We reached the starting point of our hike without further incidents. None of us was suffering from tinnitus and we were ready to tackle the ascent. The sign indicated a ridiculous short distance of 1.2 miles to the Grotto Falls, our destination for that day. "Easy enough," I thought. "I run 11-minute miles. Twenty minutes and we're done!"
One hour later we finally reached the falls and I was thankful for the break. The trudge was quite entertaining, though, since our fellow walkers introduced us to the latest mountaineer fashion with my favorite being a white skirt and sandals. Even though it took longer than expected we didn't really feel challenged by the hike. Why did we bother putting on hiking boots while others were able to reach the waterfalls in flip flops? We decided to continue past the falls and head towards the Trillium Gap, another 1.6 miles away.
Once we turned the first corner we were all by ourselves. Apparently, not many people were interested in finding out what the Trillium Gap was. Even though I thought before that there were too many people around, the complete absence of human beings other than the really nice guy started to make me nervous. I was still thinking about the bear incident and the rustling leaves made me anxious. I began to imagine bears behind every tree and unfortunately, there was no way to google "How to survive a bear attack" far away (okay, 2 miles, but still) from civilization. That was when I noticed the huge pile of manure.
Now, who else other than a whole bear family would leave something like that behind? I could almost feel the presence of Papa Bear smirking behind the next bend, happy about the German delicacies that just walked into his territory. Needless to say that we hiked the 1.6 miles in less than an hour and finally reached Trillium Gap. Being German hikers we are very spoilt. Even the lowest summit in the mountain usually provides a hut that invites you to relax from your hike while enjoying a cold Warsteiner and a Bratwurst. Trillium Gap provided us with a signpost indicating that Brushy Mountain is 0.2 miles away.
We decided to give it a shot and were rewarded with a beautiful view of the smoky Mountains.
The hike back to the car and the drive to our cabin was pleasantly uneventful. We even found a nice restaurant for dinner.
The next morning before packing and getting ready to leave I surfed the Internet to find out more about the hike while the really nice guy was looking at the photos I took. "What's that?" he asked me, pointing at the twenty-four pictures of the pumpkin decoration that I took while I was waiting outside the rental office. "You wanted me to take photos and I didn't know of what," I replied. " - "Well, I don't remember either." Luckily, I was able to find the answer to my other question that this trip had raised - Who left the manure? - on the Internet.
As it turned out, huts do not only exist in German mountains. Mount LeConte, a name we saw on several signposts, has a lodge and supplies are carried up via lama...
I should have known that it couldn't be bear manure. They use Charmin after all, right?
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
Monday, December 05, 2005
Saturday, November 26, 2005
BITS & PIECES: A Trip to the Smoky Mountains (3)
The next morning started out like a day in Pleasantville: The sun was shining, the fireplace responded promptly to the turn of the switch, and the thermometer of the hot tub pretended not to know what a two-digit number was as it displayed a warm 102 degrees Fahrenheit. The line for breakfast was conveniently short, probably because we decided to take our cereal in our cabin. Life was wonderful!
The really nice guy and I had planned to go hiking that day and equipped with hiking boots, water, snacks, and a Mount Everest mountaineering survival kit we were heading towards the Smoky Mountain National Park. Unfortunately, we had to go through Gatlinburg which meant that we were stuck in traffic once more. Gatlinburg must have the world's highest per capita demand of pancakes, resulting in an overwhelming density of pancake houses. At 11 am, picture 50 people each waiting in line in front of every single one of them, trying to get a table for themselves and 25 of their closest family and friends that were yet to arrive and you understand why our patience was put to the test again.
Once we left all restaurants behind us and were on the street that would eventually lead us to the starting point of our hike, traffic eased noticeably until we didn't see a single car anymore. "That's great," the really nice guy was thrilled, "no traffic at all. Unbelievable!" He turned around the corner and had to bring the car to an immediate halt. "Just what we needed, another traffic jam," and while I was still contemplating how only two stopped cars in each direction could disrupt traffic completely, I noticed a woman outside her car shouting into her cell phone. "Oh no, I hope it's not an accident," I said when a rain of green leaves right outside the car caught my eye. The loudness of the woman's voice assumed alarming proportions and we decided it was time to leave the car and find out what had happened.
"I don't believe it, I've never seen anything like this," the lady screamed hysterically. Neither had I, and I started to commiserate with the person she had called and who must have been on the verge of acute hearing loss. "What happened?" the really nice guy asked when the woman was quiet for a split second to take a breath. "Bears! There are three bears! A mom and two babies! They are all up in that tree!" Well, that explained the constant falling of leaves from the tree that the woman was pointing at. However, I couldn't see anything and to be honest, I wasn't sure if she hadn't made up the whole story as a sorry excuse for her being late for a family pancake feast. I had been to Canada twice and have spent an extensive amount of time in various bear-sighting-guaranteed National Parks without ever actually seeing one. And now there should be three of them just outside of Kentucky?! Yeah, right!
As the lady continued to yell into her cell and the tree continued to shake I caught the glimpse of a brown fur ball that was moving further up towards the tree top. I was impressed. I didn't know that bears are that good at climbing but I could truly sympathize with that poor creature that would do anything to get away from that voice. After taking a few pictures of a brown spot on green background we followed the example the bears had set and escaped as well before our ears started bleeding.
Will we have any more bear sightings when we are finally on our hike?
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
The really nice guy and I had planned to go hiking that day and equipped with hiking boots, water, snacks, and a Mount Everest mountaineering survival kit we were heading towards the Smoky Mountain National Park. Unfortunately, we had to go through Gatlinburg which meant that we were stuck in traffic once more. Gatlinburg must have the world's highest per capita demand of pancakes, resulting in an overwhelming density of pancake houses. At 11 am, picture 50 people each waiting in line in front of every single one of them, trying to get a table for themselves and 25 of their closest family and friends that were yet to arrive and you understand why our patience was put to the test again.
Once we left all restaurants behind us and were on the street that would eventually lead us to the starting point of our hike, traffic eased noticeably until we didn't see a single car anymore. "That's great," the really nice guy was thrilled, "no traffic at all. Unbelievable!" He turned around the corner and had to bring the car to an immediate halt. "Just what we needed, another traffic jam," and while I was still contemplating how only two stopped cars in each direction could disrupt traffic completely, I noticed a woman outside her car shouting into her cell phone. "Oh no, I hope it's not an accident," I said when a rain of green leaves right outside the car caught my eye. The loudness of the woman's voice assumed alarming proportions and we decided it was time to leave the car and find out what had happened.
"I don't believe it, I've never seen anything like this," the lady screamed hysterically. Neither had I, and I started to commiserate with the person she had called and who must have been on the verge of acute hearing loss. "What happened?" the really nice guy asked when the woman was quiet for a split second to take a breath. "Bears! There are three bears! A mom and two babies! They are all up in that tree!" Well, that explained the constant falling of leaves from the tree that the woman was pointing at. However, I couldn't see anything and to be honest, I wasn't sure if she hadn't made up the whole story as a sorry excuse for her being late for a family pancake feast. I had been to Canada twice and have spent an extensive amount of time in various bear-sighting-guaranteed National Parks without ever actually seeing one. And now there should be three of them just outside of Kentucky?! Yeah, right!
