Dresden should be applauded for the incredible ways in which the Christmas season is celebrated. Why, you ask?

One word: Weihnachtsmannsackhüpfstaffelmarathon. No, seriously.

This is an event sponsored by one of the local student clubs, Bärenzwinger, that encourages members of other student clubs to take part in an annual Sack-Hopping Relay. Dressed as Santa Claus.

Starting the day bright and early at 9 am, the teams assemble in their respective clubs and begin migrating to the Bärenzwinger club in Altstadt, which is located right next to where the race is to go down. (Just as a time frame, sack-hopping teams start gathering around 9:30 or so and the actual sack-hopping extravaganza begins at 2. I’m going to reiterate here that this event happens in a park right outside of a student club…drinking is strongly encouraged and with so much time in between everyone’s arrival and the actual race, staying entirely sober isn’t often accomplished.)

In hopes of maintaining some form of grace in my mother’s eyes, I’ll assert here that I was not drunk for my sack-hopping debut…my stomach was already a bit unsettled and I don’t do well with alcohol before, say, noon. But I did witness everyone around me slowly, and in some cases quickly, drift off into oblivion (some of whom drifted so far off into that oblivion they were unable to finish their part of the relay on his/her own and had to be carried by hand and foot in order to pass the baton to me…I won’t name any names here, but it was Alex.)

So anyways, our team was team Gutz (Gutzkowclub representtttt) and we all wore matching red jumpsuits with Santa hats. We  congregated in the Gutz around 9 and enjoyed a nice breakfast of brötchen, cheese, and different variations of meat. Around 11 we piled into a taxi to take us to the main event…we arrived at Bärenzwinger a little after 11.15 due to traffic and to my surprise, there were Santa Claus’ everywhere. It was like Christmas time at Macy’s exploded in the middle of Dresden.

All the Santas were gathered around a main event that I will never forget, yet I’m still not exactly sure of it’s purpose. I think it was to determine how to number the teams, but the point doesn’t actually matter. Each team picked out three of its members and in a series of “mini sack races”, two teams would compete against each other.

The mini race went as follows:

1. Starting members sit on a keg, burlap sack in position over both feet.
2. Timer starts, competitors hop like little bunnies for about 15 feet.
3. They reach the beer table where they must “chug” a beer.
4. After beer has been successfully “chugged”, person must hop back to barrel.
5. They tag the next team member, who also has a burlap sack over feet.
6. This person must hop to the beer table. Chug a beer. Hop back to barrel. Tag last team member.
7. Last team member hops to beer table. Chugs beer. Hops back to barrel and sits down.
8. The first team to finish all the beers wins.

There were a few female competitors, but most of them were men…and some of these men had the most astonishing esophageal capabilities I have ever seen. I don’t understand the physics of it, but I don’t care. It was awesome.

After that, everyone pretty much did their own thing (beer…) until it was time to gather all the Santas together and follow the track of the real santa-sack-hoppin’ course. Each team would deposit one member at each stop where they would wait until the race began. (Assuming we don’t all know how a relay race works…there are stops placed along the course and after the first person completes his leg of it, he gives the person at the next stop the baton, that person completes their part of the course, gives the baton to the next person, etc. etc. etc.)

I was at stop number 5. Alex was placed at stop number 4 (“placed” being the operative word). He was supposed to hop in his cute little burlap-sack-santa-claus-outfit to me and hand me the baton. Reality was somewhat different. He did two really good, manly hops. After that, he spent a lot of time on the ground, doing some strange rolling motion–luckily, he was soon assisted by some gutz members who kindly gave him their shoulder to lean on as he hopped. That also worked really well for about two hops until he found his way again to the cement. At this point, he just sort of laid there with his arms flung above his head.

As we were already in last place and I had already watched helplessly as all my competitors left without me, the two kind Gutz members decided that it would be best for the team if they carried him to me. When he arrived, I grabbed the baton off his belly and thus began my first ever, and last, sack-hop experience.

The first hops were easy. And then I realized I had to do it for 100 meters. It suddently dawned upon me why Alex had thrust himself upon the ground and I contemplated doing it myself until I was close enough to pass some really terrible Santa Claus sack-hoppers. So I pushed it out, amidst the cries from my thighs and calves and weak lungs, and ended up making it to my target destination ALIVE while simultaneously beating two other Santas. I felt invincible. (We ended up in 18th place out of 20, but were actually disqualified because they carried Alex. Hahaha.)

All in all, it was a hilarious experience. Afterwards, I busied myself with a few sips of really delicious glühwein (hot spiced wine) here and there,  dabbled in some bratwursts, and strolled through the Christmas market, all while supervising Alex’s drunken wanderings. I’m pretty sure Santa would be proud.

because he was so unbelievably pale. But…he was also unbelievably friendly. And caring. And giving. But most importantly, loving.

I also called him Spider Fingers because his fingers were long and skinny to an ungodly degree and when he rubbed sunscreen on my back at the beach, I would inevitably end up with a burn in the shape of his alien-like hand print…but that might detract from my remembrance of him.

