Year Two Begins
Today marks the beginning of my second year in Germany. A year ago, my plane touched down in Frankfurt, and I immigrated with two suitcases and a ukulele; one of those suitcases was half-occupied with a desktop computer (pitifully dismantled and thrown back together by TSA, I might add). I look around me today and see a fully-furnished apartment, replete with a full kitchen (which I own), a dining room set, full sofa, and bed. This is not where I had imagined this adventure leading; it is even better.
The past year has really been a whirlwind of activity and emotions that really tested my mettle at times. The hope is the following year(s) will focus more so on the former. With a bit of a slow start to the New Year, I am off and running into the unknown.
It’s already 15 minutes after the hour, and my name still has not appeared on the TV screen that now fills the role of an announcement board. The waiting room I’m in consists of four benches of plastic molded seats facing each other in two rows. I had an appointment at 9 am, and punctuality is the hallmark of the German culture; I must have done something wrong. The others that had been waiting with me have already been called in; the next set of visitors are already filling those seats.
An hour earlier, I was putting on my final touches so that I can look as presentable as possible for my meeting at the foreigners’ office. My initial experience the year prior consisted of four or five sets of meetings, each with misunderstandings and flat out ‘no’s. I wanted this renewal process to go as smoothly as possible. I had gone through my speaking points numerous times and was able to fully support every number of my budget with additional documentation. I also had prepared answers to possible questions about my intended schedule of internships for 2018; I was ready. That was when I noticed that it was 8:30; there was now no way I could walk there in time.
I had hustled to the streetcar stop and paid my €2 for a seven minute ride to the train station. I walked to the office just quick enough as to not break a sweat and arrived ten minutes before my appointment. The doors were still locked as the office opened promptly at 9. Running through some pep talks in my head, I recognized a fellow foreigner. I greeted Mo’ahmed and his wife and kids; they were there to talk about getting a larger apartment for their recently reunited family. We wished each other luck and entered the now-opened waiting room.
As Mo’ahmed took his family to their meeting, I had pondered if he had checked in somewhere in order to let them know he had arrived. The hallways in this section of the building consist of solid, shut doors; there is no reception area. I decide that if I am still sitting here at half past, I’ll simply choose a door and knock and ask for clarification on the delay. Fortunately, at 20 minutes after, my name pops up and I head to my assigned office.
Knocking at the door, I am told to come in and sit down. Surprisingly, she profusely apologizes for the wait. She shares that she had just had a meeting with her boss, and I assure her that that meeting is absolutely more important than this one. She quickly segues into why I want to extend my visa. Having prepped my elevator speech, I launch into why I deem 2017 to be a successful year of internships and what plans I have in 2018. She shrugs and asks if I have the paperwork she requested in her email.
I lay out five piles of paperwork, one for each of the bullet points contained in her appointment confirmation. As I take a breath to begin my defense of my budget plans and the feasibility of sustaining myself for another year now that I have the additional expense of rent, she jumps in to confirm that I will still be supporting myself with savings, similar to last year. I affirm. Pleased with the answer, she provides a renewal application to be filled out.
The application contains bureaucratic words that are beyond my current vocabulary, so I pepper her with some questions as she makes copies of my passport and trims my new biometric photo to the right dimensions. As I get to the second page, she joins in the filling out process by simply pointing at the free-form answer blocks and telling me what to write. Upon returning from the payment machine on the first floor, she tells me to expect a letter telling me when to pick up my new visa; I am successfully granted an extension through March of 2019!
I was unnecessarily nervous about getting an opportunity to restart my second bakery internship. I had only had five weeks to show them that I could be helpful even though I am definitely in the way. And while I had intended to shoot a message to the baker within the first couple days of the New Year, I could not find the right words that would not impart desperation yet did reiterate that I would not hinder their efficiency. Then, he messaged me.
I find myself once again knocking at the front door of the bakery at 1 am on Monday morning, the 15th. I had recently purchased official baker pants; I find it interesting that each profession has ‘agreed’ to specific color-coded clothing – green is forestry, orange is sanitation, blue is mechanics, etc. There are shops dedicated to selling overalls, jackets, and pants in the Carhartt-durable, color-appropriate material. I arrive with my black-plaid-on-white pants in tow.
Hearing my shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits knock on the windowed door, I listen to the baker’s footsteps up the wooden staircase as he comes up to unlock the front door. As always, a firm handshake and I head to the kitchen area to change into my baker-ware. Downstairs, I find the baker’s father rolling out the Plunderteig that will become the base for the day’s cakes. Exchanging greetings and well wishes for the New Year, I jump back in and perform any available task – at this point in the morning, it is greasing the pans for the cakes.
The first day back and the quizzing commences. At any point in the day, I am asked which dough we are prepping and what the final product will be. My overall score for the day turns out to be around 25 percent; this helps me realize that I had been spending my first round there getting a feel for ingredients and proportions with little emphasis in understanding the final product. It becomes clear that they are stepping up my internship.
As the first morning comes to an end, the baker’s father asks me if I’d be interested in joining him for his Monday accordion lesson. Knowing never to say ‘no’, I heartily agree to return in three hours with my concertina. With a two hour nap squeezed in, I find myself in a fairly spacious apartment underwhelming a music teacher with three poorly-rehearsed Irish tunes learned eight years ago in Belfast. Settling for the oh-that’s-cute responses, I gladly listen to an hour’s rehearsal of a wide range of accordion melodies. Each is prefaced with, “I’m sure you know this one.” Spoiler: I don’t.
