me were two Germans and a poor English woman I felt inclined to feel sorry for. The German guy - judging by his looks a complete nerd - obviously knew her, and his girlfriend instantly tried to make conversation. Fucking hell, you wouldn't believe it! How do the English stand a German accent? I mean, yes, I am German, but I don't sound like this. And I don't make every freaking mistake that one could possibly make. Ay dohn't sink sis is a proplem sat ve dohn't noh eatch asa. Oh please, please stop. And now that we're at it: don't talk so frigging loud, the whole plane can overhear your bloody conversation and I feel embarrassed, utterly ashamed that on top of not speaking English you have a horrible voice and you talk complete nonsense. Thanks. It wouldn't have been so bad if she'd been aware she was being ridiculous. But no! Ay sink (Why does every bloody sentence of yours begin with 'I think'?) my lessons vere very efficient (She meant 'effective', I'm sure.), becohse ay have learn Inklish very fastly. Yeah, sure. It wouldn't have been so bad, either, if she'd been the least bit humble. But no. No, my Inklish is krayt, I don't have to listen to anyone who tries to correct me.

Anyway, the flight is only one hour of the whole journey, and I slept a bit, so I guess I missed out on the most amusing part of their conversation. Judging by the reactions of the guy sitting next to me, he found her hilarious. The coach I intended to take was sold out, but someone didn't show up and the driver let me on. Strike! I'll be in Cov by 10pm! I wasn't looking forward to not arriving until midnight.

Anyway, the driver was a chatty guy and distracted me from my magazine. Good job, I always get sick when I read on the bus, but when I don't, the people on there scare the shit out of me. I need something to help me ignore the world. As we pulled in to Luton Bus Station, the driver announced we'd have a break. Unfortunately for smokers like me, it turned out we'd be forced to stay on the bus. As soon as the driver got off the bus to help unload the passengers' luggage, a man with a little child turned up and started bothering the driver. He wanted to get on the bus and claimed he had a valid ticket to Milton Keynes. He indeed had, but as the driver rightfully pointed out, this afore-mentioned ticket was a) issued by Virgin and b) for a train. However, the good man did not (and did not want to) understand the difference between a coach (you know, wheels on tarmac) and a train (you know, locomotive and rails). Besides, his ticket was for a train that had left 45 minutes ago, so the driver assumed that the bloke had just missed it and was now trying to get on anything going to Milton Keynes - and from then on to Liverpool, as he emphasized several times. Poor Liverpudlians. In the end, the driver called the police, but the guy buggered off before they arrived. Our driver (the lord have mercy upon his psyche) was on the edge, and his driving skills were somewhat impaired for the following twenty minutes.

Anyway, on the bus from the station to my house, I met my ex-flatmate. The one who was thrown out because her boyfriend tried to beat us up (silly little coke-head) and then smashed my window. She didn't even look at me - not that I mind, mind you. Look is all she can do: as a Spanish friend of mine and compatriot of hers put it, 'She is stupid even in Spanish.' Alright then. I still don't think that stupidity is a good excuse, but what will you if you don't have the wits to think of a better one?

Anyway, it's way too late now. I'd better go to sleep while I can.

Back to Dresden!

Since I will leave for Dresden tomorrow, I thought it'd be a good idea to give a short update today.

I've finally finished Rushdie's Midnight's Children, and was thoroughly impressed with its narrative structure. I found it hard to follow at times, due to my lack of knowledge of Indian history, so I guess I will brush up on that and then read it again in a year's time. Saleem, the narrator, also inspired to the title of this post. I just loved his cry "Back to Bom!", although Dresden doesn't sound half as good in this context.
Read the book if you haven't already. Now! You go to Amazon.co.uk and order. Go!

I've also run out of Murakamis. Sad but true. The only one that is still missing is Underground. I think one day I'll see whether I find some of his earlier stuff and read it all in chronological order. It seems worth it - although I will never be able to use it for my studies, much in contrast to Rushdie.

In fact, I've been questioning my studies, lately. Not that this was a new phenomenon, but before I've always tried to circumvent the hindrances that are inherent in our syllabus to do something that seems worthwhile. Somehow, I feel I'm running out of energy, and I cannot even bring myself to write an essay on a topic I used to be interested in. Right now, I hear from a friend in Dresden that they intend to cancel the focus 'Learning processes and teaching in languages for special purposes', and I'm starting to get really fed up with my university. These were not the conditions under which I began my studies, for feck's sake!

