"May I Eat Your Tomatoes?": Two Encounters on This Date in History
As I mentioned recently, this is the 25th anniversary of my junior year abroad in Germany (the start of the year, that is). I posted an entry from my journal last winter that showed what a difficult time I had adjusting (though it turned out to be the most memorable year of my life). It's useful to know I had never been out of the country before -- well, if you don't count the first two years of my life, also spent in Germany, which of course I don't remember. I went to college just a couple of hours from home and came home frequently. I had never even been on an airplane before I flew abroad at age 19 (and that does count the childhood period; we returned by ocean liner then -- though I suppose we may have flown from New York to Washington).
Here are two journal excerpts I found amusing from September 16, 1981; I'd probably been there less than three weeks.
A German sat down at my table [in the Mensa, the university dining hall]. I was too afraid to say anything, although I probably should have. I never know how open Germans would be to striking up a conversation with a stranger. When he did say something, I practically lost a mouthful of curried lamb when I said, "Bitte?" ["Pardon?"] He was commenting on the fact that although it was supposed to be lamb, it was too tough to be lamb; it was more like beef. Of course, I didn't understand, and he had to repeat it, and then I was so embarrassed and nervous that my face was sweating (it was very hot in the Mensa, but not that hot). And as a result, I didn't say anything more. Before I left, he asked if he could have the rest of my tomatoes, which I didn't finish. "Ja, bitte!" ["Yes, please!"] Great conversation.
. . .
After class today I went for a beer with a guy from the class [an intensive German class the Americans in my program had to take], Steve. He seems to have befriended me somewhat, at least when we're in class, since we're both about at the bottom of the German-speaking-ability totem pole.* He's nice, and I was grateful for something to do, but we really don't have all that much in common. He's sort of the typical macho-jock type. (He got stoned before class. It was "excellent.") I couldn't finish my half liter of beer (it didn't taste all that good today), but what I did drink really got to me. I could barely think straight to respond to anything he said on the bus on the way home. Then I just conked out on my bed when I got back, for two hours. Never again on an empty stomach.
_________
* What I don't mention here -- out of my self-flagellating brand of modesty, I suppose -- is that I was in the highest level of German class offered. My textbook knowledge of the language was very good, but I truly was lost and utterly self-conscious when it came to having a conversation in those first weeks.
Here are two journal excerpts I found amusing from September 16, 1981; I'd probably been there less than three weeks.
A German sat down at my table [in the Mensa, the university dining hall]. I was too afraid to say anything, although I probably should have. I never know how open Germans would be to striking up a conversation with a stranger. When he did say something, I practically lost a mouthful of curried lamb when I said, "Bitte?" ["Pardon?"] He was commenting on the fact that although it was supposed to be lamb, it was too tough to be lamb; it was more like beef. Of course, I didn't understand, and he had to repeat it, and then I was so embarrassed and nervous that my face was sweating (it was very hot in the Mensa, but not that hot). And as a result, I didn't say anything more. Before I left, he asked if he could have the rest of my tomatoes, which I didn't finish. "Ja, bitte!" ["Yes, please!"] Great conversation.
. . .
After class today I went for a beer with a guy from the class [an intensive German class the Americans in my program had to take], Steve. He seems to have befriended me somewhat, at least when we're in class, since we're both about at the bottom of the German-speaking-ability totem pole.* He's nice, and I was grateful for something to do, but we really don't have all that much in common. He's sort of the typical macho-jock type. (He got stoned before class. It was "excellent.") I couldn't finish my half liter of beer (it didn't taste all that good today), but what I did drink really got to me. I could barely think straight to respond to anything he said on the bus on the way home. Then I just conked out on my bed when I got back, for two hours. Never again on an empty stomach.
_________
* What I don't mention here -- out of my self-flagellating brand of modesty, I suppose -- is that I was in the highest level of German class offered. My textbook knowledge of the language was very good, but I truly was lost and utterly self-conscious when it came to having a conversation in those first weeks.
posted by Billy at 5:37 PM
2 Comments:
how fluent did you become? and did you remain friends with the pothead jock?
I always hesitate to use the word fluent. Proficient is a better word.
We remained friendly but never became close friends. I did become less judgmental, though. ;)
Post a Comment
<< Home