Veiling the world in English mystery

I have been back in Germany for some time now, and after well over five years abroad, there have been a couple of things that I had to re-adjust to. 

One of them has been that Germans really, really like the English language, especially when it's about marketing and advertising and product names. It's not always necessary for those words to really be English words - as long as they look it, the assumption is that customers will just accept the modern and innovative aura that English is supposed to lend to the product. And the hope also seems to be that English will create some kind of semantic distance between the word and its actual meaning (because it's not perceived as unusual to use a foreign name for something you're trying to sell) so there is much less of a need to really have any meaning behind your text.

In many cases, this happens when someone is too lazy to think of an interesting way of saying something dull - hey, an English word will make it sound like so much more than it really is! 

An example: You have a big German chain of supermarkets and decide you want to introduce some pricier products in addition to the cheaper food you already sell under your supermarket's brand name. And one of those luxury foods is French cheese. You sit down and think about how to make your customers understand at a glance that this product is worth the higher price. What do you do? Exactly: You take the French cheese, which has been produced in France and packaged for sale in your German supermarket, and inexplicably write "Finest French Cheese" on it. In English. Twice. You still write the actual product description in German, just to be sure people know what they will find inside. You probably fear that not enough customers will read French well enough, so English is a perfect compromise to take your product way beyond plain Käse.

And, continuing to explain my point in supermarket logic: What if you have a product that everybody wants, yet nobody likes to truly think about? Like toilet paper?

In Ireland, I was quite fascinated to see that apparently, Irish people like to imagine cleaning themselves with soft, furry animals. You even have a choice of polar bears, kittens and puppies - even though I must say I question the wisdom of rubbing my behind against a polar bear, even while he appears to be asleep. Kittens also have a lot of pointy ends. But fluffy things are definitely nicer to think about than digestive products.

Germans don't have to come up with anything fluffy - distraction from digestion is so much easier when you just have to write something English on the packaging! (This also illustrates quite well that Germans aren't too orderly when it comes to adopting English words: "Happy End" is generally accepted as the official German translation of "happy ending".)

I would really like to know how the meeting went when this product name was agreed on. "What do you usually associate with a visit to the toilet? A beautiful meal reaching its happy ending? Yes, sums up our product perfectly!"

My current playlist in my sketchbook

For the past weeks (yes, plural!), I have had three songs stuck in my head - or rather, just one line from each of them. I suppose it is nice that at least it's three different ones so I (and people near me) don't get annoyed. 

Oh. 

In other news, I now really want a horse mask, the reviews are excellent.

(#1 - #2 was brought on by a photo - #3, in case you were wondering).

Spring, already!

Frühling im Februar, originally uploaded by ankonym.

While the news show pictures of snowed-in America, my street greets me with the first leaves. (I've also seen snowdrops and a tree in full pink bloom.)

Even for Ireland, that seems unusually early - not that I'm complaining, I just hope that no frosty night will put an end to all this floral friendliness!

Buying is boring

Ah, a chance to show off our mantelpiece in the
background, in a blurry, subtle way

A niche I discovered last week: A class, maybe twice a week, that will help you make your own wedding dress. (Yes! I am still talking about wedding outfits! It is clearly the week of the Brautfit, a contraction of bride and outfit in German which amuses me endlessly. Be very glad that this is the English blog or there would be a lot more of such humor. German humor! Rarely spotted in the wild!)

I digress. I thought that it would be fun to make my own, except that this full-time job of mine would get in the way, and I would need some hand-holding from someone who has done it before if I were to assemble something that complicated out of possibly pricey material. 

There is no such class (not that I looked hard for it) and I think my dress is quite brilliant, but I still wanted to make something by hand. The project of choice is now a fluffy, light loop scarf (Mohair Bias Loop pattern) that is brilliantly simple to knit (good for long phone calls or mediocre Netflix movies) and will keep my shoulders warm even in exploration of medieval catacombs (which may actually happen on my wedding day). I'm halfway done already, so we'll see what other things I come up with. 