As the lady continued to yell into her cell and the tree continued to shake I caught the glimpse of a brown fur ball that was moving further up towards the tree top. I was impressed. I didn't know that bears are that good at climbing but I could truly sympathize with that poor creature that would do anything to get away from that voice. After taking a few pictures of a brown spot on green background we followed the example the bears had set and escaped as well before our ears started bleeding.
Will we have any more bear sightings when we are finally on our hike?
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
Thursday, November 03, 2005
CULTURE: First Impressions
The really nice guy has currently two friends from Germany visiting for three weeks. It is the first time in the USA for both of them and I enjoy all their discoveries of the American Way of Life. It reminds me of my first trip to the States eons ago in 1993 and how everything here was so similar to Germany and yet so completely different and thrilling.
Free refills, for example, are something we Germans can get really excited about, and quite understandably so. In our country we even have to pay extra for ketchup if we like it with our Bratwurst and fries. When we first get to the USA, we also try to order our Coke without ice. In three out of ten cases, the waitress is not too discombobulated by this strange desire and we actually get what we ordered. Due to that disappointing result, however, most of us give up on that special request after six weeks and get used to drinking our Coke with the polar bears.
Something else that we literally have to get acclimated with is the bond of affection the Americans share with their air condition. Yes, it might be snowing outside but this is the land of the free, after all. There is no law that prevents the restaurant manager from keeping the setting of the thermostat where it had been all summer. The really nice guy and I have lived here long enough to be prepared to enjoy our meal in a room that is chilled to a crisp 65 degrees Fahrenheit. Unfortunately, we forgot to forewarn our visitors and recommend that they bring their winter outfits.
The other day the four of us went to an Italian restaurant for dinner. We were seated right under the air conditioning and as the minutes passed every one of us was looking more and more disheveled. I got my scarf out to wrap it around my head, hoping to bear remote resemblance to Grace Kelly, while the really nice guy put on his baseball cap he providently had brought. We started feeling bad for his friends, though, who seriously considered using the tablecloth as a shield from the cold air that was blowing into our faces. Not wanting to risk that either one of us got a cold we asked the waiter if there was something he could do.
Had we been in Germany, the general recommendation of the staff would have been to leave the restaurant immediately and to only come back once we were not such wussies anymore. Here, however, our wish was the waiter's command. Not only did he offer us to be seated at another table, he also adjusted the temperature of the air conditioning. Moments later, the restaurant was filled with warm air. The really nice guy and I could lose our headgear and we all had an enjoyable dinner.
I know of course that one man's meat is another man's poison. Nevertheless, I didn't believe my own eyes when I saw the four men leaving that had been sitting at the corner table. All of them had taken off as many clothes as possible while still trying to remain dressed with political correctness. I didn't think their attempt was very successful but at least they met the criteria of being rated PG-13. All of them were still wearing boxer shorts, t-shirts, and socks while carrying their shoes in the left hand and their jeans and sweaters in the right.
Even though I'm still impressed that none of them complained about the supposedly high temperature I feel bad that we forced hot flushes upon them. Will I return to that restaurant any time soon?
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
Free refills, for example, are something we Germans can get really excited about, and quite understandably so. In our country we even have to pay extra for ketchup if we like it with our Bratwurst and fries. When we first get to the USA, we also try to order our Coke without ice. In three out of ten cases, the waitress is not too discombobulated by this strange desire and we actually get what we ordered. Due to that disappointing result, however, most of us give up on that special request after six weeks and get used to drinking our Coke with the polar bears.
Something else that we literally have to get acclimated with is the bond of affection the Americans share with their air condition. Yes, it might be snowing outside but this is the land of the free, after all. There is no law that prevents the restaurant manager from keeping the setting of the thermostat where it had been all summer. The really nice guy and I have lived here long enough to be prepared to enjoy our meal in a room that is chilled to a crisp 65 degrees Fahrenheit. Unfortunately, we forgot to forewarn our visitors and recommend that they bring their winter outfits.
The other day the four of us went to an Italian restaurant for dinner. We were seated right under the air conditioning and as the minutes passed every one of us was looking more and more disheveled. I got my scarf out to wrap it around my head, hoping to bear remote resemblance to Grace Kelly, while the really nice guy put on his baseball cap he providently had brought. We started feeling bad for his friends, though, who seriously considered using the tablecloth as a shield from the cold air that was blowing into our faces. Not wanting to risk that either one of us got a cold we asked the waiter if there was something he could do.
Had we been in Germany, the general recommendation of the staff would have been to leave the restaurant immediately and to only come back once we were not such wussies anymore. Here, however, our wish was the waiter's command. Not only did he offer us to be seated at another table, he also adjusted the temperature of the air conditioning. Moments later, the restaurant was filled with warm air. The really nice guy and I could lose our headgear and we all had an enjoyable dinner.
I know of course that one man's meat is another man's poison. Nevertheless, I didn't believe my own eyes when I saw the four men leaving that had been sitting at the corner table. All of them had taken off as many clothes as possible while still trying to remain dressed with political correctness. I didn't think their attempt was very successful but at least they met the criteria of being rated PG-13. All of them were still wearing boxer shorts, t-shirts, and socks while carrying their shoes in the left hand and their jeans and sweaters in the right.
Even though I'm still impressed that none of them complained about the supposedly high temperature I feel bad that we forced hot flushes upon them. Will I return to that restaurant any time soon?
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
Saturday, October 15, 2005
BITS & PIECES: A Trip to the Smoky Mountains (2)
At 9 pm, two hours later than expected, we were finally opening the door to our cabin. Everything looked exactly like on the photos in the brochure and the evening seemed to be getting better. Although, contrary to my public announcement, there was no heart-shaped jacuzzi in the bedroom. I had completely forgotten that we sacrificed the shape of the bath tub for a bigger kitchen and had picked a different cabin. I know that this sounds weird since I didn't plan on doing any cooking anyway. You should have seen the kitchen in our second choice cabin, though. You had to enter it sideways to squeeze in between fridge and kitchen table and it would have reminded me the whole weekend that I had planned to lose those five pounds since May last year.
Considering the fact that Pigeon Forge seems to be closed at dark, it was a little bit too late to go to a restaurant. We could still order food, however, and have dinner in front of the fireplace before trying out the hot tub on the patio. Speaking of fireplaces: I have the luxury of having one in my apartment and after some initial difficulties (that was before the discovery of the damper and the fact that it doesn't open itself when you make fire) I consider myself quite an expert. This fireplace was different, though. Instead of going through the tiresome process of collecting firewood, or buying fire logs at your nearest convenience store this one had a button next to it on the wall. It turned out to be the timer for the gas fireplace. "Wonderful," I thought, "and so efficient. We can finally make up some time that one of us spent taking pictures of pumpkins." I turned the button - and nothing happened. I started to think that we booked All-things-that-can-go-wrong-inclusive and called the really nice guy.