Four years ago today, my little brother Daniel died at the age of 14. I don’t know if posting such a topic is appropriate for this wide and varied online audience, but I want people to know about him. He was worth knowing and, even though it might seem a bit too public, worth remembering on WordPress. This entry might have a different tone than the others, but Daniel commands my respect (but Daniel, you know I gotta make jokes about you…I wouldn’t be the same big sister if I didn’t )

For those of you who don’t know, Daniel was born with congenital heart disease. By the time he was eight, he had already survived 12 open heart surgeries and over 150 blood transfusions. It was at this point that his heart was exhausted and had simply had enough…he needed a transplant. He and my parents flew to the best hospital for the job, Boston Children’s Hospital in Boston, Massachusetts, and waited patiently for the heart that he was so certain would come.

There I was, in 6th grade and starting my life at a brand new middle school where I only knew a few other students. I was awkward looking, unfamiliar with the territory, without my parents and little bro, and life was about as hard for an 11-year-old as it could be. My parents and baby brother left for Boston in late summer and stayed for a solid 3-4 months while I stayed with my older brother, Lee, and my grandpa, Big Bo, in Augusta, Georgia.

Because Daniel lived a fuller life than I’m sure most people ever will, there are many stories about him that I could tell, but I’ll share just a few–the ones that I think speak best for his personality and outlook on life:

Story Number One:

As I said, Daniel and my parents lived in Boston’s North End for a while as they waited for his new heart. As the Boston summer turned to autumn, Daniel’s health turned from bad to worse. Essentially, he was a walking skeleton–he had no meat on his bones because it was hard for him to retain the food he ate (and wanted to eat), his lips and finger tips were purple due to lack of oxygen in his  blood flow (his heart was too weak to pump properly), and barely enough strength to walk. But in spite of all this, through all of his obvious pain, he was the most positive human being I, or anyone, could ever imagine.

So, there they were, 3/5 of my family 800 miles away in a foreign land (to me, at least…after visiting them several times in Boston during this period, I grew to love it. It was then I decided I wanted to live in Boston someday…so after high school, I did).

One day in their small apartment overlooking the Boston Harbor, Daniel looked to my mom and dad and simply stated that he would have his new heart by Halloween. There was no doubt in his voice, it was just something he knew. My parents accepted his prediction but knew the likelihood of finding a new heart, especially given such a deadline for such a sick boy.

Time passed. Leaves fell. The end of October rolled around and they were still in Boston overlooking the Harbor and doing their grocery shopping at the Cornah’ Stoah’ (“Corner store”, to all of those unfamiliar with the Boston dialect.) At home in Georgia, it was probably still warm and somewhat rainy because that always happens near Halloween, and my dad had come to visit us for a short while.

You know what I’m about to say. On October 30th around 11:30 pm, we get a phone call. A heart had been found…he would be okay! He got a NEW HEART! My dad threw his suitcase together as he held the phone to his ear with his shoulder and scheduled the next flight to Boston. He hugged and kissed us goodbye and that was that. My little brother was still with us. Boston had saved his life and it had happened, literally, before Halloween.

Story Number 2:

This is short but sweet. And maybe a little spicy. And crunchy…with cheese.

When asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, Daniel responded with, “I wanna be a daddy…like my daddy. And a worker at Taco Bell.” Can you say “good taste” please? Because I sure can. I can only hope that my dedication to Taco Bell inspired his never-ending dedication to this fine, fine eatery.

Story Number 3:

You can always tell the politicians in a family (I mean this positively…you must believe me). Like my grandpa, Bo Ginn, Daniel had a gene for making people feel completely at ease. He took Big Bo’s gift of unbelievable congeniality and took it a step further (similar to the strategy I’m sure modern politicians employ) by using that “at ease” feeling to get exactly what he wanted.

For example: Every Friday night, my family would eat at a lovely Mexican restaurant (apparently we have salsa instead of blood) where we eventually came to know the owners, waiters, and other regular patrons very well. The highlight of this weekly treat was the end…when everyone would gather all their things and my dad would head to the cash register–where all the blow-pops and laffy taffy and tootsie rolls and gum balls lived. He would buy each of us whatever we wanted and we would trot happily back to our white Chevrolet Lumina Mini Van. It happened that every time, without fail, we would buckle ourselves in and prepare ourselves for the ride home with our delicious candy only to see Daniel pull out mountains of sweets from his pockets. Obviously I was jealous and assumed our parents liked him more so they bought him more candy. I was wrong–he “earned” it.

While my older brother Lee and I had been arguing over who copied who for ordering our “Nacho-Cheese-Burritos-with-no-red-sauce-only-white-sauce-please-and-a-side-of-rice,” Daniel had been busy scooting around to every table in the restaurant chatting with everyone there. As a result, he nearly always got money to go buy candy. Which he did. A lot of candy. EVERY SINGLE WEEK. (Sadly, I was not as clever as he and was unable to actualize the amount of sweets that could have been attained.)

After all… who could say no to an absolutely adorable red head with the most addictive smile and those pervasive, inviting freckles? No one. I’m sure if he’d worked his magic on me, I’d have given him money for candy too.