Tomorrow, as I already said, I will head off to Dresden for a few days. I have to sort things out in my life. I'm not sure that this is the life I want to lead, and whereas I will definitely finish my degree, I still have to keep my eyes and ears open, just in case an opportunity to get involved in a professional theatre should arise. While teaching at university is tempting, I have to consider that chances are low to ever get a job at a German university. Admittedly, chances are even lower to find a job in dramaturgy, but then again: Who knows? So far, there's always been a way to end up where I wanted to go, and I guess if I somehow get back my motivation, chances are that I actually might find myself in a job that doesn't bore the living shit out of me. If not, I can still work at KFC's. I wonder what a name-tag with Dr. Hannah would look like. Scary, pretty scary.

So, the plan for tomorrow is: bus, coach, plane, train, tram. Sounds good, eh? I love journeys. Not so much the arriving bit, but leaving and being on the road always feel good. I'm still a bit scared of flying, but it's going to be the sixth time since September now, so I guess I'll be alright. Anyway, coffee is the perfect cure: I've made it a rule to arrive early at the airport and drink vast amounts of the black stuff. Apart from the fact that I always used to be a coffee junkie, it has two side-effects: first, I can blame the nervousness on the intake of caffeine, and second the urge to run to the nearest toilet distracts me from the funny feeling in my belly. I've also made it a rule not to visit the porcelain god until having solid ground under my feet; it is easier to survive the landing and to have the motivation to get to the check-out before everyone else does when you really need a toilet. I am lucky; since I always travel with a large rucksack, it usually arrives before all the suitcases do. The bulky stuff always goes on last and is handed out first with easyjet.

Oh, how I look forward to seeing the station in Dresden again. How I long for the smell of the river Elbe. How I wish to see the weird skyline of baroque palaces and GDR-architecture. How excited I am to walk the streets of the Neustadt again. And how I anticipate the moment of seeing Jan at the station. True, he is only my ex-boyfriend (What a stupid twat I am!), but just talking to him in my mother tongue will take stones (or kilograms, just as you please) off my shoulders.

The plan for tomorrow is the following.
I'll get up around six, shower and brush my teeth (this time I won't forget that), dress and have a coffee. Then I'll pack the rest of the stuff which I still need tonight - the computer, for instance. Before I do that, I will shortly stick on Classical Gaz by William Mason, just to get me in the mood. Maybe I predict a riot by the Kaiser Chiefs, too. Then... hm. Then I'll check all the windows and doors, bring out the litter, and leave the house. Yep! Best part of a journey, always.
Take the bus to Poolmeadow Bus Station, get the National Express to Luton Airport, check in. Have loads of coffee and thrice as many cigarettes. Go for the ladies at least three times. Board. Wait. Wait more. Listen to the safety instructions for the n-th time. Wait more. Listen to the reason for the delay and then concentrate on not concentrating on the child behind me that keeps kicking me in the back. Get sick, blame it on the coffee. Hear the turbines start. Feel a rush of glee pulse through my body, feel the spirits heighten as we gain speed, wait impatiently for the take-off. Get sick again, ignore the pressure on my ears. Concentrate on not throwing up instead. Then wait for the moment to be trapped in the grey cotton wool, just to look forward to see the crystal clear, deep stainless blue sky again. The happiest sight I've ever seen, I just can't be sad when this blue surrounds me whole. Stare to the ground to try and figure out where we are. Enjoy the landing tremendously. Get sick all the same. Curse my body. Get off the plane, check out, show my passport thrice and argue that this is really me. Try to find the station, succeed in doing so after fifteen minutes. Try to purchase a ticket. Succeed in doing so after thirty minutes. Get myself a coffee and pass the rest of the forty-five minutes wait. Get on the train. Feel the paranoia welling up, check thrice whether a) no one looks at you, and b) whether this is really the right train. Ignore the fact it is the only train that stops there anyways. Enjoy the train journey. Get paranoid after half an hour I might have missed the stop, although the train will not arrive in another forty-five minutes. Listen to what is announced via the loudspeakers - decide that if it cannot be understood, it wasn't worth understanding. Then figure out that it was the announcement of Dresden Hauptbahnhof. Hastily grab my rucksack only to find myself standing on the aisle for another ten minutes. Get off the train. See Jan?

