Getting sick in a foreign land is always an adventure. During the summer I spent in Dublin, I managed to get strep throat (a personal specialty) and had one of the most entertaining (if not mildly disturbing) medical appointments of my life. It was so casual and un-doctory that I almost asked the doctor to go get a Guinness with me afterwards.
Germany, for better or worse, is not like this. (I love you, Ireland, but I have to admit Germany does beat you.) I began feeling sick last weekend, and managed to ignore it (my traditional approach to illness) until Tuesday. We've only a year here - I didn't want to miss anything, especially one of my marathon German classes. Tuesday marked Dominic's last free day before he started his first job in Berlin, so if he was to translate a medical appointment for me, that was our chance. I'd heard a rumor that pharmacists in Germany were able to dispense much more powerful drugs than in the US, so we walked over to one of the many tiny pharmacies in our neighborhood. (This was after looking up all the German words for "sore throat", "non-stop coughing", etc., that Dominic didn't have at his fingertips). The pharmacist listened to him, took a look at me (nothing like being discussed by two people as you stand there, innocently smiling) and said, "If she's sick, you should take her to a doctor. I think she needs more than cough drops." To which I replied (internally, in English, and, let's be honest, much later - after Dom had translated): "As if it's that easy! You don't just walk into a doctor's office!" Well, you actually can. She pointed us directly across the street ("the building behind the flowers") and we stumbled upon a pleasant doctor's office that was open for one more hour that day. Dominic explained my situation to the receptionist and she paused. "How long has she been sick?" We felt as though his answer was the key to whether or not I'd be seen that evening. "....four days?" he meekly replied. That seemed to fulfill the minimum requirement, and we were asked to take a seat. I had no sooner begun flipping through the pages of "OK!" magazine auf Deutsch and "Frau Romig" was being summoned into the doctor's office. Dominic followed after and indicated that he would need to translate the appointment. Evidentally the doctor replied skeptically, "Only if it's okay with Frau Romig", to which he replied, "Believe me, it's okay." We sit down and the visit began. This is when I became extremely impressed. As the doctor examined me, her assistant typed the results of everything that was occuring into a computer. When the doctor said "you're not leaving without antibiotics", a prescription was at that moment being entered in by the assistant, which was then retrieved by the receptionist, who printed it out - ready and waiting for us as we checked out. So all medical files are no only computerized, but all prescriptions are printed. America! Let's do this, too!
Unfortunately it's four days later and I'm still sick, but I remain mesmerized by the German efficiency (and friendliness) we experienced. All in all, I'd highly recommend getting sick here. Especially if you have a Dominic with you to translate.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Run Oma Run
We were marathon-crazy this weekend. The Berlin Marathon is well-liked by runners because of its flat, historic course. We liked the course, too - it went right in front of our apartment. The whole neighborhood seemed to have the same idea - "hey, let's grab some pretzels, our biggest pack of cigarettes, loudest pots and pans, and go watch the race!" Nothing says “let’s celebrate this incredible athletic accomplishment” more than being flanked by smoking couples at our front curb. Instead of joining in, I saved my euros for the "Marathon Party Bratwurst Stand" at the end of our street.
Saturday marked the roller-blader marathon day. The same course used for the runners on Sunday was taken over by 7,000 roller-bladers who whizzed by us. We were sufficiently impressed (and dizzy from staring at them going by) when I noticed something amiss. Did I see…jeans? Oh yes, there were a number of competitors sporting not only jeans, but jean shorts. It became our mission to capture some of the best.
Hey, you might need a backpack, too. You never know.
Nothing says "comfort for 42.195 kilometers" like some stiff jean shorts. But it does make it easier to get to the bar afterwards.
Sunday's race started at 9 and the first runners came past our apartment just past 10. The cheering began well before that, though. Hey, why not cheer for each Polizei truck that goes by to clear the road! Stray bikers, lost dogs, you all deserve encouragement! Our young neighbors led the charge in the cheering department, fully equipped with a fleet of pots and pans and their own handmade flag signs. (Sorry, US of A, no love from the 8-year-olds this time.)
