My second home planet

I have just returned from Rendsburg, the home town of my mother’s family – a pleasant little place whose one claim to international distinction consists of having the longest (501 m) bench in the world. It runs along the canal which cuts northern Germany in two halves and is the thoroughfare of, among other things, the huge luxury cruise ships. These are such a frequent and, at least in my grandparent’s generation, popular presence that my grandfather proudly presented them as ‘our’ ships… The first evening was spent drinking a peculiar German brandy – sweet and bright red – while watching comic Bavarian TV-theatre from the early 90s. Not that the year really matters, Bavaria appears to be one of those places where time quite simply stands still. And where mildly misogynistic jokes are never quite out of fashion. Whenever I am here I seem to have the same thoughts, eat the same things, see the same things… precious little appears to change here, even if I am sure that that is mainly true of my grandparents lives. I went for a cycle on my grandmother’s bike one evening and saw some young people around. Again it struck me that everyone I know in this town is over 60, that it has always seemed to me that everyone else is as well (yes, there is an ageing population, but not quite as extreme as that) and that it would be incredibly interesting to get to know some younger people, to find out what their lives are like. Maybe some day I will. Or not. Until then I will continue to be amazed at the bizarre aspects of German culture to which I am treated (exposed perhaps being a better word) when I come here. Such as the ‘Folk music evening’, prime time television, Saturday night at 8 – an evening of, to me, peculiarities. Quite apart from the cheesy music, the clothes (purple suits…) and the fact that everything is performed with playback (always horrendous) some of the acts really made me gape dumbfounded in sheer amazement. How about Richard Clayderman (does anyone remember him? I actually do.) performing his by now 30 year old hit, on the piano – on playback! Seriously, what is the point? How is it done? Just as the band, always accompanying every act from their corner – and only touching their instruments, pretending to play on them. Or how about a guest performance of The Chippendales – who, decorously, only took their tops off – and were asked to perform a special dance with two Bavarian singers, a duo mainly known for the fact that they are dangerously obese? Quite obscene in its absurdity. The American lads must have felt as though they had ended up on a different planet, and at that point so did I. Compared to this, Heino, an ancient artist who in himself is the epitome of bizarre, seemed almost normal… The interesting thing is that I have always assumed that this must be a dying form of entertainment, only enjoyed by old people. But some of the artists, and quite a few people in the audience, were young; the presenter (purple suit) allegedly younger than me! ‘Schlager’, the next generation.

I was also invited to a party, the 80^th birthday of the nice man who plays the organ in my grandparents (Catholic) church. Masses of food and wine, all during the day (we congregated at 11.30!). As ever I was the only one of my generation, every one else being over 50 or under 13… The day after I met all of the people again, this time at mass. The theme of the sermon was the acceptance of difficult situations – and the need to accept and integrate new people in the community. Good topic, but given a peculiar slant when the priest also started talking about the recent speech made by the pope on religion and violence and at one point said that we should not talk about the crusades, practically excusing them as something unfortunate which was born out of the frustration and despair created by the fact that the Muslims had destroyed Christian churches (‘they started it’, basically). Hmm. Despair and frustration abound in the world at the moment, nobody understands anybody else, ‘the other’ is evil and we are all scared of each other. Fear is at the root of all evil. After mass we were treated to cake and brandy (yes, this was just after 10 in the morning, still in the Catholic church) and I had a rather interesting conversation with a friend of my grandparents before I was spirited away to the forest for some mushroom collecting in the company of a cheerful little dog.

To sum up, I’ve had an interesting and eventful weekend and have returned with new insights: 1. I shall never manage to acquire the one character trait that, by grandparents, is valorised above most others: being uncomplicated. 2. Anything, even bizarre German television, can be overcome and even enjoyed with an accommodating sense of humour and plenty of brandy.

Beginnings

How does one write a web log? And just when did our languages acquire the word ‘blog’ – a word which I have just had to add to the dictionary of my edition of Microsoft Word, but undoubtedly already exists in newer versions. I suppose that the idea of keeping a public diary which not only becomes a way of keeping record of one’s own existence but also a way of communicating it to one’s friends and something of a weekly (or even daily!) column by means of which it is possible to inflict thoughts and opinions on an innocent audience makes all kinds of efficient sense. Three wishes in one, as it were, and with the redeeming feature of being very unassuming: after all, nobody can force anyone else to read their blog. It is there, up for grabs, to be read by millions or nobody at all. So there, if the president of Iran can do it, so can I. Fewer people will read mine, fewer people, hopefully, will be offended.

Dear friends, some of you will remember the group-emails I sent from the road five years ago. Surely you haven’t forgotten ‘Fuggley’? I never will. It was always an interesting (and sometimes laborious!) task to find an internet café and there was usually just enough time to write one email, a travel narrative that went out to everyone. Most of them have been lost in cyberspace, but I remember how much fun it was to write them and the nice feeling of interconnectedness (as Dirk Gently would have it). This, I suppose, is a slightly updated version of the phenomenon. A way to let you know what I am doing and thinking; texts which you can peruse at leisure. It is also a very selfish way for me to efficiently combine the things I listed above – diary (which I never get around to writing when I have to use pen and paper), general info about what I am doing to people who want to know and, also quite importantly, an opportunity to write. In general. As most of you know I am, or should be, writing my dissertation on Elizabeth Bowen and writing is like any linguistic output – use it or lose it. This seems to be a wonderful way of using it, and killing lots of other birds with the same stone. As I was working on Virginia Woolf I found that she wrote, apart from her novels, articles, letters and kept an extensive diary. Every day. All the time. How she managed to spend so many hours reflecting, in writing, on her writing is beyond me, as is why she never complained of sore hands and why she never managed to get her punctuation quite ‘up to scratch’… If mine falters, do let me know. And if I bore you – stop reading!