He emerged from the bedroom to where he had disappeared earlier to neatly stack his clothes in the bottom drawer of the dresser. I was impressed. When I'm traveling I always leave all my clothes in my bag and after only a day the whole room usually looks like my suitcase has exploded and spilled its contents all over the place. "The fireplace doesn't work," I said to him.
"I tell you what," he replied, "let's order food first and while it's on its way I have a look at the fireplace." According to the Yellow Pages there was a place that delivered steak dinners. That sounded fancy and because we've already had pizza earlier that week the choice was easy enough. The really nice guy dialed the number. "I would like to place an order," he said, immediately followed by "I see. Bye." Wasn't there supposed to be a long conversation in between these two sentences? What happened to 'I like my steak medium', and 'As a side, I would like to have a baked potato and salad'? "They said that they didn't have any business tonight and closed the restaurant," the really nice guy explained. How was that possible? Haven't people returned from the pancake houses in time for dinner? "Pizza it is, I guess," I sighed and this time our order was accepted.
The really nice guy left the cabin only to come back with a huge metal toolbox that he had left in the car. "I'll fix the fireplace now," he announced and disappeared in the chimney. Time for me to check out the hot tub, I thought and stepped onto the patio. The thermometer of the spa indicated a whopping 68 degrees Fahrenheit. In contrary to the US units of lengths and my lack of comprehension thereof I know very well that a water temperature of 68 degrees Fahrenheit is not what gave a HOT tub its name. No matter what button I pressed the tub was unperturbed and the temperature on the display seemed to be mocking me by not changing at all. This was just getting better and better.
I returned back into the cabin just in time to see the really nice guy, covered in his favorite color black, re-emerging from the depths of the fireplace. "I fixed it," he grinned and turned the timer. And sure enough, where there was nothing but a black hole only minutes ago a flame magically appeared. "That it great," I replied. "I hope you are ready for a new task because the hot tub isn't working either." I wasn't really serious about it because I didn't want him to spend time on fixing appliances when this was supposed to be vacation. So I convinced him that it was easier to call maintenance, especially since the guy in the rental office had pointed out the respective number to us. I wonder if he knew that we had rented the fix-it-yourself cabin?
If you are still hoping that the evening got better I don't want to torture you any further - it didn't. The delivery guy arrived an hour later with a cold pizza because he couldn't find the cabin either. He had to call us to find out in what direction he needed to crawl. The grilled chicken salad that I had ordered was the worst I ever had, mainly because they put fried chicken on it. While we were still waiting on maintenance I was hoping to find a nice movie on TV. Even though it was described in our 'Welcome to your beautiful cabin' brochure, HBO was not an option. We ended up watching South Park instead. The two maintenance guys arrived at 10.30 pm, found the magic switch for the hot tub and projected four hours for the temperature to rise to a comfortable 102 degrees Fahrenheit.
Do you think our vacation continued like this, or was a new day a new beginning of something better?
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
Considering the fact that Pigeon Forge seems to be closed at dark, it was a little bit too late to go to a restaurant. We could still order food, however, and have dinner in front of the fireplace before trying out the hot tub on the patio. Speaking of fireplaces: I have the luxury of having one in my apartment and after some initial difficulties (that was before the discovery of the damper and the fact that it doesn't open itself when you make fire) I consider myself quite an expert. This fireplace was different, though. Instead of going through the tiresome process of collecting firewood, or buying fire logs at your nearest convenience store this one had a button next to it on the wall. It turned out to be the timer for the gas fireplace. "Wonderful," I thought, "and so efficient. We can finally make up some time that one of us spent taking pictures of pumpkins." I turned the button - and nothing happened. I started to think that we booked All-things-that-can-go-wrong-inclusive and called the really nice guy.
He emerged from the bedroom to where he had disappeared earlier to neatly stack his clothes in the bottom drawer of the dresser. I was impressed. When I'm traveling I always leave all my clothes in my bag and after only a day the whole room usually looks like my suitcase has exploded and spilled its contents all over the place. "The fireplace doesn't work," I said to him.
"I tell you what," he replied, "let's order food first and while it's on its way I have a look at the fireplace." According to the Yellow Pages there was a place that delivered steak dinners. That sounded fancy and because we've already had pizza earlier that week the choice was easy enough. The really nice guy dialed the number. "I would like to place an order," he said, immediately followed by "I see. Bye." Wasn't there supposed to be a long conversation in between these two sentences? What happened to 'I like my steak medium', and 'As a side, I would like to have a baked potato and salad'? "They said that they didn't have any business tonight and closed the restaurant," the really nice guy explained. How was that possible? Haven't people returned from the pancake houses in time for dinner? "Pizza it is, I guess," I sighed and this time our order was accepted.
The really nice guy left the cabin only to come back with a huge metal toolbox that he had left in the car. "I'll fix the fireplace now," he announced and disappeared in the chimney. Time for me to check out the hot tub, I thought and stepped onto the patio. The thermometer of the spa indicated a whopping 68 degrees Fahrenheit. In contrary to the US units of lengths and my lack of comprehension thereof I know very well that a water temperature of 68 degrees Fahrenheit is not what gave a HOT tub its name. No matter what button I pressed the tub was unperturbed and the temperature on the display seemed to be mocking me by not changing at all. This was just getting better and better.
I returned back into the cabin just in time to see the really nice guy, covered in his favorite color black, re-emerging from the depths of the fireplace. "I fixed it," he grinned and turned the timer. And sure enough, where there was nothing but a black hole only minutes ago a flame magically appeared. "That it great," I replied. "I hope you are ready for a new task because the hot tub isn't working either." I wasn't really serious about it because I didn't want him to spend time on fixing appliances when this was supposed to be vacation. So I convinced him that it was easier to call maintenance, especially since the guy in the rental office had pointed out the respective number to us. I wonder if he knew that we had rented the fix-it-yourself cabin?
If you are still hoping that the evening got better I don't want to torture you any further - it didn't. The delivery guy arrived an hour later with a cold pizza because he couldn't find the cabin either. He had to call us to find out in what direction he needed to crawl. The grilled chicken salad that I had ordered was the worst I ever had, mainly because they put fried chicken on it. While we were still waiting on maintenance I was hoping to find a nice movie on TV. Even though it was described in our 'Welcome to your beautiful cabin' brochure, HBO was not an option. We ended up watching South Park instead. The two maintenance guys arrived at 10.30 pm, found the magic switch for the hot tub and projected four hours for the temperature to rise to a comfortable 102 degrees Fahrenheit.
Do you think our vacation continued like this, or was a new day a new beginning of something better?
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
Friday, October 14, 2005
BITS & PIECES: A Trip to the Smoky Mountains (1)
After two years of talking about taking a trip to the Smoky Mountains I finally did it. The really nice guy and I took off work Friday to spend the weekend in a cabin in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. And before you start getting your hopes up: No, we didn't go to Dollywood, Dollywood's Splash Country, Dolly Parton's Dixie Stampede, Dolly's I Make Money In Pigeon Forge No Matter What I Do, or anything else that is owned by a blond country singer.
