A hairy lesson learned

As is usual lately, I’ve been a bit MIA from blogging. What could be more important that chronicling my misadventures in Germany for an unfortunately quantifiable audience that likely consists mostly of friends and family back in the States?

Well there’s cleaning the parquet brush on my Dyson, for example. 

Who doesn't love a good clean vacuum brush pic?

Or following my constipated cat around to note when he poops. What, TMI? Don’t worry, my cat probably feels the same.

But despite all of these momentous responsibilities, I’ve decided that a certain recent event deserves to be documented: I got my hair cut…at a German salon…all by myself. Well there it is. I’ll give you a moment to take all that in. I just saw my cat head to the litter box again anyway…

Okay so maybe after a few moments of deep reflection you’ve decided that my hair cut is really no big deal. Not so my friend (whoa, did I just channel a little John McCain there…yikes).

To properly convey the significance of this experience, let me back up a few days. A classmate in my German course mentioned that she’d cut her hair the night before…on her own, as in, with the scissors in her very own hands. Another chimed in that she does the same, although a bit differently. I listened in awe as they explained their various methods. Then it occurred to me, why not try it myself…it sounded simple enough. And besides, if it worked, I could put off going to a German friseur on my own and learning related the vocabulary like stufig (layered) and der pony (bangs). By the way, here’s a link to more vocab if you’re the market for a haircut in Germany.

So when I got home that afternoon, I promptly washed my hair, combed it perfectly straight and even watch a few DIY videos on YouTube for good measure.

You could say the first cut went well, if your only definition of “well” is that my hair had been cut. But not wanting to look like a subject for a beauty school staffed with six-year-olds, I kept cutting, and cutting and cutting. In the end, I succeeded only in creating the first bathroom rug comprised of 100 percent genuine human hair. There’s something for Etsy…or maybe Regretsy would be more appropriate.

But from folly sometimes come fortune, or some crap like that. Thanks to overestimating my innate stylist skills, my fear of German salons disappeared. And before I knew it, I had an appointment for first thing the next morning.

Fast forward through the 17 hours in between (which were sprinkled with cocktails and various expressions of bewilderment from Thomas), and enter Max, friseur and corrector of hideous hair creations.

I spent the next hour and half in his chair listening to snip, snip…scheiße!...snip, snip…warum!?, warum!?!…

And although I only understood about 70 percent of what he was saying, I realized that sometimes we have to just suck it up and go out there if we really want increased lingual comfort and fluency…or just do something stupid that requires professional help. Yeah, that works, too.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, thanks to Max, I can now appear in public without triggering howling dogs. Here's proof:

Before and after  
Sorry, no photos of the actual "before." Some things are best left to poor illustrations.

How do you say “AAARRRGGGHH” auf deutsch?

If a cat cries miau, miau and person yells Aua! when he stubs his toe, what German sound should I make when I want to SCREAM?

I'm no Edvard Munch, but I think I at least captured my fondness for purple wigs

Now, you may be asking yourself what this Ami in Munich has to be frustrated about. I’ll admit I have little to complain about these days, what with not having to work at the moment and living in Europe.

But residing in a land where your language skills are (depending on the day) somewhere in between those of a half-baked pretzel and a four-year-old can have its ups and downs.

Today, for example, was no red letter day in my quest for German fluency – unless of course that red letter is a big, fat F (for those not familiar with the A-F grading style, that’s failing…miserably).

It was another one of those days where it seemed like every question I asked in my German class elicited something like: Haben wir das nicht schon in Kapitel Blah Blah gelernt? (English translation: Didn’t we already learn that in chapter blah blah?)

Just half way through the lesson, I was beginning to think that any question with enough audacity to leave my mouth hole would be met with a similar response:

Me: Entschuldigung, I seem to have bitten my pencil in half and am unfortunately chocking on the eraser. Would you be so kind as to perform the Heimlich maneuver

Response: It’s pronounced HEIM-lich! Didn’t we already learn the proper syllabification?

