Hallo

When I first visited Bavaria in 1991, I learned how to greet folks in the Bavarian style. One could say Grüß dich/Griaß di to individuals, or Grüß euch/Griaß eich to groups, or Grüß Gott to anyone. All of these are short versions of Es Grüße dich/euch Gott, meaning "May God greet you-singular/plural." If one wanted to demonstrate one wasn't from these here parts, one could say Guten Tag (good day), or simply Tag (hiya).

For the non-native speaker wanting to blend in, the advantage of saying Grüß Gott rather than Grüß dich/euch is that one doesn't have to feel awkward using the informal dich/euch with complete strangers, even though the informal words are implied. The disadvantage is that Grüß Gott sounds explicitly religious, far more so than it's English partner, "goodbye" ("God be with you").

In Bayern, what one was to never ever say was Hallo.

Hallo was reserved strictly for telephone interactions, as in Hallo, hier spricht die Liz ("Hello, here speaks the Liz"). (The German use of definite articles with names, as in die Liz, der Jens, and whether such use is regional, grammatically necessary, or utterly ridiculous, is a topic for another post.)

Thus it has come as a bit of a shock, on my walks and jogs in Steinebach this week, that when I say Grüß Gott to folks, they say Hallo in response. This has happened multiple times.

I tested the inverse, thinking that perhaps if I said Hallo, Bavarians would remind me of my foreigner status by replying Grüß Gott. So far, the response to every Hallo has been Hallo.

I asked Stefan about it.

"It's possible that you're only meeting people from out of town," he said. "Now is Ferienzeit ["vacation time"] in the north, and Steinebach is swarming with tourists. But it is also possible," he added solemnly, "that you are witnessing the degradation of the Bavarian character."

I mentioned my observations to Stefan's Tante Puppi. She is 93 and sharp as a tack.

"Oh!" she said with a disgruntled frown: "die Hallo Krankheit." The Hello Sickness. She declared it "furchtbar." Terrible. The linguistic plague has its hold on southern Germany.

Every time I visit Germany, I learn a new word that comes up so frequently in conversation that I wonder how I ever got by without knowing it previously. This visit marks the first time I've noticed familiar words fading away. Farewell, Grüß Gott. Hello, Hallo.

Odd and ends

So many things still to write about--dinner with Stefan's brother's family yesterday in Odelzhausen and our conversation about whether Jewish soldiers would have been included on WWI memorials with crosses (yes, if the crosses were "iron crosses," but probably not if the crosses were church-affiliated, and so much more to say about different kinds of anti-Semitism and how it played out regionally in the part of the world now known as Germany); how to recognize small Bavarian churches from afar (see photos below--there are basically two predominant types of Baroque towers, the onion dome and the simple triangle); lunch with Inge (Helen's best friend for the past 70 years); the annual dueling Haensel und Gretels in Muenchen (today we reconfirmed that the Gaertnerplatz performance is not the one to attend if you want to be able to hear the singers over an adequate pit orchestra, but we aren't sure we can handle going to the Staatsoper performance next year to confirm that it's the one to see); and how sad it is that the performance of "Aloha He, Stern der Suedsee" by Die Flippers has been removed from youtube.com because of copyright restrictions.

But (to paraphrase Chaucer) instead of writing about all those things, we're feverishly packing and repacking, already pining for Germany before we get on a plane tomorrow to head back to the U.S. We thought we had all our suitcase and carry-on space cleverly mapped out, and then a Nigerian guy tried to blow up an airplane in Detroit the other day and our airline changed its baggage rules. Oh well. Back to work.

There are, of course, lots of things to look forward to back home: our friends, our cats, our house, our neighborhood; organs to play, pots to wheel-throw, a choir to conduct, writing workshops to give; a gas oven and stove top, American baking powder, and local streets that are wide enough for two cars to drive on in opposite directions at the same time. We're dusting of our "might coulds" and "oughta shoulds" and girding ourselves for culture shock.