The whole trip was planned as a romantic getaway but as always when you have that perfect picture in your head reality hardly lives up to it. Everything was fine in Kentucky (now that's a nice motto for the license plate...) but once we entered Tennessee traffic was getting heavier. By the time we left the interstate we were stuck in a slow moving bumper-to-bumper chain of cars with only one target: The nearest pancake house in Gatlinburg - and it's a good thing that there are so many of them. Our always reliable navigation system Susie told us to go straight for 10 miles, then fell asleep, and rightfully so because in the next hour we only managed to drive two.
Finally, we arrived at the rental office. The really nice guy got out of the car to get the keys for our cabin. "Could you take a picture?" he asked and disappeared in the office. I am not the most patient person and all the waiting in traffic had worn me out. I really didn't want to take a photo. In my picture-perfect plan, we would have been to the chalet already, had jumped into the hot tub and were on our way to a restaurant for a romantic dinner. "And picture of what?" I asked myself. We were parked in a side street, it was already dark and there wasn't really anything spectacular to see. The entrance of the office building had been beautifully decorated, though. The really nice guy hadn't come back and I was getting bored so I decided to take a picture of the Halloween decoration.
Fifteen minutes and twenty-four pictures of pumpkins later I thought it was time to take the chance of leaving the car unlocked and find out what the hold-up was. When I entered the rental office the really nice guy was engrossed in a conversation with one of the staff. "It's all my fault," the man behind the counter said and continued to talk about the time he had spent in Munich. "Great," I thought, "finally someone to blame for global warming!" But no, as it turned out, he had offered to get us two keys for the chalet. Unfortunately, he forgot to mention that the second key had to be specially made for us. I was wondering why we needed two keys in the first place but since they've already gone out of their way who was I to spoil all that special treatment?
We left the office half an hour later with two keys (one of them was really shiny) and a cryptic map that should help us find the cabin. "That can't be too difficult," I thought - and oh boy, was I wrong. The map was useless and we had to rely on Susie. She pointed us into the general direction, we followed the street up a hill, traffic was getting less and less, it was pitch-black and impossible to read any house numbers... and right at the moment when we were in the middle of a small intersection she announced, "You have reached your final destination." Well...
I admit that I'm never traveling light but I didn't pack a tent so that camping in the middle of the street was not an option. We got out of the car, knelt down on the street and carefully crawled on all fours towards what we hoped was the nearest building. Once we were close enough to read the house number we almost couldn't believe our luck - we were at the cabin next to the one we rented! If you've never been to the Smoky Mountains you may think that we still hadn't made it at that point because you may picture secluded chalets in the forest with at least a mile distance between each of them. That's what I thought, too, but I couldn't have been more mistaken. If I ever get familiar with the US system of measures I could tell you exactly how many inches the distance is between two cabins but as a firm believer in the metric system let's just put is this way: We got up from the street in front of the neighbor house and if we had stumbled and fallen down we would have hit our heads at our cabin.
Will there be any more surprises when we open the door to our cabin, or will the rest of the evening go according to plan?
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
The whole trip was planned as a romantic getaway but as always when you have that perfect picture in your head reality hardly lives up to it. Everything was fine in Kentucky (now that's a nice motto for the license plate...) but once we entered Tennessee traffic was getting heavier. By the time we left the interstate we were stuck in a slow moving bumper-to-bumper chain of cars with only one target: The nearest pancake house in Gatlinburg - and it's a good thing that there are so many of them. Our always reliable navigation system Susie told us to go straight for 10 miles, then fell asleep, and rightfully so because in the next hour we only managed to drive two.
Finally, we arrived at the rental office. The really nice guy got out of the car to get the keys for our cabin. "Could you take a picture?" he asked and disappeared in the office. I am not the most patient person and all the waiting in traffic had worn me out. I really didn't want to take a photo. In my picture-perfect plan, we would have been to the chalet already, had jumped into the hot tub and were on our way to a restaurant for a romantic dinner. "And picture of what?" I asked myself. We were parked in a side street, it was already dark and there wasn't really anything spectacular to see. The entrance of the office building had been beautifully decorated, though. The really nice guy hadn't come back and I was getting bored so I decided to take a picture of the Halloween decoration.
Fifteen minutes and twenty-four pictures of pumpkins later I thought it was time to take the chance of leaving the car unlocked and find out what the hold-up was. When I entered the rental office the really nice guy was engrossed in a conversation with one of the staff. "It's all my fault," the man behind the counter said and continued to talk about the time he had spent in Munich. "Great," I thought, "finally someone to blame for global warming!" But no, as it turned out, he had offered to get us two keys for the chalet. Unfortunately, he forgot to mention that the second key had to be specially made for us. I was wondering why we needed two keys in the first place but since they've already gone out of their way who was I to spoil all that special treatment?
We left the office half an hour later with two keys (one of them was really shiny) and a cryptic map that should help us find the cabin. "That can't be too difficult," I thought - and oh boy, was I wrong. The map was useless and we had to rely on Susie. She pointed us into the general direction, we followed the street up a hill, traffic was getting less and less, it was pitch-black and impossible to read any house numbers... and right at the moment when we were in the middle of a small intersection she announced, "You have reached your final destination." Well...
I admit that I'm never traveling light but I didn't pack a tent so that camping in the middle of the street was not an option. We got out of the car, knelt down on the street and carefully crawled on all fours towards what we hoped was the nearest building. Once we were close enough to read the house number we almost couldn't believe our luck - we were at the cabin next to the one we rented! If you've never been to the Smoky Mountains you may think that we still hadn't made it at that point because you may picture secluded chalets in the forest with at least a mile distance between each of them. That's what I thought, too, but I couldn't have been more mistaken. If I ever get familiar with the US system of measures I could tell you exactly how many inches the distance is between two cabins but as a firm believer in the metric system let's just put is this way: We got up from the street in front of the neighbor house and if we had stumbled and fallen down we would have hit our heads at our cabin.
Will there be any more surprises when we open the door to our cabin, or will the rest of the evening go according to plan?
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
Sunday, October 09, 2005
BITS & PIECES: The Retreat
"What ever happened to the quiet days?" the really nice guy asked me not too long ago. "You know, the weekends that I spent in front of the computer without leaving the house once." I have to admit, since we've been dating there weren't too many quiet times. Somehow, there's always something going on. "Well," I said, "There is a retreat I would like to go to. The best trainer of all has invited me and I'll be gone all weekend." The sentence was still floating in the air and the really nice guy was already planning at least three quiet projects around the house.
Since we wouldn't see much of each other that weekend we met for lunch on Friday. I had just bought the new Melissa Etheridge CD (not very typical for me) and one of the songs had really touched me. "I found a song for my funeral," I announced when the really nice guy arrived at the restaurant. - 'The chicken is really good' would have been more applicable, I know, but I was still deeply moved by the song. "Well," he says, "why do you care about your funeral. You'll be dead." Good point. "I know. I just want it to be nice for the people that will be there," I replied. "Then you should let them pick the music," he suggested and I have to admit, it makes sense.