One obvious idea would be some kind of head adornment. (It may be a consequence of three years in Ireland that make me think a fascinator is a definite possibility.) When trying on dresses, I was a bit confused that a simple head thing that looked like something made with a cheap plastic comb, a cheap plastic flower, a bit of Russian veil netting and a glue gun should seriously cost €89. It definitely wasn't an advanced piece of millinery; in fact, it made me think that it would probably inspire a lot of comments à la "There's an unexplained fake flower stuck to your head! Why o why?" in pragmatic, sensible Germany. 

I think I can do better. After I finish the pink fluffiness, and find a source of ivory-colored fascinator supplies.

Not quite done yet...

So finding a wedding dress was quite easy. Now, shoes... that's a much more difficult matter! And since these aren't top secret (at least in my superstitious logic), it opens the field for pre-marital disagreement(*). So much to choose from, and only two feet!

I did buy a pair of shiny ballerinas for when my feet start rebelling against potential heels. (That part of sensibly-shoed Germanness has not yet been influenced by all the Irish monster stilettos around me.) But what to wear for the more official part of the day?

(*) I would like to declare, just in case anyone was now questioning our taste in footwear, that neither of us is serious about our suggestion. Even though I may be a wee bit more serious than he is. I mean, white patent leather Doc Marten's! Yay ...maybe. (Yaybe?)

Speedbride

On my last birthday, I took Mr. Boyfriend westwards - a birthday in rainy Dublin did not seem all that tempting when places like Killarney and Dingle are just a few hours away. Little did I know that the original plan (to soak in the jacuzzi of our luxury B&B room after a long day of walking through November rain and wind, maybe sip a bit of champaign at midnight to celebrate my aging process) had secretly been changed to include things like a diamond ring and a midnight proposal. But now, with a newly sparkly ring finger, I am getting used to the concept of bride-hood and all the organizational and decorative masterpieces that calls for.

As a good former student of history and other text-based subjects, of course my first reflex was to look for a book that would introduce me to the mysterious world of wedding planning. However, all I found  in German book shops was literature on wedding speeches, crafts, and games - except for one disturbingly pink, glittery, overpriced binder. I read through parts of the one short chapter for the groom (because it was in neutral colors that did not hurt my eyes as much) and learned a few fascinating things, namely:

• The act of placing a ring on a woman's fingers changes her personality forever: It turns her into A Bride, which, it appears, is a mythical creature that leads a parasitical life in all women since early childhood and will take over all aspects of life when brought in contact with a sparkly ring.
• Bride-hood is a full-time job, a year during which nothing matters to the woman except the question whether the invitations should be printed on cardstock in eggshell, ivory, off-white or cream. These, I learned, are the hardest and most important decisions that the bride has made in her life so far, and she should make sure to be prepared for the job.
• Weddings are only about the bride. In fact, it sounded a bit as if the man's attendance to the event was optional. This is because women dream about nothing but weddings since the day they were born, and have them planned out since before kindergarden.
• The man should stay out of all wedding-related decisions. If he must feel modern and involved, he should limit his actions to manly things (organizing a fancy car), and listen quietly to the bride agonizing over wedding matters, even when there's a football match on TV.

Astoundingly, this was not a reprint from the 1950s. And it's also not limited to Germany - I also did field studies by going to a bridal fair in Dublin, which was just like the book, just bigger and in 3D and with more people telling me that you can't marry without getting your teeth straightened and whitened so you can then rot them in style with a €600 cake. The event also confirmed the theory that marriage is not for men: The mediocre magician who tried to make people hire him was full of jokes about this. "These are the three rings of marriage: The engagement ring for the bride, the wedding rings for both, and the suffering of the husband." OH PLEASE MAKE IT STOP. I could neither identify with the bridezillas staring greedily at horrendous customized airbrushed wedding champaign flutes nor with the "most wonderful day in the life of the bride, worst day in the life of the man" narrative. (ALSO let me point out that if that were true, it's all downhill for the woman afterwards, so who wears the suffering then?) In kindergarden, my life goal was to be a cowboy, fireman, or tightrope walker, not a bride. And I find the groom quite central to a wedding, and he should not approach it like it's the end of his life.  