I don't know that I'm ready to give up my Wadlstrumpf home quite yet, but our final week of Vodafone service expires at ~22:30 tonight, and that deadline seems an appropriate way to mark the end of a lovely six months of talking to myself and to you dozen or so loyal readers out there in ether-space.

But saying farewell to Wadlstrumpf doesn't mean I'll be giving up my new blogging habit. Tune in Tuesday at mightoughtashould.blogspot.com for the next exciting installment.

Also, pfirdi, pfirdi, also, also, servus, pfirdi!

How to tell you're in Bavaria

Imagine you are abducted by aliens from outer space. They bring you aboard their ship, decide you aren't a particularly interesting specimen, and throw you back onto the planet they fished you off of. But they don't pay a whole lot of attention to where they toss you, because all of the planet looks pretty much the same to them. What top three key pieces of evidence convince you that you've landed in Bavaria?

1. Biergarten signs. Every village you wander through in your dazed state has a Biergarten, and as you approach, you see signs advertising it. The signs include sky-blue and white--diamonds perhaps, or stripes. In the text, you notice the diminutive suffix -rl and consequent umlaut: you are approaching a Bräustüberl (Bairisch), not a Bräustube (Hochdeutsch). You know you are not in Baden-Wuerttemberg, because the signs there would be for Straussenwirtschaften, where people would drink wine.

2. Maibäume. 30-40 meter high blue-and-white maypoles reach up to the sky, decorated with symbols representing village life and vocations. If the aliens abduct you shortly before the first of May, you might also observe thieves trying to steal maypoles from neighboring towns.

3. Kasspatzen mit gerösteten Zwiebeln und Blattsalat. As a vegetarian, you notice a bizarre and startling constancy between menus across the state. Pretty much every Bavarian restaurant with a "warm kitchen" is guaranteed to offer these pervasive small boiled dumplings, sauteed with cheese and served with fried onions and a side salad.

Correction: Wadlstrümpfe

This just in: I sent Helen a postcard of Kandinsky wearing Wadlstrümpfe, and she sent back a note saying Wadlstrümpfe are regular knee socks, and that the footless calf-warmers are called Loferl. Naturally, this has thrown the editors of this blog into a whirlwind of surfing activity.

It appears that the term Wadlstrümpfe most often refers to Tracht knee socks (as opposed to everyday knee socks*, which would be Kniestrümpfe or Wadenstrümpfe), occasionally to Loferl alone, and occasionally to the combination of Loferl plus matching footie or short sock. An online Bavarian dictionary that is thorough enough to spell "Bairisch" four different ways (Bairisch, Bayerisch, Bayrisch, Boarisch) defines Lofal/Loferl/Loifal/Loiferl as Wadlstrümpfe zur Lederhose. An essential part of the Chiemgauer (vs. Huosigauer) Tracht, Loferl are thus a specific subset of a more general category of calf stockings, and the socks in the photograph I posted in July would correctly be referred to as Wadlstrümpfe.

The editors apologize for any confusion this error may have caused.

*Unless, of course, one wears Tracht every day.

A Bfund Kadoffen

Elias and I had a date in the Altstadt yesterday afternoon: we caught the new Pettersson und Findus movie at the Harmonie Kino and then had dinner at our favorite cheap restaurant, Euphrat.

On the way home, we stopped by the Thalia bookstore, where I coveted but did not buy the Alemannisches Wörterbuch für Baden. I'm starting to think of suitcase space and schlepping things back to the U.S., and it's a big book. I suppose it would have to be, considering that there are fifty different ways just to say "potato." So instead, I went for a small pocket paperback entitled Bairisch: das echte Hochdeutsch (Bavarian: the real High-German), by Richard H. Kölbl.

The book offers a fine sample dialog on buying potatoes at the market, which I quote in its entirety (English translations added) because of what it tells us about both potatoes and market transactions in Germany:

Biddsche, wås deafsn sei?
Bitteschön, was darfs denn sein?
[Please, what would you like?]