Since this is an extraordinarily long post, I’ll stop here…but I’d love to hear any memories you have with Daniel. He was a truly, truly, truly exceptional human being and I’m heartbroken that the rest of the world will not get the chance to experience him, his charm, or his love. Or his exceptional swindling skills.

I want to thank you all for your dedication to my blog and this story…hopefully the last part won’t disappoint. (Note: please see previous two entries for any hope of understanding what I’m talking about.)

I wanted to go home. Alyssa, Spanish-guy Manel, and I quietly discussed our plans for the evening and came to the unanimous decision that a cab was definitely in order, as it was almost 4 in the morning and we were already exhausted. Hookah with Mike and his pals would just have to wait. (I forgot to say how Mike planned out our activities for the next night also, telling us to wear our best clothes and to look extra good because he was taking us to the snazziest place in town. Having only brought one small backpack, Lord knows we had no “good-looking” clothes…I guess it was fortunate things ended as they did because I would have been way underdressed.)

When we presented our decision to the group, everyone looked somewhat disappointed but gave us a warm smile, handshake, and goodbye. Mike, on the other hand, threw a tantrum. Like a 3 year old. A 3 year old girl.

First he scoffed, then he blinked a lot, and then he stared at me like I’d just killed someone he loved…then he repeated this sequence 5 times before saying a word. When he finally did speak, this is what came out:

“No, we’re going to smoke hookah. You promise me you smoke hookah with me tonight. You PROMISE ME.” He was yelling.

First of all, no, no I did not. That is an incorrect statement. Earlier in the day, he listed several activities that he would like to do and I do believe I agreed to these activities, if and only if, I was not tired at any given time. Being that I was at that point tired, as were my comrades, I believe I was acceptably exempt from all further activities. Oh but he was not having it.

“No, I said we are going to smoke hookah now.” I stared at him and blinked. He began breathing hard and his face started turning red. Manel tried to intervene by telling Mike what a great night he had and how we’ll all see eachother tomorrow, but Mike ignored him completely.

“Fine, you want to go home, I call you a cab.” He proceeded to walk to the street, yell (and I mean YELL) for the nearest taxi. He then hurried us all in the cab and proceeded to whisper something in my ear.

“You ruin it all. You will never see me again.” I sort of wish he were telling the truth.

Alyssa, Manel, and I sat in the cab trying to figure what happened with our once so friendly Mike.

“You broke his heart, Morgan. He wanted you.”

“Shut up Manel. I wanted to go to bed. He’s weird.”

And with that, we closed the conversation on Mike and proceeded to talk about why Alyssa kept poking Manel. (“But I’m NOT poking Manel, I never DID poke Manel!!”)

When we got to our hostel the door was locked. We rang the doorbell and stood waiting for the nightman to let us in when all of a sudden we heard a “…..Morgan. Morgggaaaaan. Moooooorrrgaaaan. Come and talk at me.”

I looked at Alyssa, then Manel, and then peered around the corner where I saw Mike sprawled out on a public bench holding a beer and motioning for me to go to him.

“Ohhh jesus I really don’t want to go.”

“I’ll go.” Alyssa always was the brave one. Minutes later, she returns bearing news. “He wants to talk to you.” Thanks Alyssa. But obviously I was curious…so off I went to converse with the drunk.

“I just want to hang with you longer time. Why you had to leave me like that. That was not nice of you.”

“Look Mike, I don’t even know you. I don’t know why you got so mad back there but it was out of control. I’m sorry but I’m just not used to how men treat women here. You don’t tell me what to do. You just don’t. When you do, I will, in every case, defy you and you can’t do a thing about it because where I come from, that’s called ABUSE.” He sat there looking defeated, humiliated, and emasculated. I felt AWESOME.

“But I just want to spend longer time with you and when you leave I get angry.”

“Yes, Mike, I know. I saw. I was there. This is over and I’m going to bed now because I’m tired. Please, do not follow me anywhere else.” And with that, I did my best Beyonce imitation walk into the now-unlocked hostel, slamming the door and employing my best hair flip. I slept peacefully and uninterrupted that night.

The next day, Alyssa and I awake to a sea of text messages from none other than our recently-disposed-ex-new-friend, Mike. They went a little something like this:

i’m sorry about last night i just really wanted to see Morgan I really like her no actually I think I love her and I got angry when she said she want to leave me. please come back to restaurant again i really want to see her again. fine i know i never see you again so have a nice life. (All over the course of maybe 4 text messages, each costing Alyssa $.50. Ouch.)

We thought it was all over. Again, we were wrong. That evening we went out with some people from our hostel to the hostel’s “sister-bar,” if you will, and we were all having quite a nice time. We had gone there with a friend of Mike’s who worked at the hostel and were casually discussing the things we did that day when…drum roll please…Mike called his friend.

Who does Mike ask to talk to? Me. How did he know I was with his friend? Oh, I’ve no idea. So I reach over and grab the phone and grunt a muted “hey.”

“Where are you?”

“Um…Cheer’s bar. Where are you….?”

“Taxim.”

“Okay.”

“Are you having fun?”

“Well, yeah…I am having fun.”