The excitement was palpable as the first runners were spotted at the end of our Strasse. I immediately recognized one of this year’s Olympic winners, Ethiopian runner, Haile Gebrselassie. He won the marathon Sunday and made a new world record (beating his own from last year). Courtesy of Wikipedia, I found reason to like him even more. They reported, “Gebrselassie was born as one of ten children in Asella, Arsi Province, Ethiopia. As a child growing up on a farm he used to run ten kilometres to school every morning, and the same back every evening. This led to a distinctive running posture, with his left arm crooked as if still holding his schoolbooks.” Hard to confirm with the picture below, but he’s the one in yellow. It was SO EXCITING when these guys ran past!
The street was packed for a long while, and we tried out different German cheers (plus some frequent yells of “Dig deep!” from Dominic, just for fun). We clapped in time with the little girl’s pots and pans band, and took turns running down the street for warm drinks and pretzels.
Things got really fun once the pros were past us and the slower runners began coming by. The crazy outfits, the inspiring stories – there’s enough drama in a marathon to make a good opera. Our cheers fell on welcome ears at this point – these were the people who had written their names on their shirts so spectators could yell for them, which we were only too happy to do. A few weary runners uttered an appreciative “danke!!” and clearly needed the encouragement.
Don't worry - there was a runner in jean shorts. I was convinced we would spot one, so much so that I told Dominic I couldn't go inside until I'd found him. It took four hours of cheering, but here is the lucky man. I must admit, he looks like he's having a good time.
The entire population of Denmark was also in town to compete in the race. I have never seen so many Danes in my entire life. I have about 30 more pictures with nothing but Danes. It became the equivalent of our jeans-spotting game from Saturday.
On Monday morning my German teacher asked us all what we did this weekend. She called on me first to answer, and I got to try out the past tense for the first time and say "I watched the Marathon!" I think I even got it right.
Saturday marked the roller-blader marathon day. The same course used for the runners on Sunday was taken over by 7,000 roller-bladers who whizzed by us. We were sufficiently impressed (and dizzy from staring at them going by) when I noticed something amiss. Did I see…jeans? Oh yes, there were a number of competitors sporting not only jeans, but jean shorts. It became our mission to capture some of the best.
Hey, you might need a backpack, too. You never know.
Nothing says "comfort for 42.195 kilometers" like some stiff jean shorts. But it does make it easier to get to the bar afterwards.
Sunday's race started at 9 and the first runners came past our apartment just past 10. The cheering began well before that, though. Hey, why not cheer for each Polizei truck that goes by to clear the road! Stray bikers, lost dogs, you all deserve encouragement! Our young neighbors led the charge in the cheering department, fully equipped with a fleet of pots and pans and their own handmade flag signs. (Sorry, US of A, no love from the 8-year-olds this time.)
The excitement was palpable as the first runners were spotted at the end of our Strasse. I immediately recognized one of this year’s Olympic winners, Ethiopian runner, Haile Gebrselassie. He won the marathon Sunday and made a new world record (beating his own from last year). Courtesy of Wikipedia, I found reason to like him even more. They reported, “Gebrselassie was born as one of ten children in Asella, Arsi Province, Ethiopia. As a child growing up on a farm he used to run ten kilometres to school every morning, and the same back every evening. This led to a distinctive running posture, with his left arm crooked as if still holding his schoolbooks.” Hard to confirm with the picture below, but he’s the one in yellow. It was SO EXCITING when these guys ran past!
The street was packed for a long while, and we tried out different German cheers (plus some frequent yells of “Dig deep!” from Dominic, just for fun). We clapped in time with the little girl’s pots and pans band, and took turns running down the street for warm drinks and pretzels.
Things got really fun once the pros were past us and the slower runners began coming by. The crazy outfits, the inspiring stories – there’s enough drama in a marathon to make a good opera. Our cheers fell on welcome ears at this point – these were the people who had written their names on their shirts so spectators could yell for them, which we were only too happy to do. A few weary runners uttered an appreciative “danke!!” and clearly needed the encouragement.
Don't worry - there was a runner in jean shorts. I was convinced we would spot one, so much so that I told Dominic I couldn't go inside until I'd found him. It took four hours of cheering, but here is the lucky man. I must admit, he looks like he's having a good time.
