Clay class at the Fabrik

Knowing pretty much nothing about the layout of Freiburg before we committed to renting our apartment sight-unseen, we somehow managed to end up living within walking distance to most of the things that are important to us. Thus this evening I was able to trot over to the cooperative collective, Die Fabrik fuer Handwerk, Kultur, und Oekologie (The Factory for Handicraft, Culture, and Ecology), for the first of a five-week long session of pottery classes. As far as I can tell, the Fabrik is the only place in town to offer wheel-throwing classes, and they offer a grand total of...one. I'm taking "Drehen ohne durchzudrehen" ("Turning without blowing a gasket," i.e. beginning and continuing wheel) in the hopes of acquiring some pottery vocabulary and keeping my hands in contact with mud.

Located in the back of the Fabrik on the third floor, the cheerful Keramik Werkstatt (pottery studio) has all of the basic wheel-throwing necessities, such as mostly functioning wheels, relatively uncontaminated recycled clay, and a sink. For better or for worse, it also obeys the German pack-maximum-stuff-into-minimum-space principle.* All you potters at home: know that you've got it good!

*I've written a lot about this principle already, but have failed to point out that of course it applies only to us plebes. Royalty traditionally has had no shortage of square footage or high ceilings (not that the Habsburgs or Bavarian nobility would have had kick wheels in their Schloesser).

Balance

Now that Sommerferien is over, we are at last finding a balance in our lives between school, work, practice, and play.

This morning I practiced at the Lutheran church. The Braunschweig is kind of like a pre-adolescent golden retriever: its bark is relatively small and its feet a little oversized, but it's enthusiastic and eager to please, so you forgive it when its wagging tail whaps you. At precisely 11:30, the next organist came up to the loft, and I went my merry way back home, the falling leaves and light autumn breezes all the more lovely for the two and a half uninterrupted, productive practice hours. Right now I'm sitting outside, listening to the shouts of children enjoying Pause (recess) at the elementary school and to the church bells up the road chiming 12:00.

Later, I will go out with Elias for our regular go-grocery-shopping-almost-every-day-because-your-fridge-is-small-plus-you're-a-Hausfrau-therefore-you-have-time-to-shop-every-day experience. Grocery shopping in Germany is BYOEFB (bring your own ecologically friendly bags). Because you don't buy very much stuff at any one time (how many times must I remind you, your fridge is small), the check-out counter is only 4 feet long, giving you about two feet to put your items down and two feet for the checker to ring them up and push them forward and for you quickly to bag them before the next customer needs the space. As you bag your items, you think about how the small check-out space balances not only with the small fridge at home but also with the population-density-demands-packing-maximal-necessities-into-minimal-spaces rule. Because roads are narrow and cars are cramped, you also appreciate that there are four grocery stores, a fruit store, and two bakeries packed within easy walking distance.

Occasionally you will meet an eccentric German who likes to buy in bulk, like Stefan's mom's hairdresser. He throws up his hands at the diminutive packages of Philidelphia (as Bavarians call American cream cheese) sold at Tengelmann, and instead buys the two-kilo tub at the German Costco equivalent. He stores it in the large refrigerator in his shed, because the fridge won't fit into his kitchen.

Ode to the dishwasher

Germany has a population density of about 230 people per square kilometer, compared to about 30 people/km² in the United States. Unoccupied space is precious. As a result, Germans are the world's masters at packing a maximum of stuff into a minimum of space.

Consider the kitchen, which has every modern appliance a person might need. I have already mentioned the three foot high refrigerator, an invention that encourages living for the moment rather than planning for the future. There's also the diminutive oven, into which grateful turkeys all over Europe will never fit, and the pull-out hood over the stove. But the appliance I like the most in our kitchen is the dishwasher. It is just the right size to clean a day's worth of dishes.

In particular, I am verliebt (enamored) with the top rack. Rather than unceremoniously dumping your silverware into a basket--a basket that occupies prime real estate that could otherwise be used for at least two bowls and maybe also a plate--you thoughtfully place each piece of silverware on the top rack. The utensils have to be placed sideways: lay them flat and they collect water. Loading the rack gives you an opportunity to greet and appreciate each delicate dessert fork, each silver dessert spoon. For the obsessive compulsive, there is a certain soothing quality to placing all the butter-covered knives neatly between the tray's plastic prongs, and to aligning all the dinner forks and soup spoons--never touching!--in the same direction. The sharp and serrated cutlery rest safely perpendicular to the other utensils--you will never cut yourself reaching blindly into an overfilled basket--and despite the rack's short stature, it always welcomes the odd ladle or lonely spatula. And then comes that special moment, after the dishwasher is done running, when you pull out the rack and all the silverware glistens quietly below your gaze, and you are at peace with the world.