Later that day I left for the Sisters Of Charity Spirituality Center in Delhi, Ohio,
with a borrowed bible, a bottle of wine, and a bag of expectations. There were several activities we could choose from that made it easy for me to have some quiet time myself. And I'm sure you won't believe me when I tell you that there was one suggested activity among watercolors, cross-stitch, and a fall walk that made me gasp when I read the instructions: 'Plan your own funeral' it said on the paper. Now, what a coincidence is that?
During dinner, the ladies at my table started talking about that very subject. Most of them had the same opinion as the really nice guy earlier - they didn't care. One of the women had an interesting thought. "I picture my soul hovering over the casket looking at the people that came to attend. Then I notice that something is wrong. 'Hey!' I would want to shout. 'Why are the flowers all pink? I specifically asked for dark red roses!'" And I have to agree with her. It's probably a good idea to let your relatives make decisions about your funeral arrangements.
Having said that, it seems to be a little difficult to end this post on a light note. Don't get me wrong, the retreat was a very positive and fun experience and I have to thank the best trainer of all that she invited me. My relatives will be glad to know that I picked up painting with watercolors a new hobby.
Will they be delighted to receive all kinds of masterpieces from now on as Christmas and birthday presents?
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
P.S. Since October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month I would like to recommend the songs "This Is Not Goodbye" and "I Run for Life" from Melissa Etheridge.
Since we wouldn't see much of each other that weekend we met for lunch on Friday. I had just bought the new Melissa Etheridge CD (not very typical for me) and one of the songs had really touched me. "I found a song for my funeral," I announced when the really nice guy arrived at the restaurant. - 'The chicken is really good' would have been more applicable, I know, but I was still deeply moved by the song. "Well," he says, "why do you care about your funeral. You'll be dead." Good point. "I know. I just want it to be nice for the people that will be there," I replied. "Then you should let them pick the music," he suggested and I have to admit, it makes sense.
Later that day I left for the Sisters Of Charity Spirituality Center in Delhi, Ohio,
with a borrowed bible, a bottle of wine, and a bag of expectations. There were several activities we could choose from that made it easy for me to have some quiet time myself. And I'm sure you won't believe me when I tell you that there was one suggested activity among watercolors, cross-stitch, and a fall walk that made me gasp when I read the instructions: 'Plan your own funeral' it said on the paper. Now, what a coincidence is that?During dinner, the ladies at my table started talking about that very subject. Most of them had the same opinion as the really nice guy earlier - they didn't care. One of the women had an interesting thought. "I picture my soul hovering over the casket looking at the people that came to attend. Then I notice that something is wrong. 'Hey!' I would want to shout. 'Why are the flowers all pink? I specifically asked for dark red roses!'" And I have to agree with her. It's probably a good idea to let your relatives make decisions about your funeral arrangements.
Having said that, it seems to be a little difficult to end this post on a light note. Don't get me wrong, the retreat was a very positive and fun experience and I have to thank the best trainer of all that she invited me. My relatives will be glad to know that I picked up painting with watercolors a new hobby.
Will they be delighted to receive all kinds of masterpieces from now on as Christmas and birthday presents?
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
P.S. Since October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month I would like to recommend the songs "This Is Not Goodbye" and "I Run for Life" from Melissa Etheridge.
CULTURE: Driving in Kentucky
Kentucky might not strike you as the most remarkable State but to me it is in one aspect: I love driving here. If you see a car with a Kentucky license plate you can be sure that the driver is laid back and considerate. The plate itself already reflects this spirit with its smiling sun and "Kentucky: It's that friendly" printed on it. You can change lanes last minute without problems and traffic jams only occur at four way stops because everyone insists on the other driver having the right of way.
Last week I stopped a little abruptly at a red light and the content of my open handbag emptied itself onto the floor in front of the passenger's seat. My handbag is not one of the puny ones that you see nowadays so there was quite a pile of items for me to collect. I leaned over and dove down to start gathering my purse, pens, notepad, tissues, lipstick, hand lotion, camera, map of Canada, four issues of Runner's World and my Smalltalk made Easy for Germans book. When I emerged back from the depths of my car the light was still red. Strange. I could have sworn it took my a while to get everything back into my handbag. On the other hand, if the light had changed to green while I was preoccupied someone would have honked, right? Maybe I didn't have anyone behind me. I glanced into the rear view mirror and didn't believe what I saw.
Next to the minivan behind me, a family of five had set up everything for lunch. Like having a tailgate party, Dad was cooking the burgers while Mom was handing out appetizers to the kids sitting on folding chairs. I got out of my car and approached the family. "I'm so sorry I made you wait," I said, slightly embarrassed. "Why didn't you honk?" - "Don't you worry," Dad replied. "We are not in a hurry. You take your time. Care for a burger?" Well, I haven't had lunch yet and it was kind of getting late...
I realize that this doesn't happen everywhere in the States. I'm still in awe that I survived driving in San Francisco, and I wouldn't count on too many patient drivers in New York City. Driving there most likely compares to driving in Germany.
On one of my trips to Berlin I experienced the impatience of a German driver first hand. The street I was on had a separate light for the left turn lane. That was where I was waiting at the red light when a car stopped behind me and the driver immediately started honking the horn. Turning up the volume of my car stereo didn't help at all. At that time, I wasn't that much into Hard Rock and Heavy Metal, and Wham! just didn't stand a chance against the constant noise from behind. By the way, I'm well aware that there are no excuses for listening to Wham! What can I say? I was young... Oh, and you might as well admit that you don't mind listening to Last Christmas either, when it is that time of the year.
I realize that this doesn't happen everywhere in the States. I'm still in awe that I survived driving in San Francisco, and I wouldn't count on too many patient drivers in New York City. Driving there most likely compares to driving in Germany.
On one of my trips to Berlin I experienced the impatience of a German driver first hand. The street I was on had a separate light for the left turn lane. That was where I was waiting at the red light when a car stopped behind me and the driver immediately started honking the horn. Turning up the volume of my car stereo didn't help at all. At that time, I wasn't that much into Hard Rock and Heavy Metal, and Wham! just didn't stand a chance against the constant noise from behind. By the way, I'm well aware that there are no excuses for listening to Wham! What can I say? I was young... Oh, and you might as well admit that you don't mind listening to Last Christmas either, when it is that time of the year.
The guy behind me still hadn't stopped honking and I decided it was time to take action. I emerged from my car and walked up to the car behind me. "What seems to be the problem?" I asked the impatient driver. "Why did you stop?" he shouted at me. I couldn't believe it. "You may not have noticed but there is a separate light for the left turn lane. And I have the strange habit of stopping at red lights." - "Well, it's green now. So, chop, chop, get moving!" he replied. I quickly jumped aside not to get hurt as he accelerated his car and passed my vehicle. It took me a moment to calm down. By the time I was back in my car the light had turned red again and I heard the familiar sound of a horn...