The entire population of Denmark was also in town to compete in the race. I have never seen so many Danes in my entire life. I have about 30 more pictures with nothing but Danes. It became the equivalent of our jeans-spotting game from Saturday.
On Monday morning my German teacher asked us all what we did this weekend. She called on me first to answer, and I got to try out the past tense for the first time and say "I watched the Marathon!" I think I even got it right.
Friday, September 26, 2008
The Bike Incident
I like life. The moment I get excited about something and announce it to the world - for example, how much fun it is to ride a bike again - you know that there will soon be an "incident" involving me and my bike. I believe the experts call that foreshadowing.
I had a blissful week of bike-riding - weaving in and out of lanes, following confident riders in front of me and pretending we were on a ride together. During a beautiful afternoon last week, I decided to take a short ride. My limited Berlin wardrobe includes few pairs of pants, and the ones I do have are a bit wide at the ankles (read: dangerous). Dominic and I had been noticing the various ways Berliners deal with this issue, and noticed that most people seemed to only roll up one pant leg. With our combined intelligence we concluded that you need only "pick a leg" and roll it up to avoid getting stuck in the bike's chain. Dom even volunteered that this was because the wind's forces would take over for the second leg, preventing it from harm. This made sense to me at the time.
I got about two blocks from our apartment and felt the tug. I looked down and realized I had donated about 5 inches of my corduroy pants to my beloved bike. I casually glanced around, determining how many people would have the joy of witnessing my struggles. In fact, our local school was in the midst of outdoor soccer practice, so I had a good 200 students within spitting distance. This forced me to employ some rusty acting skills. First I pretended I was just "taking a break". Then I attempted to mask my attempts to pull the pant leg out with a fake tying-of-the-shoe. Finally, I realized that this pant leg was going nowhere and I didn't want to continue my struggles publicly any longer. I began my journey home - slowly dragging my bike down the road while still attached to it. I made it to our apartment and managed to "lift" (pull) the bike up the stairs while still connected to it. By some stroke of luck, it was at that point that the pants gave up the good fight. Without me having to cut them out, they let go, and I was again separated from my bike.
In an episode of The Office, Michael makes a "how-to" video for his future son. In his lesson on jump-starting a car, he gives the following instructions: "To jump start a car, first pop the hood. Then you take these bad boys and clip them anywhere on the engine. Then you take these and clip them wherever." Oh yes, I had rolled my left pant leg (hey, wherever), which was already safely protected from the bike chain, leaving my right leg ready for the drama which inevitably came.
I had a blissful week of bike-riding - weaving in and out of lanes, following confident riders in front of me and pretending we were on a ride together. During a beautiful afternoon last week, I decided to take a short ride. My limited Berlin wardrobe includes few pairs of pants, and the ones I do have are a bit wide at the ankles (read: dangerous). Dominic and I had been noticing the various ways Berliners deal with this issue, and noticed that most people seemed to only roll up one pant leg. With our combined intelligence we concluded that you need only "pick a leg" and roll it up to avoid getting stuck in the bike's chain. Dom even volunteered that this was because the wind's forces would take over for the second leg, preventing it from harm. This made sense to me at the time.
I got about two blocks from our apartment and felt the tug. I looked down and realized I had donated about 5 inches of my corduroy pants to my beloved bike. I casually glanced around, determining how many people would have the joy of witnessing my struggles. In fact, our local school was in the midst of outdoor soccer practice, so I had a good 200 students within spitting distance. This forced me to employ some rusty acting skills. First I pretended I was just "taking a break". Then I attempted to mask my attempts to pull the pant leg out with a fake tying-of-the-shoe. Finally, I realized that this pant leg was going nowhere and I didn't want to continue my struggles publicly any longer. I began my journey home - slowly dragging my bike down the road while still attached to it. I made it to our apartment and managed to "lift" (pull) the bike up the stairs while still connected to it. By some stroke of luck, it was at that point that the pants gave up the good fight. Without me having to cut them out, they let go, and I was again separated from my bike.