I hädd gean ā Bfund Kadoffen.
Ich hätte gerne ein Pfund Kartoffeln.
[I'd like a pound of potatoes.]

Woiche woinSn då? De fesdn odā bißl woachāre?
Welche wollen Sie da? Festkochende oder weichere?
[Which kind would you like? Those that hold together when cooked or those that are soft (waxy or starchy)?]

De fesdn hädd i gean ghabd.
Die festen, bitte.
[I'd like the waxy ones.]

Deafs ā wengāl mearā sei?
Darfs ein bisschen mehr sein?
[Is it OK if there's a little more (than a pound)?]

āja freile.
Natürlich.
[Yes, sure.]

HåmS sunsd no ān Wunsch?
Darf es noch etwas sein?
[Do you desire anything else?]

Nā, dangsche, des wārs.
Nein, danke, das wärs.
[No, thanks, that's all.]

Dann machāds drei Eiro grådaus.
Genau drei Euro, bitte.
[That comes to three Euros even.]
(pp. 98-99)

What can we learn from this conversation?

First, observe the unit of measurement, ā Bfund. In the U.S., we are taught that there are 2.2 pounds per kilogram.* In Germany, however, ein Pfund is half a kilogram, an even 500 grams rather than 454 grams. To an American like me, that's kind of like saying π is 3.2 (which, regrettably, is an American sort of thing to say), but if you try to discuss this with, for example, your Bavarian husband, he gets all defensive. For marital harmony, we agree ā Bfund is not a pound the world around.

It's a moot point, anyway, as demonstrated by the question, Deafs ā wengāl mearā sei? It's not uncommon that when you ask for a certain amount of something, say 100 g of olives, the stall proprietor puts a 200 g scoop into a bag for you and then asks if the extra amount is OK. The good thing about this is that the proprietor has much more experience weighing olives than you do, so he knows that when you said 100 g, you really meant 200 g.

Next, observe that the exchange includes a pivotal question: De fesdn odā bißl woachāre? In Germany, every potato has a role to play, a function to fulfill. It is vitally important to know what kind of potato to use for what situation. Perish the thought that you would use woachāre Kadoffen for a casserole, or fesdn for mashed potatoes. Be prepared for blank stares when you say you intend to bake them. Germans probably bake potatoes as often as they bake pie, which is to say, close to never. The proprietor may have to consult with her colleague, but in the end you will get the best potato for the job.

Finally, notice the price: drei Eiro grådaus. While the requested vs. proffered amount of olives might differ by a factor of two, it's easy to be more precise when weighing potatoes. At most you now have maybe a Pfund and a quarter. Dialect aside, you know you're in Bayern, and not in the bread-basket of Germany that is Baden-Württemberg, when a little more than a Pfund of potatoes costs a whopping three Euros. Note also that it costs exactly three Euros, despite the bit of extra weight. Costs often get rounded down for ease of transaction--one of the pleasant bonuses of shopping at farmers' markets.

*On Earth, anyway, where, conveniently, both Germany and the U.S. are located. A pound is a unit of weight. A kilogram is a unit of mass--as is, apparently, ā Bfund.

Bairisch and Alemannisch

In July, as we drove across Bavaria en route to Baden-Wuerttemberg, Stefan kept saying things like, "over this next hill, the dialect changes," and "in that town over there, they speak a different version of Bairisch." I'm assuming the very specific, very local differences in the language reflect a historical tendency for people to stay put: that is, it's not uncommon for Germans to remain in the vicinity where they grew up.

Local language differences are also abundant in Alemannisch, a dialect spoken in Baden-Wuerttemberg, among other places. The Badische Zeitung has had a bunch of articles on Alemannisch lately, coinciding with the recent publication of Rudolf Post's Alemannisches Woerterbuch fuer Baden (The Alemannisch Dictionary for Baden). As one article pointed out, the ever-popular root vegetable known in high German as a Kartoffel (potato) might in Alemannisch be called a Herdepfel, Erdaepfel, Herdaepfl, Herdoepfel, Grumbeer, or Grumbiir, depending on where you are. While the etymological connection between -offel (Kartoffel) and -epfel (Erdapfel) is nifty, even niftier is the conceptual connection between an Earth-apple (like the French potato, "pomme de terre") and a Ground-pear (Grumbiir).