You may understand now why I avoid driving when I am in Germany for a visit. Kentucky has spoiled me. Unfortunately, the days of the friendly plate are numbered. Apparently, the smiling sun was too happy for the taste of many so that it won't survive its projected five years: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/8598104/
Will the new license plate change the spirit of driving in Kentucky from friendly to unbridled?
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
You may understand now why I avoid driving when I am in Germany for a visit. Kentucky has spoiled me. Unfortunately, the days of the friendly plate are numbered. Apparently, the smiling sun was too happy for the taste of many so that it won't survive its projected five years: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/8598104/
Will the new license plate change the spirit of driving in Kentucky from friendly to unbridled?
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
Sunday, October 02, 2005
BITS&PIECES: Canal Days in Metamora...?
Two years ago I went to Metamora for the Canal Days. Metamora is a little town in Indiana, and on the first weekend in October, there is a huge festival with crafts, food, and boat rides. My friendly neighbor at work reminded me that it was that time of the year again and I thought it would be the right little trip for a sunny Sunday because the really nice guy hasn't been there before.
Usually, we are very well prepared when it comes to trips like that. We have directions printed out, a map of the USA including Canada and Mexico, and we have Susie. Several months ago, the really nice guy bought a navigation system that directs us in a soft feminine voice to our final destination. Somehow that little box got named Susie and the really nice guy swears by it - sorry, her. I, however, am not a huge fan of her anymore. One reason might be that I never quite got over her attempt to drown us when she insisted on us making a right turn into the river in Louisville. I'm sorry but I just can't file this under female rivalry and move on. That's why I still rely on Mapquest.
Due to the spontaneous nature of the trip we had to find Metamora without our usual help. The longer we drove on I-74N the less sure I was that this was the right way. I shared my concerns with the really nice guy but he wasn't upset at all. "We just have to make sure that we always take Susie with us," he said. That was when I saw the Metamora exit sign and I saw myself confirmed - no need for Susie as far as I'm concerned!
Unfortunately, Indiana is not too generous when it comes to street signs and we took a wrong turn in Brookville. After checking at a gas station we were back on track and looking forward to the festival. We are still, by the way. Looking forward to the festival, that is. When we arrived in Metamora, we immediately thought that something must be wrong. We were paid for parking and the only movement in the village was caused by tumbleweed rolling through the empty streets. As it turned out, the Canal Days take place on the first FULL weekend in October. And since Friday was still September we were a week too early. Well, I should have known better. The fact that Indiana partially refuses to observe daylight savings time should have tipped my off. Things are just different over there. And you may want to check out their website before your visit: http://www.metamora.com/
If you've only been to Metamora during the Canal Days you might enjoy these exclusive 'before' pictures:
Nevertheless, we had a great time and even ran into other Germans (aren't they everywhere...?).
I only want to know if my friendly neighbor at work made this trip to no avail, too?
I'll keep you posted
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
Usually, we are very well prepared when it comes to trips like that. We have directions printed out, a map of the USA including Canada and Mexico, and we have Susie. Several months ago, the really nice guy bought a navigation system that directs us in a soft feminine voice to our final destination. Somehow that little box got named Susie and the really nice guy swears by it - sorry, her. I, however, am not a huge fan of her anymore. One reason might be that I never quite got over her attempt to drown us when she insisted on us making a right turn into the river in Louisville. I'm sorry but I just can't file this under female rivalry and move on. That's why I still rely on Mapquest.
Due to the spontaneous nature of the trip we had to find Metamora without our usual help. The longer we drove on I-74N the less sure I was that this was the right way. I shared my concerns with the really nice guy but he wasn't upset at all. "We just have to make sure that we always take Susie with us," he said. That was when I saw the Metamora exit sign and I saw myself confirmed - no need for Susie as far as I'm concerned!
Unfortunately, Indiana is not too generous when it comes to street signs and we took a wrong turn in Brookville. After checking at a gas station we were back on track and looking forward to the festival. We are still, by the way. Looking forward to the festival, that is. When we arrived in Metamora, we immediately thought that something must be wrong. We were paid for parking and the only movement in the village was caused by tumbleweed rolling through the empty streets. As it turned out, the Canal Days take place on the first FULL weekend in October. And since Friday was still September we were a week too early. Well, I should have known better. The fact that Indiana partially refuses to observe daylight savings time should have tipped my off. Things are just different over there. And you may want to check out their website before your visit: http://www.metamora.com/
If you've only been to Metamora during the Canal Days you might enjoy these exclusive 'before' pictures:
Nevertheless, we had a great time and even ran into other Germans (aren't they everywhere...?).
I only want to know if my friendly neighbor at work made this trip to no avail, too?
I'll keep you posted
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
Saturday, October 01, 2005
RUNNING: The Reggae Run
The story behind the Reggae Run is a very sad one: The 5K race was initiated in 1994 to commemorate the life of Maria Olberding who was slain that year while running in Mt. Lookout.
The challenging 5K course is followed by a great party with more than 30 food stands, beer, and live Reggae music. Having fun and doing something good go hand in hand because the proceeds from the event go to the Make-A-Wish Foundation. To get a better picture of the whole event, check out the Race's website at http://www.reggaerun.com/
For the really nice guy and me, it was the second race we did together. His pace is much faster than mine and I'm used to losing sight of him when we are running. It was great to see him waiting for me at the finish-line like in his pre-running days when he was watching me race.
None of us set a personal record but the whole atmosphere during the run and at the party afterwards made more than up for it.
And in case you were wondering how this photo fits in - there are people that quit running (at least for the day) to take up smoking...
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
The challenging 5K course is followed by a great party with more than 30 food stands, beer, and live Reggae music. Having fun and doing something good go hand in hand because the proceeds from the event go to the Make-A-Wish Foundation. To get a better picture of the whole event, check out the Race's website at http://www.reggaerun.com/
For the really nice guy and me, it was the second race we did together. His pace is much faster than mine and I'm used to losing sight of him when we are running. It was great to see him waiting for me at the finish-line like in his pre-running days when he was watching me race.
None of us set a personal record but the whole atmosphere during the run and at the party afterwards made more than up for it.And in case you were wondering how this photo fits in - there are people that quit running (at least for the day) to take up smoking...
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
Sunday, September 25, 2005
BITS&PIECES: Nice Things Happen... and I am a real Biker now!
The really nice guy doesn't really like baseball. Last year around this time, in our pre-dating phase, I had two free tickets and could only talk him into going to the last home game of the Reds (and his first ever!) by promising to stop at Hooters before. My free tickets turned out to be for seats way up and in the last row, the game wasn't that interesting (I don't know if that's a fair statement, we couldn't really tell from the distance...), and the really nice guy saw himself confirmed: Baseball is boring.