“That is great. I mean I just want to tell you something do you even like me because I mean I really like you and if you don’t like me just tell me.”

“Mike, I don’t like you.”

“You broke my heart. I don’t deserve this. You are evil.”

“I didn’t mean to break your heart. I don’t even know you.”

“I hope you have fun because I never see you again.”

“Okay Mike. Alright. Buhbye now.”

And this time, he kept his word and I never saw him again.

Except the next morning he did drop by the hostel to “say goodbye” to Alyssa and I before we left. Fortunately for us, we were in bed and Robin, the delightful little buttercup working behind the desk that day, kept him from disturbing our slumber. And just like that, my time with Mike, and subsequently all Turkish men forever, was over.

(For those of you just joining us, the previous entry is a prerequisite to this one. Enjoy.)

Okay. Now where was I…

So there we were: two American girls, one Spanish guy, this Turkish chick, and maybe 3 Turkish men. (Sounds like the beginning of a joke…sadly it’s not.)

After experiencing varying degrees of discomfort after our investment in only one cab, we arrived safely in the downtown area of Istanbul, called Taxim. This is the part of town that was absolutely breathtaking…not because of historical landmarks or anything like that…just by the sheer volume of people. It looked like the entire population of New York descended upon the street with only the desire to go window shopping.

After making our way through crowds of people and avoiding being hassled by Turkish entrepreneurs selling roasted chestnuts, we finally arrived at our first destination: Jazz Stop. It was a swanky spot with an edgy feel–the entire bar was bathed in a red wash while the stage hummed its cool blues and greens.

One of our new Turkish friends, we’ll call him Jebodiah (I don’t think I ever knew his real name), kept assuring us that this would be the best performance of our lives and to be honest, it was right up there. The band members were all apparently very famous individually and knew our new friends well, so after a series of hugs and variations on the American hand-shake, the performance began. It. was. awesome.

Mike showed up a little late because he had to work until 11:00, so the band had already begun to play and I’d already begun to really start enjoying the music. Jebodiah saw Mike come in first and immediately looked to me and exclaimed, “Morgan, look! Mike is here!” I turned around to wave at Mike but, that sneaky little devil, he’d already wormed his way directly behind me with a suave look on his face. He greeted me with a slight arm graze with his right hand. I squinted, gave him a sideways smile, turned around, and proceeded to enjoy the music. As I danced with the music, I could feel his body heat behind me (not in the trashy novel sort of way, please…) so I’d inch my way forward so as to escape it just a bit. He inched forward with me. I excused myself to the bathroom and returned to see that he’d ordered me a beer. My first thought…. FREE BEER! Awesome. So I drank it and enjoyed the rest of the show.

During the remainder of the performance, Mike attempted to paw at my hips and everytime he looked at me, he looked a little…well, we’ll just say “intense.” He then proceeded to tell me things like, “you dance so good…i love they way you move…” If you’ve seen me dance, you know that that is simply untrue. But I laughed and shrugged it off because it all still seemed to be in good fun. (Note to self: don’t smile at Turkish men…don’t smile at Turkish men…)

Eventually the show ended and our next destination was a dance club around the corner. After getting there, Alyssa and I rocked out for a bit to the American music they played (a live Turkish band singing covers of Maroon 5 is actually QUITE entertaining) and we were joined by Manel and Mike. Mike grabbed onto my hand and spun me so I went with it and “swing-danced,” if you can call it that, with him for awhile. It started getting strange when he started kissing my cheek. No, not kissing, sucking my cheek. My reaction: “Uh. Mike, really, no. Rewind.” He then got pouty and asked me if I “liked the Spanish guy.” My reply was no, no I do not like the Spanish guy but I really would just like to dance. He looked sad but he stopped the cheek-kissing/sucking and I was pleased. He then bought me a rose from a vendor outside.

Our next stop, as determined by Mike, was a nearby outdoor bar/lounge and we were soon making our way down the streets of Taxim again. The entire walk, I began to see the effects of Mike’s drinking as he pulled me away from the others so we could “talk.”

“Morgan. Morgan. Let me just tell you one thing. Morgan. Okay. Morgan, I really like you. I mean I really like you. If you lived here you would be my girlfriend.”

“Ahh. Okay. Hey Mike, what are those things over there?” First method of escape: diversion.

“Oh, you want some? I get them for you. You are special and you deserve them.”

“No, really, it’s okay, I’m not hung–thanks, Mike.” I had earned myself some roasted chestnuts.

“But let me tell you one thing, Morgan, I really like you, I really do. Do you like me? If you don’t like me just tell me.” Oh dear lord. This is when being from the South is a huge burden because I do not know how to be direct with people. But I tried.

“Well Mike, I don’t really, you know, like you. Like that. You’re great, really. But I don’t..you know, like you like that.” 10 points to Morgan for being completely ambiguous.

“Okay. We be friends then. I try no more to hold your hand or kiss you. We are only friends.” He then moved a foot away from me and ended every sentence with “friend.” He was trying out reverse psychology. Unfortunately for him, I’m better at it and well-equipped against it.

“Very good, Mike. That makes me happy. So where are we going?”

