Letter from Germany 23

Thursday, April 2, 1992

 

born: Émile Zola 1840

died: Hermann Rorschach 1922

1863: Bread revolt in Richmond, Virginia

 

I didn't start it. It was the Russians. At least, I think it was the Russians. It might have been the Poles. At any rate it definitely started with an ex-Warsaw Pact country. Admittedly, the NATO contingent (me and a couple of EU students) admittedly was quick to join in once it began; but we didn't start it.

 

Things were going along pretty peacefully. We were all struggling together trying to master German and understand why both a female and male baby were neutral when it came to gender. It was a bit disconcerting to have the teacher introduce an unknown word and watch my fellow students scramble in their pocket Langenscheidts translating out of German into Chinese, Arabic, Russian, Polish, Croatish, Greek, Turkish Swedish and Spanish. My strategy to stay out of this Babelonian stew was to doodle pictures or jot down a quick note in German.

 

The course is set up with the belief that we would drive one person crazy, so the administration split the load between two teachers. Teacher A comes early in the week, while Teacher B recuperates from the previous week and gathers up her strength and fortitude to meet with us again. Then the two instructors exchange the Goethian baton at mid-week and the rested educator takes over. The fact that one of our teachers is mildly racist made the class interesting. As a counterbalance, the other teacher is a dark Green Feminist.

 

We students get lots of practice not only conjugating verbs, but recycling them, as well. It turns out that a mis-used participle thrown out of order in a sentence and left on the sidewalk has a half-life of five years. If it is also poorly pronounced (likely, in our case) said (poorlly said, but said) word pollutes the groundwater. We spend a lot of time with this instructor learning that die nouns are as equally important as the others.

 

With all the different cuisines represented, I've begun thinking of the course less as language instruction and more of a cooking class. Have mentally renamed the sessions the Salt and Pepper Talks and look forward to seasoning tips from around the globe. In general, I try to mind my own business, only occasionally interrupting the class to find out where I can find a piroshki, or who knows the best recipe for couscous. You may not think there is a difference between piroshki and pirogen until you ask a mixed group of Eastern Europeans. Not only is there a huge language gap, but a huge culinary difference between people. The break up of the Eastern Bloc was inevitable. They can't even decide on the same ingredients for borscht.

 

To be fair, I admit that I am working on a book about comedy—and sometimes it shows. But I didn't start it. During the breaks I hover around the hazy perimeter of an indoor SIG alert as my fellow students reek of cigarettes and pass along various cooking tips and travel ideas on how to avoid heavy traffic, waits at customs, and small wars when straying east of Berlin.

 

With such a diverse geo-political population it is only natural that comparisons, competitions, and questions come up. I patiently explained that even though I lived in San Francisco I also lived in California, and they were both part of the United States. Not knowing the German term for Venn diagram, I had to resort to a map. Unfortunately, there was an exposition on Vietnam in the lobby and the only map handy stopped at Phnom Penh. Getting sidetracked on the Vietnam War took only a few days to clear up. Another mystery was solved when I explained to a fellow classmate about the six-hour time difference between New York and Berlin. She suddenly understood why her friend never sounded perky when she would call her on Sunday mid-mornings. As a side note, this western lackey of Capitalistic imperialism can hold his own on most questions of elementary German grammar, general 20th century history, and pop-consumer culture. I do stumble badly on anything that requires pronouncing the letter r, however.

 

Anyway, one day the teacher was asking how well the Moscow subway system ran. In the course of answering, Olga suddenly remembered a joke about a tschucktscha on the subway. A tschucktscha is a country rube from Siberia. The Russians kept trying to translate tschucktscha as Eskimo. I let them. How one actually spells tschucktscha would try even the patience of Saint Cyril or any other person with dyslexia. At the next break the Russians starting telling tschucktscha jokes to themselves and then trying to translate them into German for us. This got the Swedish student into remembering about why the Norwegian could never catch the train on time. Then the Palestinian wanted to explain why Syrian soldiers hate to jump out of airplanes. There I was amidst live, racist, ethnic jokes from around the world! In person! I did swoon. I also began taking more notes during the break than I do in class. Was just about to relate some traditional American humor at the expense of an ethnic minority, when I looked around and realized that the single most represented country in the class had formed itself into a Polish mafia. I chose discretion. It's strange to represent a world power and not be able to launch a couple of laugh salvoes.

 

Just wait until we start making fruit jokes. I wonder if the image of a multi-tonned, yellow mammalian with peels swimming at the bottom of the ocean named Moby Banana will translate into German?

 

Tschüß,

 

Todd Strong, Jonglierlehrer

 

Die Etage

Hasenheide 54

1000 Berlin 61

Deutschland

 

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