Okay, okay, so now I’m just being snarky. But on days like this, I get the feeling I’m condemned to a life of toddler-speak and charades.

On the other hand, perhaps I would do better to stop complaining, and open my textbook instead.  Good advice from the more articulate, English-speaking side of my brain. Of course, the immature four-year-old, German-speaking side thinks watching cartoons and eating chocolate might be a better solution. Guess which one the rest of me is going to side with?

There’s coffee…and then there’s THIS

What do you get when you send a fairly-illiterate-in-German -and-fresh-off-the-boat-expat grocery shopping? This:

Caro, the coffee alternative

Sure, it looks normal enough with its gold and blue label and image of a delicious cup of coffee. But what’s inside is most definitely NOT delicious coffee. In fact, as I later learned, it isn’t even coffee at all.

Let me back up. I’ve been in Germany for about a month and a half now. And one of my favorite things about living in another country is grocery shopping. Stores are filled with excitingly different items and brands. But all this newness (and my low German vocabulary) comes with a price: you don’t always know what you’re getting. But then again, how else would I have learned I actually do like stinky sheep cheese?

So a few weeks ago, I went in search of a good instant coffee to hold me over until we bought a machine. I stood in front of the coffee shelf for about 10 minutes trying to decide between brands based solely on product labeling aesthetics. From the impressive line-up, I selected a perpetrator, er canister.

As soon as Thomas got home that evening, I performed my ceremonial “showing of the day’s purchases” like a kid proudly holding freshly made macaroni art. Usually it goes well. Today, the macaroni was didn’t go over so well. Here’s the transcript of what followed:

Thomas: Wow, you…uh… you bought Caro, huh? he asked cocking his head to one side as if the angle would make my imminent reasoning clearer. (Since then, I’ve received this same reaction from numerous people.)
Me: Umm…yeah. It was a really good price, and the label was prettier than the generic brands. (I could feel my speech beginning to get slower and slower) Besides, it’s made by Nestle. The other Nestle coffee was twice as much.
Thomas: Do you know why that is?
Me: No…..wh—
Thomas: Haha, no, no. You’ll find out.

The next morning I made my first cup of Caro and slowly took a sip. What the –!?!

I ran to the computer to research the odd black liquid in my cup. Caro is actually a caffeine-free coffee substitute. The ingredients listed on Wikipedia, best describe the flavor: “Caro is made up of soluble solids of roasted barley, malted barley, chicory, and rye.”

Yum?

But since I bought it, I was determined to drink it, so I’m down to half a canister (which, because I bought the biggest one, makes 50 cups).

While the taste kind of grows on you, I’m happy to report we bought our new coffee machine last night. So starting today, it’s good-bye Caro and welcome back Joe.

My knight in stainless steel armor has arrived

I’m sorry, my German isn’t very good … and apparently neither is my math

In Germany, many shops only accept cash, or sometimes called an Electronic Cash (EC) card (which is like a debit card). Being a U.S. American (I can’t speak for my friends in Canada and Mexico), this is very different. In the States, I rarely carried cash. Plus, I earned “points” with every credit card purchase which equaled cash back later. A $2 cup of coffee? Charge it.

I don’t have an EC card here yet. Thomas added me to his bank account, but in order to get a card, we have to go to the Post Office to have my identity verified. I should mention here that Germans take personal identity and privacy very seriously, which I think is great. But added security measures often come with a convenience cost.

But not having an EC card hasn’t been that big of inconvenience; I’ve been fine with making a trip to the ATM with Thomas every few days...

…Until today, that is.

Each day, I go to a couple of markets to acquire fresh items with which to create something that resembles some state of food (I’m still to master opening the oven…more on that another time).

Today I went to a larger store just down the street. But because grocery shopping is still very exciting –   so many new and different items to try – I got a little more zealous than my wallet was comfortable with.