After arriving, we sat in tiny chairs at some outdoor table with the musicians we had seen play earlier. They were all nice, except for some lady sitting across from me who so loudly and uncomfortably stated that I looked like I was 15. I didn’t like her much after that. This was the moment when Mike’s whiny attitude, that rude singer woman, and my tiredness intersected and I became sick of it. Every time he looked at me he would pout and then stare at me as though he was trying to connect with my soul. That was clearly not on my agenda. I wanted to go home.

Again, boys and girls, this story is entirely too long. I must finish it another day. It’s not much longer, I promise, but I really can’t justify posting a story over 1000 words. My bad.

So uh…STAY TUNED!!!

Suspense: (n.) pleasant excitement as to a decision or outcome.

I’ll thank my good friends at Merriam-Webster for this hearty definition, which I’m sure suits all of you avid Morganizers quite well. I hope my brief “Urlaub,” if you will, from writing has kept everyone in suspense and hasn’t deterred too many of you from reading, but rest assured that Morgan has returned with every intention to begin writing regularly again.

(I hope.)

…

(Put a 21-year-old smack dab in the middle of Europe and see how much of an attention span she has for witty recollections and grammatically correct memories. It’s not easy…my attention is forever being averted. I’m like a cat when you snip it’s whiskers too short—-scatterbrained and all over the place trying to avoid running into walls…but I wouldn’t know about that, my brother was the one with the scissors.)

In hopes that this blog doesn’t terribly disappoint your suspense-ridden expectations, I will recount the time I broke a Turkish man’s heart in Istanbul. I didn’t mean to and I still hold strong that I actually had nothing to do with it, but I’ll let you decide. I won’t reveal his name in fear that he might somehow locate me, so we’ll call him Mike.

Upon our arrival to Istanbul, Alyssa and I really didn’t know what to expect. We were excited about the city, the history, and the opportunity to meet a lot of new people, none of whom we’d ever had the pleasure of encountering. But our non-existent opinions of the Turkish menfolk began to sour moments after exiting our introductory cab: after paying the driver, he proceeded to reach over, grab my thigh, give me a wink and click at me. Yep, click–you know, with his tongue. Call me a prude, but no thank you. And thus, our first impression of Turkish men was born.

There we were, two cute American girls on our own in the big city streets of Istanbul, the Hagia Sophia to our left and Blue Mosque to our right. We encountered stares and clicks to last us a lifetime as we probed our way through the city searching for our hostel, but we didn’t let it get us down…not immediately, anyhow. After locating our amazing hostel (the Cheers Hostel–HIGHLY recommended if you visit Istanbul) and napping for a moment, we determined that an impromptu tour of our surrounding area was a must. After our earlier experiences with the Turkish men, we agreed that the best way to complete this task successfully was to stare directly in front of us, ignoring all male onlookers and catcallers with a stone-faced glare. This worked for awhile until the clicks and the whistles grew to an unreasonable number.

“Hey lady…Where you come from…lady, excuse me, hey lady, you forgot your rug…you come from paradise? Hey lady….hey lady…. click click click click whistle click.”

We became agitated and decided to swear off all Turkish men forever.

One night as we perused Sultanahmet, our neighborhood, on the lookout for a cheap dinner, we came across Mike standing at the entrance to his hotel/restaurant. Because he was friends with the owner of our hostel, he recognized Alyssa and coerced us to eat there with an innocent smile, using a “student discount” and some “free tea” as bait. He didn’t even click at us! We thought we’d hit the jackpot with this one. (To be honest, he really was very nice. I almost feel bad writing negatively about him. Sort of.)

Anyways, the meal we enjoyed at that restaurant was amazing. We sat alone on a rooftop terrace surrounded by traditional Turkish lamps and colorful wood paneling, illuminated by a few ancient-looking candles. I’m glad Alyssa was my date–as I told her then, that was a moment I’ll never forget. Mike was very attentive and seemed almost indifferent to us at times, of course encouraging our coquetishly American flirting skills with him, i.e. “You’d better not forget about us up here, Mike!” giggle giggle giggle.

So after our meal, Mike informed us of a cool hookah/dance place just around the corner and asked us if we’d like to join him after he got off work. Obviously we said yes, why wouldn’t we? He was nice, relatively normal, and was friends with the owner of our hostel. He seemed pretty legit. So we went, met up with some awesome German girls we were staying with, and had a great time. Mike even walked us home afterward and gave us a paternal scolding for not wearing our jackets in the evening: “I don’t wanna act like a father, but the night is cold and you get sick.”

After such a genuinely enjoyable time, we ate at the same restaurant the next evening and enjoyed the same atmosphere and discounts. Because Alyssa and I were both suffering from a cold, we decided not to go out with Mike that night but made plans to meet up for some traditional Turkish music, dancing, and hookah the next evening. How cool it was to have real Turkish friends! (At this point, we’d met some of his friends and they were all welcoming and very nice.)