In an episode of The Office, Michael makes a "how-to" video for his future son. In his lesson on jump-starting a car, he gives the following instructions: "To jump start a car, first pop the hood. Then you take these bad boys and clip them anywhere on the engine. Then you take these and clip them wherever." Oh yes, I had rolled my left pant leg (hey, wherever), which was already safely protected from the bike chain, leaving my right leg ready for the drama which inevitably came.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Photos!
My bike - hanging out in front of the Reichstag today while Dominic got his picture taken with Angela Merkel!
Our cozy apartment. If you squint I bet you can see our names on the buzzer.
One of my favorite things to eat - day or night.The blurred photo shows the dream-like effect these delicious kebabs have on me.
Prost! Celebrating our first full day in Berlin last month. I loaned Dominic my beer to help with the visual...
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Ich wohne in Berlin
It's true: I live in Berlin. Although we've been here 6 weeks now, it has felt a bit like an extended vacation. I am still relishing the fact that I can wear jeans on a Monday, consider going to Ireland (and do it) for a few days, and order fresh, hot pretzels at 3 bakeries within sight of our apartment. This week our "trip" to Berlin stopped feeling like a vacation, however, and I realized I was running out of contact solution, deodorant, and trash bags. Without their German words and the names of stores and their locations where I could buy these things, my real "living in Germany" adventure feels like it has just begun.
My husband applied for a fellowship in Germany last year, and ever since then I have known that we might up and move to Germany for a year. We found out in January that we'd be coming and I have been looking forward to the chance to Deutsch sprechen ever since. Because we have amazing families and friends, the move was not too bad. The only panicked moment had nothing to do with the move itself, but was caused by my opthamalogist as he uttered the words no one about to move to a foreign land wants to hear "I have accidently given you dilation drops that will last one week instead of 2 hours". In my final week of packing and moving I got to add to my daily "to-do" list:
1) Assure people that I was not high, my eyes were merely severely dilated
2) Have someone read the newspaper to me since my vision was blurred
3) Trick people into thinking I might be famous by wearing sunglasses all day
4) Stare in the mirror every three hours and try to get my family to agree that my eyes were "getting better"
By the time I boarded the plane, I looked nearly normal. We arrived in Berlin on August 6 and got right down to business. I started language classes on August 7 and had three weeks of intensive classes - 3 1/2 hours a day with my Chilean, Italian, and Yemenese classmates. My time with the 3 of them warrants its own post - I loved them and the class.
During September, we have been traveling off and on as part of the fellowship program and I will resume language classes next week. Trust me, I need them even more than I need new contact solution and deodorant. I'm ready to graduate from "My name is Liz! I come from America! My favorite color is blue!" and learn amazing new things like
1) How to communicate in the past tense
2) How to have an opinion - of anything
3) How to crack a joke
In the meantime, I have found a few tools that are helping me survive.
1) A BIKE. I had forgotten how much fun it was to ride a bike. I researched bike stores for a good two hours and found a delightful store that sold me a used bike. While the bike was fixed up (with a new bell and a basket - gotta have a basket) I befriended the owner (a DC native) and his brother-in-law who moved to Berlin by way of Africa. What fun to hear their crazy "how I got to Berlin" stories while hanging out in a bike store for an hour. Riding my old bike is the best way to connect the dots of the S-Bahn and U-Bahn and really get to see the city.
2) A map. I am always looking at my map to make sure I'm on the right Strasse or Platz. I have never seen so many double s's in my life. I am on a mission to find the longest street name in Berlin, and when I do, I'll be sure to take a picture. Many German street names are well over 20 letters.
3) Enough German to say "excuse me" (when you mistakenly walk in the bike path for the third time that day, nearly knocking over a mother, her child, their groceries, and dog who are all somehow balancing on her bike), "thank you" (when you buy your second pretzel of the day to remind yourself that there are things that are better in Berlin) and "Do you know where ____Strasse is?" It also helps to have enough German to understand the answer when you ask directions, but I have not reached that point yet. The best I can do is understand that at some point, somewhere, I need to turn left.
Wilkommen to my blog and my adventure - "please enjoy" and leave comments!
Tschos!
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