As I placed each of my edible treasures on the checkout conveyor belt, a sense of dread began to set in. How much was that box of chocolates? I forgot I picked up that bottle of Glühwein. That deli cheese was €4??

And, as is so often the case, my delayed intuition was right.

Cashier: Das macht €38.45. (That comes to €38.45).
Me: Ummm…[looking at the €25 in my wallet as if they’d somehow multiply if I keep counting them.] Leider…ich habe nicht genug. Ich muss etwas zurück geben.(Unfortunately...I don’t have enough. I must give something back.)

I quickly handed over a higher ticket item: a beautiful bottle of Cuban rum. The cashier, without the least bit of empathy for my predicament, snatched it up and walked over to her colleague for a register key to remove the item from my bill.

By this time a line had begun to form behind me.

Cashier: €22.10, bitte.
Me:        .........

Looking at the money in my hand again, I started recounting it in German. No, better do this in English, I thought. Crap…wait…how much is this?? I felt a warm sensation flooding into my face. Somehow in a mounting sense of panic I’d forgotten how to add. I frantically handed her all of the paper bills from my wallet, plus a couple spare one and two Euro coins from my pocket.

She counted my wad of monetary shame once…twice…looked at up me…and then counted a third time. I instantly thought I was still short. But to my relief, she mumbled something I didn’t fully understand and gave me several Euros back. I grabbed my rum-less bag of groceries and hurried out, without making eye-contact with any of the (hopefully patient) customers behind me. For once, stepping outside and breathing the bitter cold air felt amazing.

So what did I learn? Have plenty of cash on hand; select items more conservatively; and start going to a different grocery store.

These boots were NOT made for walking

Anyone who knows me, knows I love high heels. The higher the better. But today, a pair stiletto-esque boots were my downfall. Literally.

The sidewalks around my neighborhood are made up of individual, slightly uneven stone squares. They look nice, but they don’t play nice with long skinny heels. I was going along my way quite well until my heel caught the edge of one stone just the wrong way and KER-plop. 

I didn’t fully hit the ground, but my bag of groceries did. Fortunately there was no damage to my veggies – only to my pride. But now I know why so many Munich women wear flat or low heel shoes around here.

Looks like I’ll need to adjust my day-to-day footwear, because black and blue knees are a definite fashion don’t.

Cats, cars and carelessness

Today was an important day in our move. And it started at the unreasonable hour of 5 a.m.

My morning mission was to prepare the cats for their pre-flight vet inspection (which must happen no more than 10 days before the flight). This is just one of the many steps required to relocate a pet to Germany. I trimmed nails, applied kitty claw tips (to avoid carrier destruction) and carted each cat up and down the stairs and across town through terrible rush hour traffic. But at least the appointment was a success. My vet cleared them to fly and filled out the ream of required paper documentation on them. Next up in the feline department: the USDA endorsement appointment this Wednesday. At least that appointment is sans mes chats.

After dropping the cats off at home and assessing the copious amount of cat furring re-coating my normally red coat, I hurried off to work -- a place where time hasn’t yet told my to-do list about its rapidly approaching departure. So I worked until it was time for my next move-related task: forgoing my vehicular mobility...

I met the buyer for my car at the bank. For the most part, everything went smoothly. We exchanged money for keys and signed the necessary papers. I took my photocopies and license plate (unlike many other countries, in the U.S., the plates belong to the person who paid for them. The buyer must purchase new ones when he or she registers the vehicle) and was on my way.

I boarded the bus to my apartment slightly numb from selling my beloved car, but relieved the sale was complete. I got off the bus and walked home in the same oblivious state of mind. It wasn’t until I laid my purse down on the counter that I realized something important was missing – my license plate and copies of the documents. I frantically called the bus’ lost and found office, but it was closed. So here I am still dwelling on my blunder hours later, hoping someone will turn my stuff in. Maybe the universe will take pity on me and my hopeless forgetfulness. But I guess I'll have to wait until to tomorrow to find out...