Thursday night rolls around and Alyssa and I had become super excited about this traditional Turkish music–we even invited our new Spanish friend, Manel, to come with us! We met at the restaurant, drank some free beers, shared a shot that was lit on fire (?!?!?) and hung out until it was time to go to the jazz bar. Manel and the Turkish guys hit it off well and I really couldn’t have been more excited about our plans for the evening.

Unfortunately for you, this is the point where the author, Morgan, has the authority (haha) to hold you in suspense make you wait for the ending. At 941 words, this blog is entirely too long to write the whole story. That said, if you want to know what happens, you’re just going to have to keep posted. It’s worth it. Well, I think so anyways. Hopefully it’s not one of those, “you-had-to-be-there” things…

Stay tuned.

My earliest memory of soccer: Recess. 9 years old. Stuck as the goalie. No kneepads or helmet (both of which are absolute necessities for any sport I attempt).

Because my team was actually sort of talented for fourth graders, the ball was kept on the other side of the field for most of the game–needless to say, I was bored. My solution to boredom was one that I still employ today: sit in grass, play with bugs, look for worms. (In that order.)

After locating some noteworthy specimen and pondering the strength of their exoskeletons, I looked up just in time to notice a change in the direction of the ball. Its path was clear, as was my fate. I stared at the ball for a few seconds before realizing that I should at least try to block the shot but as I tried to stand up, I only managed to make it to my knees as the ball violently imprinted its Adidas logo into my stomach. Thankfully, I blocked the shot. I also unintentionally blocked my airway. When the ball landed on my lungs, all the air was pushed out resulting in an attractive and almost frightening display of gasping, typically reserved only for the finest films.

Anyways, I bring this story up only because today, my friends, was the first day that I played soccer since that chilly autumn afternoon in grade school. Was I any better? No. Did I try really hard? Absolutely. Did it hurt? Without a doubt. But the most important question…was it fun? And the answer is YES! A joyful, resounding, glorious YES! Betwixt my constant, “Sorry…” and “Oops, my bad…” and “You’re not on my team?” ’s, I somehow managed not to completely irritate everyone on the field while having fun myself.

Maybe one day I’ll kick the ball in the intended direction, but for now I’m just happy because nobody made me be the goalie… All in all, I’d say it was a successful day.

The Gutz: (n.)  the bar that sits quaintly at the corner of Gutzkowstraße and Reichenbachstraße, contributing most to my ineffectual study habits while simultaneously improving my German (albeit with the help of Dresden’s own: Feldschlößchen [beer]). I also live in the same building.

This bar has witnessed many a terrible dart game involving myself and some poor, unsuspecting German who thought that maybe he would be able to play a real game of darts with an American girl. (Ever since my brother threw a dart in my arm circa 1994, darts have never proven to be a real strong point of mine, but you know, every throw of a dart brings me a step further away from that traumatic day…) This bar has also witnessed entirely too much of Morgan’s infamous laugh, which has also proliferated with the help of that special brew, Feldschlößchen, promoting entirely too much of what I like to call “Morgan-hating” by some of the “special” guys who work/hang out there.

As you can probably tell, this entry is going to be a tribute to the Gutz, specifically to two of the characters who, at the moment, have proved to be quite the comedians. To continue my “modus operandi” if you will, I will select nicknames for the two–I think it’s best to protect the identity of those I’m about to exploit. So let’s call them “Martini” and “Meatball**.” (I hope you two can figure that out.)

I think a great first story will be one from last week, Wednesday night. Our American group had just finished grilling out behind our dorm (YUM, BRATWURST) and Alyssa and I thought it a good idea to sip on a goodnight beer before our class the next morning. Our idea was to go to the Gutz and simply buy one, drink it, and be done with it. This never works. We knew this…but we ignored it. Actually, I ignored it. Alyssa was smart and left at a reasonable hour. I, on the otherhand, got sucked into the Gutz until entirely too late because of our dear friends Martini and Meatball.

Most of it was a fun, enjoyable evening. Laughter and smiles were had by all…but then my laughter, as it so often does, turned into snorts and that’s when “die Scheiße” hit the fan. It all seemed to happen in slow motion…Martini crinkled his nose at me, cocked his head, and busted out into one of those humiliatingly loud “earth-quake-of-the-body” laughs from behind the bar. I’m pretty sure he almost dropped the mug he was cleaning.  Meatball, who was sitting next to me, did the exact same thing except his face plunged into his crossed arms that rested on the bar and he looked like he was having a seizure as he struggled for air.

Seriously. Now, you’d think that this reaction was just a teeny bit unwarranted…all I did was inhale air differently while I laughed. Everyone snorts nowadays. At least in America. Apparently people don’t snort in Germany. (And women don’t burp here either, which Meatball reminds me of everytime I let one loose. “German women don’t burp,” he says. “I’m not a German woman,” I respond. It happens often.)

To make a long story short, Martini and Meatball would not let up. From then on it was all about my snorts–imitation after imitation after imitation. Ha. Ha. Ha. So obviously the only option for me was to hit Meatball (I couldn’t reach Martini, but I would’ve if he weren’t behind the bar). And thus started what I like to call World War III.