My bakery internship continues, and I am really astonished at the new responsibilities that I am asked to do. It seems small in hindsight, but I now am allowed to use the dough portioning machine where a large mass of dough gets cut into 30 smaller roll-sized pieces. Additionally, I ask if I may finish off the tray of Pfannekuchen – the bakery is known for the variety of toppings they sell. With supervision, I prep the four rows: fondant, chocolate, sugar, and fondant again. The second row gets a slew of sprinkles, and the first row gets a second zig-zagging layer of chocolate (a cool black on white pattern). This is where I fail; I could not get clean lines, and the Pfannekuchen just have random dots in the white background. In a very paternal voice, the 10-years-my-elder baker says, “well, it’ll just be a bit different today.” “Too artistic?,” I concede. He nods. Note: I was not allowed to try again the next day.
Being back at the bakery would not be complete without rejoining the Saturday night jamborees. The baker’s father hosts Saturday night festivities with food, drinks, and traditional accordion music. In the past, I have been asked to accompany myself on the ukulele. This time, he asks me to bring the concertina; again, I know only three jigs. This past Saturday, I receive a voicemail from the baker’s father at 10 am asking if I could also bring my tap shoes. At 4 pm, I see another voicemail from him reminding me to bring my tap shoes.
I arrive promptly at 7 pm and am immediately questioned, did I bring the shoes. He tells me that he invited a couple in the building to today’s event; they declined stating that they were celebrating an anniversary. He countered their declination by stating that a tap dance was to take place that evening – they then agreed to come. I learn that I am a pawn to get more attendees; yes, I feel a bit used.
The time arrives where I am asked to put on my shoes. It is at this point that I realize that the floor is too soft; I make no more noise than if I were in my street shoes, soft-shoeing a routine. The host has a plan; he runs and grabs a wooden cutting board! I step on my two-foot by three-foot stage and paradiddle for ten seconds. The crowd roars. The baker then runs to get the anniversary couple and their guests. Upon getting them seated, I wow the group again with paradiddles and a small maxiford. A strong desire to drink all the liquor in that room floods over me.
The tap shoes themselves becomes a conversation topic, and the baker decides to give it a go himself. Ah, it’s good to be back at the bakery!
The year did begin with a short trip to Berlin in order to hang out with some friends from Chicago. They were on a post-engagement European trip that started and ended in Amsterdam; I met them for a dinner and show during their time in Berlin. We had a great time catching up over some traditional German food and then enjoyed a “traditional” German musical with supertitles. I could make out most of the dialog, read the supertitles, and still did not understand the point or plot of “Linie 1”, a story about a girl who spent the day riding the Subway Line 1 in West Germany.
Continuing on the theatre theme, I have been asked to audition for a role at the local theatre. The role actually consists of two different characters; only one of which can have an American accent, I am told. I honestly did not think my accent was that strong, but I have one month to memorize a page-length text and perform it with no accent. Challenge accepted. The audition is set for the first week in March.
Continuing on the audition theme, yesterday I found myself in a recording booth. I finally reconnected with the voice-over guy who I had originally met in the spring. He had called me when I was at the Frankfurt airport asking for an immediate audition; I was glad that that declination did not disqualify me from giving it a chance. Last Thursday he called, and last Friday I received the audition text. I used the weekend to practice reading these five text blocks in my best, clear, American accent; my accent is why I was invited in the first place.
I was picked up at the train station, which simply was a good meeting point, and driven to the office. I arrived and met the technician, then climbed into the sound booth. Imagine the sound-deadening, padded walls and the fancy microphone and headset. This was really cool. I was able to lay down each of the tracks on the first go, with the exception of slurring “recognized” in one of the texts. I was thanked and dropped back off at the train station within 30 minutes. I am told that if my accent is needed (i.e., liked by their customers), I will be invited back. Adventure? Check!
A new semester has begun at the dance school, and I find myself with a larger beginning tap class. The two ladies who had promised to return in January ended up joining the Tuesday night class: traitors! Still, I was happy to find three new participants in my Thursday class, bringing the class to five. We are tackling “This is Me” from The Greatest Showman this semester. And as chance would have it, my tap instructor pulled something in his leg while bowling so I am also teaching his three tap classes on Tuesdays. I will be responsible for these groups throughout January. A majority of my time in January has been spent tapping or prepping for these classes. It is a lot; there are a lot of personalities…
Finally, I had ended last year with some existential questions. With a bit of soul searching, I did land on a plan: I am going to attempt to get my masters here. I found a master program in a nearby university called (in English) “Computational and Data Science.” Oddly, it is taught in German, and the university requires a C2 fluency for admission. This is the highest level of fluency possible for non-native speakers. Over a year ago, before I arrived in Germany, I had tested at a B1 fluency; this means I have three levels to go (B2, C1, C2). My 2018 New Year’s Resolution is to conquer the C2 level, which is often referred to as native-level fluency. I know it’s a tall order, and many have already pointed out its improbability, but I’m good with challenges.
Jetzt geht’s los!