What I got out of the event, however, was a 2 pound magazine full of atrocious wedding couture. Apparently, modern brides should show lots of cleavage (in some cases, making me wonder how much double-sided tape would be needed to keep the dress in place), compete with the cake for fluffiness, have unexplained tulle protrusions in awkward places, and should be covered all over in crystals. 

I already pictured myself spending the next few weekends driving to remote places in Ireland to find something that did not look like an exploded, glittery cupcake. 

Then I noticed a small ad with the first dress in a few hundred that I could imagine wearing. I googled the designer and saw that they had a whole collection of dresses that weren't just not-horrible, but actually actively pretty. AND I found a Dublin shop that had an event for that designer last weekend, AND I was lucky enough to get on the waiting list for an appointment and then have someone cancel.

And so the story of finding a dress was really short:

Get up early on the first sunny Saturday of the year, take a bus across the city, try on two dresses, pick the first one. DONE! In about 30 minutes! I have all the following weekends back! 

This whole wedding thing seems far less daunting than the pink binder thing made it seem. (That was full of checklists, which look really silly and simplistic next to my Google Docs masterplan spreadsheet full of graphs and data.)

Gro(w)ing Grobot

I'm quite impressed with how quickly the little grobot started sprouting his green mane - it seems to shoot up over night now, adding a centimeter or two per day. (Maybe that will inspire my hair to keep up? It would increase the options for wedding hairstyles...)
I also added a few cables in its vicinity, thinking that these might make the little bot feel more at home.

i grobot, day 1

i grobot, Tag 1, originally uploaded by ankonym.

The office sees more of me than my apartment (in waking hours), and so I'm trying to make this place friendly and welcoming. While I do have an assortment of calendars, Super Mario mushrooms and android figurines, my desk was missing something live and growing. My first idea (a friendly litte lemur, who might also take on small unloved chores) fell through, but then I got something equally cool for my birthday: an iGrobot.
He's still a bit shy, and just like every new starter here, didn't dare to come to his first day at the office with a crazy hairstyle. But if all goes well, he'll soon have a wild green 'do. I'll keep encouraging him with occasional sips of water. Gro, bot! Gro!

Rock & Royalty with a royal Rock (*)

Each year, my esteemed employer comes up with creative themes for the annual christmas party. While the past years were relatively easy ("White Christmas", 50s, beach), this year's event will be all about Marie-Antoinette-goes-Punk. Good thing I studied cultural history! I thought back to my university days, meditated a bit on how to stay on the right side of that fine line between historically accurate 18th century punk and modern-day goth (dangerous territory, blurry borders), decided that throwing in colour would tip it in the right direction, and then spotted the opportunity: I could also make my own tutu! Just to find out if I can. And also because renting or buying a dress would have been at least €300 (and lacking in the punk/rock aspect). So I added my own challenge to put together an outfit for under €50, because the theme does not sound like something I'll ever wear again.

Googling "tutu" got me some mildly amusing juxtapositions in Google image search results:

but by refining that search a bit, led me to some pretty good inspiration on how to go about it.

And so, spending less than €10 on material, I sat down and made friends with a lot of tulle. (I have started to measure craft projects in movie lengths: This took a bit over two films on Netflix. But then, I did occasionally get distracted by the plot.)

It has only four layers of tulle and is thus rather transparent - but I remembered a bright orange skirt I sewed a few years ago in Berlin (i.e., when I still lived in a country that has summers) and that fits perfectly over it, plus adds a degothifying bit of colour.


I'm still wondering about the hair, and have experimented a bit with fauxhawks:

18th century punk rock chic - nearly there.