I hit Meatball. Meatball hit me. I hit Meatball. Meatball hit me. Etc. Etc. Etc. (Now I know a few of you will probably be angry at Meatball for hitting a girl, but it was all in good fun. It didn’t actually hurt. That bad. And…we’re all for equal rights here, I’m sure.) After that everything was pretty much a blur but from what I hear, I ended up “kicking” Meatball somewhere I shouldn’t have. I don’t remember doing this but I do remember him being a big BABY about it. Amidst his whines, I was inadvertently shoved into the corner of a doorway, later bruising my heel. I honestly didn’t even know that was possible…but it is. Just like swallowing, you never really realize how often you use your heel when you walk…like, all the time.

Martini watched this the entire time without intervening and without ceasing his laughter. Thanks a lot. I ended up pouting about my heel, Meatball was whining about his…you know, and Martini sat comfortably behind the bunker that was the bar. All in all, I’d say it was a pretty memorable night. The day after, I walked with an adorable limp and Meatball reported that his hangover really didn’t work well with his professor. Everybody wins.

I’m sure you’re intrigued about more of the goings-on at the Gutz, so I’ll  gossip as frequently as I possibly can. Be sure to stay tuned and you’ll be sure to stay entertained. Until then, my friends.

**Just as a note, when I say “Meatball,” I use the term affectionately. It has nothing to do with weight, body fat, or any other negative connotation. Just so we are all clear. In future entries, I might even consider a name change…we shall see.

I am getting frustrated! The more I try to speak this language, the worse I become. Also the more I try to speak this language, the worse I get at English AND the stronger my tonsillitis becomes. Perhaps German is bad for my health…

But I will keep trying.

On the tonsillitis note, I’ve got it again. I went to the doctor yesterday to get more medicine because I don’t think I was given enough for my last bout, so hopefully this time I can destroy all the pesky little bacteria for good on a ten-day stint of some new antibiotic. It really sucks because I had to miss our excursion to Koenigstein yesterday in order to go to the doctor…so yet again, I’ve missed out and that makes me sad. Hopefully I’ll get the opportunity to go again when I’m healthy.

And combining the tonsillitis note and my frustration with the language note, it is SO hard to speak German with inflamed tonsils. I’m not joking or trying to get out of having to speak it, but seriously–German is such a gutteral language that produces sounds from, well, the gut, which then spout up through the back of your throat. But when the back of your throat has massive growths attached, those damn vibrations can be very painful. No good vibrations here. (Pun intended.)

On a more thoughtful note (I’ve got lots of notes today…..la la la la la), when we went to Berlin last weekend, Alyssa and I spoke about being foreigners attempting to learn a language. We concluded that native speakers of all languages are lazy. Why? Well, when you know a language, you tend take the easy way out in conversations because you don’t really have to try very hard to say what you mean because you already know how. As a foreigner, it takes much longer to digest sentences and sentence structure and verb forms etc, etc, so, obviously, foreigners must constantly be working to communicate. But while they are working so hard to communicate, they pick up so many subtleties of the new culture and language, which in turn are also working to aid communication strategies. I’m talkin’ facial expressions, hand gestures, breathing patterns, personal mannerisms…little things that a lot of people overlook whilst conversing in their native tongue. Perhaps this is common knowledge but to me, it’s somewhat thought-provoking. What if all native-speakers began to look a little closer at their language and tried to view it as foreign? I don’t mean it as a way to put oneself in the shoes of a foreigner, but just to see how many more cues and clues are available in his/her own environment. Just as a way to become more in tune with the surroundings. Just to be a little more observant.

I’m not saying that being lazy is bad. I’m not saying that being super-observant of your surroundings is good. I’m just attempting to track the process of learning a completely new language and so far, my surroundings have provided me much help as I’ve tried to dissect conversations I’ve overheard and glean meaning from them.

And on that note, I’m off to do my homework. Monday’s class requires that I give a presentation nur auf Deutsch about a painting of our choice from a museum we visited last week…oh Jesus. This should be an embarrassingly enlightening experience. I’ll let you know how it goes…

Bis bald!

I think my professors are trying to help me out with this blog by assigning us to write in a daily journal about our experiences. (I’ll spare you my [bad] German by excluding the weekly German summaries of the daily entries…) I hope I won’t bore you, but I’ll start with today’s activities and observations.

Today we had class with the professor who did not assign us this task of journal-keeping. He has a ponytail and he likes to ignore me. Being that there are only 4 students in the class (it’s our intensive German language class to get us comfortable before real classes start in October, so it’s only kids from the program) you’d think it would be fairly simple to spread the attention out. From what I can see, it is not. It doesn’t bother me though because it means less direct embarrassment when I have no idea what he’s talking about, which obviously happens frequently.

So anyways–class was productive and enjoyable. We talked about the different subjunctive forms and did some fun examples that I’m sure 5 year olds would scoff at. We always get a 30 minute break in the middle of class that I absolutely adore–it gives me time to contribute to my personal poverty and unhealthyness by allowing me to go to the bakery next door and buy a chocolate croissant, or in German, it’s pronounced “God’s gift to man.”