I bid thee farewell, dearest reader. If it was meant to be, we shall meet another time. I'll be gone.
Yes, I'll be gone. I'll be going home. Home is where the heart is, they say. I've lost mine to Dresden when I was thirteen. I shall never claim it back. The thought of this city puts me in high spirits for the first time in months. I am embarrassed to admit it, the thought of a good Saxonian pils brings tears to my eyes. There's the alcoholics for you.
So, good-bye for now. I'll get in touch as soon as I'm back.

the road leads where it's led

It is Sunday, and it is sunny. What a coincidence. Life is full of coincidences; I just never come across them.

When I woke up this morning, 13:13, I would have been delighted to see the sun shining through my window, but it was too late already. With disbelief I looked at my clock, it said (you name it) 13:13. The shops in England close at 16:00 on a Sunday, and I desperately needed to do some shopping. To cut a long story short: I had to hurry up. Quick shower, the towel once rubbed over the head, putting on whatever lay on the floor, then checking the bus timetables on the internet. Sunday - no buses. So I walked to the city centre to look for a calling card.

We do have a landline here in our house, but it only allows dialing free numbers and 999, which is why my flat mate Alex and I depend on those nice calling cards. All in all, they are not too bad, apart from the fact that it means quite a lot of typing: free number, pin, country code, the actual number. I always end up with thirty digit numbers, and I've noticed I've become far more careful not to make any mistakes.

Anyway, by the time I got to the city centre it was 14:47, and the phone shop where I usually buy the cards was closed already. So I ventured out to do the rounds in all available phone shops and newsagents in the precinct. From the first phone shop I was sent to the nearest newsagents, from there to another phone shop, and from there... you get the gist of it.

Half an hour later, there were no further phone shops or newsagents left, and frustrated I decided to walk to the bus station and take the next bus that goes in my direction. Dodging neurotic late-hour shoppers, I made my way through the Burges and past the old school. Then, on the right, a window caught my attention. An array of about twenty lists of different companies with promising names such as 'Voice of Africa' were on display, and one of them was actually for Europe. £5 for 222 minutes sounded like a fair deal to me, considering that I needed such a thingy anyways. So I stepped inside.

The moment I crossed the threshold, time started to reverse. It felt like stepping back into my childhood days when after school we'd all drop by the kiosk near the bus stop. It was always comparatively dark in there, and it was crammed to the roof with sweets, newspapers, magazines and lots of stuff that didn't seem to serve any special purpose. At the counter there'd always be some old Turkish men eagerly discussing politics with one of the owners. Depending on whose turn it was, they'd either talk a very basic form of German, or in their mother tongue. We didn't care; we came for the peach rings, the apple-flavoured snakes, and other sweet sugary stuff.

This kiosk here was exactly the same, the only difference being that the Turkish old men in their worker outfits had been replaced with Indian mid-50s in suits. The jabbering sounded very familiar, even though the languages being spoken were different. It made me smile; there is something about these places which seems to be an international phenomenon.

I asked the shopkeeper for the Euro Connect card, and it didn't take ten seconds for one of the men to interrupt me and suggest I buy the card of another company instead, for 'they are very good for Europe'. However, I can be a very stubborn person once I've decided on a purchase, so I gratefully declined and insisted on the Euro Connect. I managed to get the last one they had and saw I got the hell out of there, for no matter how much it reminded me of days long gone, I don't feel too comfortable around people in general, and it had become really packed since two old ladies had entered who pushed and shoved the men around to get to the fridge. Each bought four pints of milk, and I wondered why they didn't just go the Sainsbury's across the road. They must've had lots of money; prices in a kiosk are always ridiculously high - another international phenomenon.

On my way home, I had to wait for the bus for thirty minutes. Intent on passing the time, I nibbled on a slice of the soda bread I bought in the Sainsbury's and listened to two Eastern Asian girls chirping away in their language. I guess the monotony of German would send them straight to sleep.

Now I do what I have been doing for days, I'm sitting in my kitchen and waste my time on the net. My dad rang me up for the first time in weeks, but only because I sent him a text. He's not getting better, and it all looks as if they really had to put him on the list for a heart transplantation. But enough of that for now.

Tomorrow will be a day full of washing and cleaning. Tuesday I'll have to pack my stuff and try to go to sleep earlier than 5am, for the next day I'll go to Dresden for a few days. I missed it so much over the past ten months, and considering the state I am in, it doesn't seem a too bad idea to just hang out there for a while. Maybe see a doctor, the NHS is obviously a bit unreliable, but that's not news.