(*) This title makes most sense if you speak German. Haha! Pun intended!

Hibernian hibernation

At this point, Ireland owes me three summers. As you can see in the eloquence of the WhatsApp message there, the sudden onset of wintery conditions hinders my ability to speak (or write), forcing me to communicate solely in emoticons and interpunction.
It has warmed up a bit since last week so that I feel more talkative again, but in the meantime, viruses decided to make a home of my respiratory system. I've spent a few days extremely bored, lying around at home and feeling a wee bit sorry for myself.
Especially because only the first season of Downton Abbey is on Netflix, and I finished watching it, and so I was suddenly left with cliffhangers and quite a bit of my sweater left to knit.

The sweater, slowly taking shape

I've been feeling very Irish about my choice of Donegal Tweed yarn and cabled pattern. I might even make some progress before it is summer again (well, "summer"). I do hope that it's not too baggy - should this end up looking like a sack, I'm not sure I'll feel motivated to re-knit it in a smaller size.

What else?

• I have the German theme song of Doctor Snuggles stuck in my head, for unknown reasons - I'm not sure I've watched this show since the 80s.
  
• I wonder why I always feel totally excited about the idea of taking up running when I'm in bed sick (maybe because that's a safe moment to consider it: no danger of having to act on those brilliant intentions).
  
• I want to play around with Instagram photos and make them into neat printed products.
  
• I've drunk about 4 liters of red chili, fresh ginger, lemon juice and honey in hot water. Good for sore throats, more interesting than hot lemon.
  
• I've also tried to make a brownie in a mug in the microwave. Hm. It turned out edible but not entirely convincing - it was a bit overcooked, and olive oil may be a bit too strong for this, but considering it does make some chocolatey goo in only 1 minute in the microwave (1:30 was too long!), it's still quite okay.
  

Outrunning the rain

I've lived in Ireland for nearly three years now, and one thing seems suprisingly consistent: Saturday mornings tend to be sunny, and then, at some point in the afternoon, the rain has enough of all that weekend rest and resumes work. If you're from the continent (...and I guess it shows I've been here a while if I call it that...), you may be used to starting your sunny weekends slowly: A slow, late breakfast, finishing that book, maybe a bit of laundry before you head outside? WRONG, I tell you, if you reside on this island, where the weather is even less reliable than you might ever think. If it's sunny, GET OUT. So on this particular weekend, we were smarter than the lurking clouds, decided to move our brunch to the coast, and hopped onto the DART train to Dun Laoghaire. Great food at White Tea (a bit Avoca-ish, but less overpriced), and then a stroll around the harbor in the sunshine (warm enough for ice cream!). The clouds slowly moved in from the North and gave us some pretty rainbows to pass the time on the DART ride home, but we made it to our house a few minutes before they arrived over Ballsbridge. Perfect! (And then, off to bed with something flu-ish. But it can't be for the lack of fresh air!)

 

Ireland in a nutshell #2

One fundamental difference between German and Irish culture is in the choice of clothes. In Germany, people feel embarrassed when they think they might be overdressed. In Ireland, not being sufficiently dressed up would be a far bigger concern.(*)

Fashion values also differ greatly: A German woman is likelier to think "Oh! My outfit today is wonderfully practical!" - something that might make the average Irish lady shudder. It does explain, however, why you can always pick out German tourists in the crowd because even during city trips, they are ready to face the great outdoors at any time. Their jackets will resist any weather condition, and boast astounding vapor permeability of the material so the wearer won't break a sweat even in the heaviest rain. In the extreme form, Germans carry walking sticks (and no, Dublin isn't known for its mountainous cityscape) and two liter water bottles in the mesh side pockets of their hiking backpack (because shops with beverages might be a rare luxury in a European capital) - unless their backpack has an integrated drinking system: Dehydration will be no reason for worry during their leisurely stroll around Trinity college.