I, however, like baseball. Not being born in this country, I nevertheless have the feeling that I understand at least half of what's going on on the field, and I like the atmosphere in the stadium. I enjoy watching the constant movement of people in search for hot dogs, peanuts, and beer. Unfortunately, I haven't been to a single game the whole season so I knew this weekend was my last chance. Yesterday, I mentioned to the really nice guy that it would be great to go to the last home game again. "Huh," he says. "So that's kind of an anniversary thing?" Yeah, it sounds really charming when you put it this way. Even the idea of going to Hooters before the game doesn't seem convincing anymore. I guess he already considers that a package deal and there will be no baseball without Hooters in our future. I had to find another bait. "You said that you haven't driven your motorcycle forever. We could take it to go to the game," I suggested and luckily, he agreed.
So we make it to Newport, some of us have wings at Hooters, we take the ferry to the stadium and find our way to the ticket booth, since I don't have any free tickets this time. We are just about to buy tickets when a couple approaches us. "Are you buying tickets?" asks the guy. "Take these for free," he says and hands us two tickets. Now, how often does something like this happen? According to Alanis Morissette never - isn't it ironic?
But sometimes, nice things do happen. We have free tickets once again, are already happy, and almost freak out when we find out from where we will be watching this game... Our tickets turn out to have a value of $50 each and we sit right behind the Phillies' dugout. And what a difference it makes! The really nice guy starts to really get into the game, and we have a blast.
The Reds lose, but the real downfall is the way back because in the meantime it had started to rain. I'm not a huge motorcycle fan in the first place, and the idea of riding back in the pouring rain isn't really what I was hoping for after the game. We are soaked when we get back but the really nice guy assures me that I am a real biker now. "You raced the elements!"
So that's all it took? I will not have to buy a Harley Davidson leather jacket and get tattoos after all?
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
I, however, like baseball. Not being born in this country, I nevertheless have the feeling that I understand at least half of what's going on on the field, and I like the atmosphere in the stadium. I enjoy watching the constant movement of people in search for hot dogs, peanuts, and beer. Unfortunately, I haven't been to a single game the whole season so I knew this weekend was my last chance. Yesterday, I mentioned to the really nice guy that it would be great to go to the last home game again. "Huh," he says. "So that's kind of an anniversary thing?" Yeah, it sounds really charming when you put it this way. Even the idea of going to Hooters before the game doesn't seem convincing anymore. I guess he already considers that a package deal and there will be no baseball without Hooters in our future. I had to find another bait. "You said that you haven't driven your motorcycle forever. We could take it to go to the game," I suggested and luckily, he agreed.
So we make it to Newport, some of us have wings at Hooters, we take the ferry to the stadium and find our way to the ticket booth, since I don't have any free tickets this time. We are just about to buy tickets when a couple approaches us. "Are you buying tickets?" asks the guy. "Take these for free," he says and hands us two tickets. Now, how often does something like this happen? According to Alanis Morissette never - isn't it ironic?
But sometimes, nice things do happen. We have free tickets once again, are already happy, and almost freak out when we find out from where we will be watching this game... Our tickets turn out to have a value of $50 each and we sit right behind the Phillies' dugout. And what a difference it makes! The really nice guy starts to really get into the game, and we have a blast.
The Reds lose, but the real downfall is the way back because in the meantime it had started to rain. I'm not a huge motorcycle fan in the first place, and the idea of riding back in the pouring rain isn't really what I was hoping for after the game. We are soaked when we get back but the really nice guy assures me that I am a real biker now. "You raced the elements!"
So that's all it took? I will not have to buy a Harley Davidson leather jacket and get tattoos after all?
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
Saturday, September 24, 2005
CULTURE: The Art of Small Talk
The Americans are small talk artists. If there were Olympic Games they would be coming in first without any training whereas we Germans would still not qualify no matter how many Small Talk 101 classes we took.
They are just naturally good at it. At the super market, at the line in front of rest rooms, even in the emergency room, they are able to start a conversation. "I really like your shoes. They are very pretty." - "Thank you. I try not to bleed on them."
As a German, the talent for small talk just isn't in my genes. Another reason might be that I thought everything I said had to be well-thought out and meaningful (and that's even more difficult if you have to say it in another language). As a result, my small talk was not just bad - it was non-existent.
I decided that is was time to work on my issue. My first attempt led me to the local book store where I browsed the self-help section. I found a promising title called "The Art of Mingling : Easy, Fun, and Proven Techniques for Mastering Any Room" by Jeanne Martinet. I bought it and felt immediately happy: Obviously, I'm not alone with my problem - and then, the book was on sale, too. I couldn't wait to get home and reveal the secrets of the perfect small talk. I found quite some useful advice and thought I hit a gold-mine when the author suggested to use accents when feeling uncomfortable in a social situation. "That is it right there," I started to hope, "the solution to all my small talk problems!" Even after quite some time in the States I still haven't managed to get rid of my German accent - something that usually bothers me but now looked like it came in handy. Was I glad!
It was time to use my new found knowledge. The next time when I went to the gym, instead of just sneaking in and staying in the back of the class I was going to talk to someone. So, in my best German accent (since I was feeling a little bit uncomfortable) I said to the woman next to me, "I really like this class. The trainer is great." No reply. The woman tilted her had, frowned and gave me this astounded look as to say, "She really looks American but she sure doesn't sound it." Then, she turned to the guy next to us and asked, "What did she say?" And to me, "I'm sorry. I take it you are not from around here?" I was relieved that the class started at this moment.
I don't give up that easily so I was trying a different approach. I started scanning TV shows for usable small talk pieces, thus not only having the line but also getting a possible reaction to it. I found one of those dating shows to be an excellent provider. In one episode, the guy was building his own restaurant and invited the girl to have a look at it. As they walk through the rooms, the guy points to the bar and says, "This will be the bar area." - "So this is the bar," says the girl and the guy is smitten. Not only is the girl really pretty, she is also very smart - didn't she notice that there actually was a bar in the bar area?
Well, easy enough. I can do that, too. I knew that one of my American friends had bought a new PC. Next time when I was invited to his house I saw the computer, pointed at it and said, "So this is your new computer." But instead of acknowledging my smooth try to start up a conversation, he gave me a weird look and said, "No, it's my vacuum cleaner. What's wrong with you, SAPgirl? Of course, that's my new PC!!!!"
After these experiences I decided that I had to give it some time. Practice makes perfect and I started to put myself into situations where talking to people I didn't know was inevitable. I volunteered to paint houses, sold tickets at a local music festival, was 'beer babe' at the Party in the Park, took a CPR class - all the time hoping that I somehow become a better small talker. And I think all these hours of practice are finally starting to pay off. I'm still in training but was told recently that I have improved.
I'm only wondering what will happen when I use my American small talk skills in Germany. If I compliment anyone there on their shoes they'd probably think I have a shoe fetish, or that I would really like to have them. Their pair. And immediately. I will definitely get more weird looks.
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
They are just naturally good at it. At the super market, at the line in front of rest rooms, even in the emergency room, they are able to start a conversation. "I really like your shoes. They are very pretty." - "Thank you. I try not to bleed on them."
As a German, the talent for small talk just isn't in my genes. Another reason might be that I thought everything I said had to be well-thought out and meaningful (and that's even more difficult if you have to say it in another language). As a result, my small talk was not just bad - it was non-existent.
