Maybe I have some gunk on my screen...

...but did I read correctly? You are staying in Germany? Bloody GERMANY? What about the holiday dessert party?? What about the wine parties? What about all of us who already miss you??

Doug, my mother got the news just as you did. Um, she was a bit more harsh.

Considering the rest of your message, I know you understood me. I would like to say that I have given all of this the extreme consideration that is due, but I haven't. Instead, I am willing to trust that the decision overall is a good one and that the details will work themselves out. That's how I got to DC, and I hope that it works for Berlin.

Still, I am not too foolish. Bills have to be paid, so if a summer's study of German doesn't create the opportunity for me to find meaningful employment, I will take the safe road, return to DC, work and, lol, raise money to return. At least, I hope that's what I do. You are part of this great circle of people that has supported me (and kicked me in the ass) when I needed it. Those folks are hard to come by, and returning to DC might so remind me of that that I might never leave again.

In the meantime, why not Berlin? It's beautiful and so much of it is unknown to me that the daily act of just walking out my door is immense discovery. I have many years of playing it safe behind me and no doubt plenty more to ease me into my grave. In between, yes, some risk is welcome!

To which, a poem that was given to me by Karin, in a period of despair over a man much loved. An ocean and many moons away.

Mary Oliver - The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?

It sure ain't ABBA

Korey says that he wants to read about more German culture in this blog. No more tasty restaurants and cute boys. (Or is that cute restaurants and tasty boys?)

How about satanic rockers?

---

The 51st annual Eurovision contest is on, and Martin and I are kicked back, drinking beers and eating nachos. What is Eurovision? Think "American Idol" writ large but without Simon.

I had almost forgotten about the event, but catch notice of it in Der Tagespiegel. And Steve writes from the U.K. with a reminder

Get that telly switched on. A live event like no other. It'll make you feel all warm and fuzzy about being a European.

Martin and I are hootin' and hollerin' like simpletons. (But European simpletons, thank you very much.) Eurovision is flash and flair, high-heel strutting for the girls and cheesy please-love me crooning by the boys. There are some notable exceptions: Bosnia-Herzegovina has a great chance with Hari Mata Hari's performance of "Lejla" and, new-resident pride aside, Deutschland's entry of Texas Lightning with "No No Never" is very good. (Er, yeah, Germany's top contender is a country western band singing with a cactus tucked here and there on the stage…) Even Lithuania's UT Limited with "We Are the Winners" is a humorous, albeit pointless, relief. Most of the rest I scratch in my notebook as the competition's "low points."

Among my list of low points is Lordi, Finland's, er, noteworthy entry. Lordi is a metal band dressed head to toe in "ghoul." Where most of the contestants are dressed in flowing whites, Lordi is metal studs and leather black. They are the un-dead / in-your-face / up-yours reply to Eurovision's sequins and slick hair. Still, I tell Martin that my vote for Best Costumes doesn't raise their offering, "Hard Rock Hallelujah," above "mediocre."

Turkey closes out the final performance, and Martin and I use the ten-minute intermission to dash to the Imbiss next door for something more substantive than chips and beer. The phone lines are open and each nation is quickly tallying votes. We're back just in time for the counts, with famous actors and comedians calling in votes from each nation's capital.

Martin points out that even though you can't vote for your own country, the votes fall along predictable lines. (z.B. Germany's Turkish community casts votes for Turkey.) But Martin and I are screaming as the votes come in. No way!

Who wins Eurovision?

Ladies and gentleman, Lordi with Hard Rock Hallelujah.



I feel so warm and fuzzy.

Change is…

Scary. Beautiful. Exciting. Terrifying. Today is that day. Change. And as vast as our night sky.

Another party. Three classmates—Timory, Joel and Jacob—plus Irene, David and me. We drink leftover wine from the Werde Baumblütenfest. We play Scrabble, the card version, in every language we know. English. German. Italian. A Hindi-not-Hindi word makes it to the table, although not without some argument. David and I are gracious because, with two 50 point words, we can afford to be. Maja? Sure, we will accept that.

Jacob, David and I up on the balcony until 1 p.m. Venus is bright in the sky and both Jacob and David see two stars shoot past. How could I miss it? I am tucked under my blanket and mellow from the Birne Wein. Jacob is relaxed in the chair, with his feet propped up. David is slightly bopping to the music. They are both looking skyward, but I am looking at Jacob. He is so beautiful.

We argue over the meaning of life. What does this mean anyway? I am adamant that it is nothing more than what we make of the moment.

Like today. With it's scary-beautiful-exciting-terrifying-ness.

Mom, I am not coming home. Love, Tammi.

Balcony daze.

Niels is on his way over. We'll make hamburgers with our fingers in raw ground meat. We'll ditch purity for fries from the freezer section. But we'll eat on the balcony. That's all that matters really.

The temperatures have been steadily increasing since Sunday. That evening, I had folks over for games, my third or fourth Spieleabend. There were seven of us and Martin (oh, Martin!) made jambalaya. He and I had been inspired by watching Shultze Gets the Blues, a film about a polka player from a small German village who gets it in his head to play Zydeco in New Orleans.

Martin managed to slip some shredded coconut in the dish, but I did wrestle with him over the sugar. He conceded, and David and I sighed with relief. Despite the skepticism of we purist Americans (outnumbered in any case), the dish was incredible. Irene, the vegetarian, helped herself to two heaping platefuls. David stopped by the very next day to eat some more on his way to a rehearsal. And Jennifer's Tuesday email was filled with mmmmmmmmmms…

Go Martin.

Niels is running late so maybe… Just a forkful. And on the balcony in a t-shirt and shorts and blasting music and my head back to watch birds fly by.

Better go.