I certainly hear a difference between Bairisch and Alemannisch. Mainly what I hear is that Bairisch involves a lot of long, drawn out vowels and diphthongs--as in "Booooaaaarisch," which is how Bavarians around Steinebach pronounce "Bairisch"--while Alemannisch is wispier and more sprightly with its consonants.

I can do decent conversational approximations of Bairisch. I know how to boss people around and to curse, as in "Gehma! Packmas! Horst mi! So a Kaas!" ("Let's go! Let's get packing! Listen to me! What a cheese!"). I can also end a telephone conversation with my mother-in-law: "Also. Also, pfirdi! Pfirdi! Also, pfirdi!" ("OK. OK, so long! So long! OK, so long!"). ("Pfirdi" is supposedly spelled "Pfuad di," but I just don't hear it that way.) For the foreigner who has difficulty remembering the gender of nouns, Bairisch conveniently smushes almost all of its articles into "a/an" or "d'/'s," regardless of gender, as in "a Bisserl" ("a little"), "an Oachkatzlschwoaf in veteriol Oi eidaucht" ("a squirrel's tail dipped in vitriol"), and "d'Frau/da Mann/'s Kind" ("the woman/the man/the child"). Bairisch phrases that get said a lot in our house include "Was is' des Ding da?" ("what's that thang there?") and "scho' schee" ("schon schoen," meaning the equivalent of "real nice" in Southern drawl).

The nuances of Alemannisch are still beyond my grasp, but the diminutives -le/-li are both accessible and charming. Examples are plentiful on trail signs in the woods, identifying places like "Fuchskoepfleweg" ("Wee Fox-Head Way") and "Jaegerhaeusle" ("Hunting House-let"). There's also a well-known hiking route called the "Wii Wegli" ("Wine Way-let") that traverses the wine country of the Markgraeflerland region.

To hear how much Alemannisch pronunciation varies over how little geographical territory, check out this nifty audio website: http://www.alemannisch.de/unser_sprooch/tonprobe/index.html.

Accursed cheese and Landeck

Today, while we were stuck in a traffic jam in the rain, Stefan inadvertently taught me another way to curse auf Bairisch: "So a Kaas." Literally, this translates as "what a cheese" ("so ein Kaese"*), but the tone of voice suggests cheese here is yet another metaphor for Mist.

We were on our way to Landeck, which was supposed to be a quick trip up the road just past Emmendingen. The good news, I suppose, is that I'm not the only driver in my family who gets lost on occasion. Or maybe that's bad news. In any case, it took most of the afternoon to travel, as the crow flies, 15 km and back, yielding what Stefan's mother Helen described as "eine wunderschoene Schwarzwaldreise." "Das Wetter wurde immer besser" ("the weather got better and better") she insists, describing the light drizzle that had turned into a heavy downpour by the time we got home.

Our destination was the Ruinen Landeck, which offered a good excuse for a rainy-day excursion with Helen. Like so many other area Burgs, Landeck was erected in the 13th century by the local nobility (in this case, the knight Dietrich von Geroldsecker) and trashed in 1525 by angry peasants during the Bauernkrieg. The remaining ivy-covered ruins include part of a church and part of the main residence, and the stonework and easily accessible location suggest the Burg was of the posh and expansive--rather than cold and isolated--variety.

*"Kaese," by the way, is another one of those special words that ends with an -e but is masculine rather than feminine, like "Name."

German engineering

Because Stefan is in our bedroom cursing about "idiotisch" German over-engineering ("wie kann man nur so 'an Scheiss konstruieren!"), I should probably say a few words about the quality of German products.