I decided that is was time to work on my issue. My first attempt led me to the local book store where I browsed the self-help section. I found a promising title called "The Art of Mingling : Easy, Fun, and Proven Techniques for Mastering Any Room" by Jeanne Martinet. I bought it and felt immediately happy: Obviously, I'm not alone with my problem - and then, the book was on sale, too. I couldn't wait to get home and reveal the secrets of the perfect small talk. I found quite some useful advice and thought I hit a gold-mine when the author suggested to use accents when feeling uncomfortable in a social situation. "That is it right there," I started to hope, "the solution to all my small talk problems!" Even after quite some time in the States I still haven't managed to get rid of my German accent - something that usually bothers me but now looked like it came in handy. Was I glad!
It was time to use my new found knowledge. The next time when I went to the gym, instead of just sneaking in and staying in the back of the class I was going to talk to someone. So, in my best German accent (since I was feeling a little bit uncomfortable) I said to the woman next to me, "I really like this class. The trainer is great." No reply. The woman tilted her had, frowned and gave me this astounded look as to say, "She really looks American but she sure doesn't sound it." Then, she turned to the guy next to us and asked, "What did she say?" And to me, "I'm sorry. I take it you are not from around here?" I was relieved that the class started at this moment.
I don't give up that easily so I was trying a different approach. I started scanning TV shows for usable small talk pieces, thus not only having the line but also getting a possible reaction to it. I found one of those dating shows to be an excellent provider. In one episode, the guy was building his own restaurant and invited the girl to have a look at it. As they walk through the rooms, the guy points to the bar and says, "This will be the bar area." - "So this is the bar," says the girl and the guy is smitten. Not only is the girl really pretty, she is also very smart - didn't she notice that there actually was a bar in the bar area?
Well, easy enough. I can do that, too. I knew that one of my American friends had bought a new PC. Next time when I was invited to his house I saw the computer, pointed at it and said, "So this is your new computer." But instead of acknowledging my smooth try to start up a conversation, he gave me a weird look and said, "No, it's my vacuum cleaner. What's wrong with you, SAPgirl? Of course, that's my new PC!!!!"
After these experiences I decided that I had to give it some time. Practice makes perfect and I started to put myself into situations where talking to people I didn't know was inevitable. I volunteered to paint houses, sold tickets at a local music festival, was 'beer babe' at the Party in the Park, took a CPR class - all the time hoping that I somehow become a better small talker. And I think all these hours of practice are finally starting to pay off. I'm still in training but was told recently that I have improved.
I'm only wondering what will happen when I use my American small talk skills in Germany. If I compliment anyone there on their shoes they'd probably think I have a shoe fetish, or that I would really like to have them. Their pair. And immediately. I will definitely get more weird looks.
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
Friday, September 23, 2005
RUNNING: Here we go again!
I joined a running group a year ago to prepare for my first 10K ever which was held Thanksgiving Day 2004. I had just started running at that time, didn't really enjoy it that much (I've done sports all my life and two minutes into running I'm gasping for air, feeling really out of shape and just wanting to spend the rest of the day on the sofa to recover from exhaustion...). I hoped the peer pressure of a group would help - in a misery loves company kind of way. It did - I finished the 10K and then some.
And a year later I am still running.
Now, last Saturday, the really nice guy and I had our first training with that running group together. Let me clarify something, though. Somehow, because we are dating a lot of people seem to think that I forced him to start running. How could I? First of all, I wouldn't want to date anyone who does everything I tell him and he is really not that type of guy. And black-mailing isn't really my thing, either: Honey, if you don't run with me I'll run away?!? Obviously, you haven't seen me running. At races, I get passed by walkers of the age group 60-65 (that has happened!). Not much of a threat there.
Back to Saturday.
The whole purpose of this training was to determine what group we belong in once the training starts. So we warmed up for ten minutes, ran another ten, and once we crossed the imaginary finish line everyone received a little piece of paper with a number on it that represented the group we made it into. You already know that I am not the fastest but at least I'm consistently slow and found myself in group 3 - again (with group 1 being the walkers...). The really nice guy made it into group 5. Really! I'd say it must have been my splendid training (we've been running together for a little bit over two months now) but he says that the real reason is that he has an athlete inside. I wonder what's inside of me then. A Sumo wrestler?!?
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
And a year later I am still running.
Now, last Saturday, the really nice guy and I had our first training with that running group together. Let me clarify something, though. Somehow, because we are dating a lot of people seem to think that I forced him to start running. How could I? First of all, I wouldn't want to date anyone who does everything I tell him and he is really not that type of guy. And black-mailing isn't really my thing, either: Honey, if you don't run with me I'll run away?!? Obviously, you haven't seen me running. At races, I get passed by walkers of the age group 60-65 (that has happened!). Not much of a threat there.
Back to Saturday.
The whole purpose of this training was to determine what group we belong in once the training starts. So we warmed up for ten minutes, ran another ten, and once we crossed the imaginary finish line everyone received a little piece of paper with a number on it that represented the group we made it into. You already know that I am not the fastest but at least I'm consistently slow and found myself in group 3 - again (with group 1 being the walkers...). The really nice guy made it into group 5. Really! I'd say it must have been my splendid training (we've been running together for a little bit over two months now) but he says that the real reason is that he has an athlete inside. I wonder what's inside of me then. A Sumo wrestler?!?
I'll keep you posted.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Hello World!
Well, now that I have my own little piece of Internet - what am I going to do with it?
There are really a lot of things I could write about. My profession, for example. Those in IT may have already guessed that I am an SAP consultant - and surprisingly enough, after almost 10 years I still enjoy being one! Kind of geeky, I guess, but due to my job I also had the opportunity to work in Germany, Great-Britain, France, Brazil, Mexico, and the USA.
Which leads me to my next possible topic - a German working and living in the States. Who would have thought that there that many cultural differences - after all, you find a McDonald's at (almost) every street corner in Germany, too...
And last but not least I could publish about my life as a runner. That does still sound weird to me because I started running only a year ago. And even though I'm really slow I have since finished several 5Ks, a 4 Miler, a 10K, a 15K, a half-marathon, and even a marathon!!!
Well, I'll think about it.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
There are really a lot of things I could write about. My profession, for example. Those in IT may have already guessed that I am an SAP consultant - and surprisingly enough, after almost 10 years I still enjoy being one! Kind of geeky, I guess, but due to my job I also had the opportunity to work in Germany, Great-Britain, France, Brazil, Mexico, and the USA.
Which leads me to my next possible topic - a German working and living in the States. Who would have thought that there that many cultural differences - after all, you find a McDonald's at (almost) every street corner in Germany, too...
And last but not least I could publish about my life as a runner. That does still sound weird to me because I started running only a year ago. And even though I'm really slow I have since finished several 5Ks, a 4 Miler, a 10K, a 15K, a half-marathon, and even a marathon!!!
Well, I'll think about it.
Bis bald,
SAPgirl
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