After class the four of us went to the Mensa, or dining hall, and feasted on cheap pasta for 1.50. It’s quite a deal. You pick a plate, either large or small and then pile on as much pasta and sauce as you can for a fixed price of either 1.50 for the small plate or 2.70 for the larger one. Talk about a steal. I also enjoy going to this Mensa because it is a great spot to stare at all the good-lookin German guys who value eating like I do. TU Dresden is a great university because it is like…70% male. I’m a fan.

After lunch, I came home and lounged for a bit before going to Aldi, the nearby grocery store that I love so much for the simple fact that it is so unbelievably cheap. Today I bought some apple juice, iced peach tea, gummi bears, yogurt, and something else I can’t remember for only 3.50. 3.50!!!!!!!!!! Are you kidding me!? That’s outrageous!!! And awesome. And I approve in every way. I will support Aldi until the day I die. (Ignore the fact that the only kinds of cereal they have are called Honey Balls, White Flakes, and Chocolate Pieces…in this case, I will sacrifice selection gladly.)

On the way to Aldi, however, I noted a distinct similarity about Germany in relation to America–the construction workers have no inhibitions when it comes to young ladies walking by. They, too, find it necessary to display outward signs of masculinity, such as throwing huge wooden planks off of scaffolding and then grunting loudly to make sure you witnessed it. Think King Kong. The only big difference between American and German construction workers is that the German ones are confined in fences, making you feel safe as you walk by, like you’re simpy making a trip to the zoo and you’re watching the lions frolick. It’s fun to watch from behind the fence, but as soon as it’s removed you become a viable target. No thank you.

That’s been my day so far. After Aldi I came home and napped. I meant to start on my homework, but we all know that never goes as planned. As my friend Chris said on the first or second day of this trip, “You gotta sleep when you can, man.” I can dig that.

Hopefully this hasn’t been to dreadfully boring. Tomorrow should have some interesting stuff in it, as I think we’re going to this club called Flower Power tonight. We went there last Monday and it was incredible–two floors of straight up dancing. The first floor played only classic rock and oldies (my jamz) and the upstairs played only German techno (quite the experience) and outside there was a bier garten. Everyone is bound to have a good time here, so with any luck, I’ll have some juicy things to write about tomorrow.

Bis bald!

OH YEAH! Check out some of my pictures that I’ve uploaded on Facebook just last night, if you haven’t done so already. They’re pretty cool and entertaining too, I’m sure.

I wouldn’t know because I’ve never had it in America. Only in Germany. Right now. As we (or I) speak (or write).

It all started out innocently enough as a scratchy throat–tonsillitis can fool you like that. “It’s just the changing weather,” you think, “or the combination of beer and partying from last night–I’ll be fine soon.” Oh boy are you wrong. The next thing you know, it’s two days later and you can’t even swallow water because it feels like you’re pushing daggers down your throat. Yes–it’s really that bad and no–I’m not exaggerating.

I knew something was wrong when my throat felt like it was expanding and strange lumps began appearing. I skyped my dad and asked for his advice, which is always the same: fluids. Drink lots of fluids. So before bed, I drank 1 liter of water. Obviously this meant a midnight trip to the bathroom, which inevitably resulted in a bruised knee from running into my dresser and then a squashed finger from getting it caught in the door. Awesome, things are clearly looking up.

I woke up Wednesday morning with tonsils the size of ping pong balls, I kid you not. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever experienced in my life–just imagine: you open your mouth, look inside, and immediately you are confronted by a huge globular growth in the back of your throat that may as well be your long-lost twin. Scariest. Shit. Ever.

Next scariest thing: going to a German doctor. Thankfully, my wonderful RA went with me to translate because, unfortunately, I am not yet fluent in German. After waiting for what seemed to be forever (you never realize how slow time can go when you can’t swallow…) I heard the doctor bark my last name and Natalie and I shuffled into his office. After getting the basics of my general health down, he told me to open my mouth so he could check my tonsils. Natalie had told me beforehand that German doctors tend to under diagnose so as to not over-prescribe medicine to patients, so I was expecting a “meeh, not too bad” after my inspection. Instead, what I got was a, “Oh mein Gott. Das ist huge. You need a specialist.”

…

So we went to a specialist. She looked at my throat, immediately diagnosed it as tonsillitus, gave me my prescriptions, and sent me on my way. The German doctors here are quite efficient, there’s no denying that.

Currently, I’m feeling alright. I’m alive and for that I am thankful. I’d just like to know who in charge thought it would be funny to assign Morgan tonsillitis while she’s in Germany? Because seriously, it’s not funny. There’s not a whole lot to eat when you can’t swallow things, so I’ve been sucking on gummy bears and slurping some strange German version of applesauce for two days. Just a little while ago, actually, I was able to eat my first bit of real food: a döner (the German equivalent of a quesadilla or burrito, just with lamb and vegetables and a yummy yogurt sauce). I can’t tell you how delicious real food is, but I have a new found appreciation for it.

I’m not completely healed by any means, my throat still looks like a weird petri dish, but at least I can swallow. Tomorrow we go to Berlin for the weekend and I can only pray that my throat will heal and I can soon be normal. Well, relatively normal.

Bis bald!