Pretty reliably over the years, whenever we'd lug a new box home from Home Depot containing, say, a power saw or a lamp, we'd lay out all the pieces on the floor and follow the assembly instructions only to find that a part was too big or too small or missing a hole, or that the nuts didn't fit the bolts, or that the wiring was frayed, or whatever. And pretty reliably, Stefan would furrow his brow and mutter angrily about the design flaws and the shoddy construction. "Typical American quality," he'd say. I'd reply defensively, "hey, you don't know that this was made in the U.S." And inevitably, the box would say "Made in the U.S.A."

In contrast, the phrase "Made in Germany" signifies precise engineering. Everything fits to a T. Pieces are precision cut, materials are long-lasting, and designs are aesthetically pleasing. Yet such industrious thoroughness has its faults.

Consider, for example, the sleek but humble toilet. If you're lucky, the reason your toilet doesn't work is that the only accessible Dichtung (how I love that word) is leaking. You buy a new gasket for a few Euros, replace the old one, and continue with your life. If you're unlucky, you're only option is to replace the entire tank, for the complex labyrinthine inner workings of German toilets are neither standardized nor do-it-yourself reparable. "Himmel, Arsch, und Zwirn."

Then there's the stainless steel toaster, glossy and proud, able to toast two thick slices of Vollkornbrot and gently warm a crusty Semmel all at the same time. It will never break. Nor will you ever be able to clean out that accumulating pile of crud in the bottom, unless you have a precision screwdriver handy, as the crumb tray is tightly attached to the appliance with four elegant, teeny tiny screws.

The current object of Stefan's disdain is a bed frame. The frame was designed to hold together with a mere twelve wooden pins and a couple of screws. So confident were its creators about its durable construction that they didn't leave any way to access the screw heads after years of changing humidity loosened all the joints. "So was bloedes."

The practical benefit that I reap from German design, of course, is learning how to curse auf Bairisch.

Tuniberg

In our effort to give him much needed quality time with kids his age, Elias started a five-day "Bernd Voss Fussball Camp" today in Opfingen. By this evening, he was well exercised, tired, and quite happy.

Opfingen is one of a handful of small communities incorporated into Freiburg yet situated several kilometers to the west along the Tuniberg, a sizable hill terraced with vineyard after flourishing vineyard. While Elias was learning new soccer moves, I jogged from Opfingen north around the Tuniberg to Gottenheim, then walked back over the hill, enjoying in the views of grapes and the mountains beyond. In July, when we stayed in Waltershofen (one town north of Opfingen, also part of the Freiburg municipality), all of the grapes on the Tuniberg were green. They have since ripened into purple, red, and yellow-green clusters, and the season of new-wine fests is upon us.

The local wines are quite delectable. With Deutsch-als-Fremdsprache enthusiasm, I've been describing them to people here as tasting like the local dialect sounds: "leicht und knusprig" (light and crisp). This generally elicits skeptical looks, perhaps because most folks here haven't spent a lot of time listening to the extended diphthongs of Bo'arisch (Bairisch), where a simple three-letter word might be drawn out into a four- or five-letter one without a second thought (e.g. turning "gut" into "gu'at[h]"). Bavarian sounds more like a full-bodied red might taste, in contrast to the airy Spaetburgunder flavor of the Badisch dialect. My word choice is possibly also confusing because "knusprig" means "crispy" as well as "crisp," which might evoke images of words and wines infused with rice crispies. Nonetheless, I stand by my choice of adjectives.

As my friend Melissa points out, molted cicada shells are also light and crispy. For those who find that analogy helpful, I would suggest that full-bodied reds are the whole cicada: more than you'd necessarily want to encounter on a warm summer evening. With Badisch Spaetburgunders, you get to appreciate all the essential features of the cicada, without the undesirable heaviness of the squishy parts.

But back to the Tuniberg. In the Google Earth image below, you can see the entire hill (my trot covered only the north end). The Rhine river curves into the left of the image, about 8.5 km west of Opfingen as the cicada flies.