There is a variation on the German outdoor tourist look: There is also a certain kind of Ireland tourist who is less interested in preparing for (urban) nature than in a fuzzy idea of ancient, mysterious, profound Celtic culture. This group is likelier to wear clothes that look mildly medieval, fairly traded and hand-woven, karma-free and felted by moonlight to the tune of a pan flute. They may come with an attitude of more-Irish-than-thou, or may just wander about mumbling about shamrocks and fairies.

In contrast to both, Irish women, when pleased with their attire, will think more in terms of "I look absolutely fabulous!" - shoes will be high-heeled, not comfortable, and dresses as short as possible. During the day, "comfortable" wear may consist of a candy-coloured tracksuit combined with big hair and eyeliner. (German tracksuit wearers are less common, and far less likely to match top and bottom. Irish fashion usually demands wearing the suit as an ensemble.)
At night, all unnecessary material will be dropped to reveal as much fake tan as possible. The picture above is a selection of average evening wear for a regular night of drinks with friends - and it is not, as the sensibly shoed German may assume, a shop that specializes in circus artist attire. There is also no direct connection between body shape and weight and choice of dress: Tight is good. Short is good. For everyone. (As a rule of thumb, every German lady who hears that she looks "fabulous!" will turn around and run to cover herself up.)


(*) Except when going to the supermarket in the morning. I can't imagine many Germans would go buy their milk in their pyjamas.

Ireland in a nutshell #1

2.5 years in this country, not enough blog posts. That needs to change! Right now:

One of the first things I noticed here is a job that is immensely popular in Irish shopping streets but that I had never seen elsewhere: Holding up signs. 

It's a bit unusual that this guy has a multi-purpose sign for three shops - a symptom of the crisis, maybe? - because usually, it is one person per sign and one sign per shop. And usually they stand around in groups, blocking pedestrian traffic and chatting with other sign holders - because their job is just to make sure the sign is upright. Their job description does not include encouraging people to visit the shops. Because that's the sign's job. 

From autumn, with love

If you were to say: "Hey! You haven't updated in a year!", then I would still be in a position to disagree... for two more days. Maybe autumn makes me chattier. (Maybe I'm trying to talk the leaves back up on the trees.) Last year, I found the first ripe chestnut well before the end of August - this year has been more traditional: The first ones appeared this weekend, but then, after a bright and summery Saturday and still-okay Sunday, autumn decided it was now time to step in. Temperatures have dropped, and so has foliage.
Howth still looked like that on Sunday. One of the best things about Dublin is that when it's sunny, you can take public transportation for 30 minutes and end up somewhere like that. (In fact, I read recently that some Thai beach resorts stole pictures of the Scottish and Irish coast and used it to advertise their own beaches.) (Obviously, public transportation also runs on rainy days. But the view just isn't quite the same.) (It should be sunny much more often.) And then yesterday, Ireland remembered its core strength and brought on the gloom and the rain.

So I guess there was only one reasonable thing to do: Take some Donegal tweed yarn, and work on a sweater. I still find it surprising that there are so few yarn shops in a country with such a high sheep to human ratio. Where does all this wool go? It can't all end up in touristy Aran sweater shops?

Soon I'll hear old winter's song

I suppose there is no arguing with it: Summer, though it may never have started, is already over. 

12°C in the morning, storms that shake even small mews houses, and leaves that stretch the variation of possible shades of green far too far into yellow for it to seem reversible.
I believe the total count of days of 20°+ this year was about eight. And the "+" means that the maximum was something like 23°. For an hour. Damn you, Ireland, last year I defended your meteorological qualities against the skeptics but this year, I've joined their ranks.
Now off to dig out winter clothes... oh wait, no need: I was pretty much wearing the same stuff year round anyway.

Faking the season

Ever since I moved to Dublin, I seem immensely interested in discussing the weather. Not sure if it's cultural (as all English school books would have you believe: This language seems built for weather-related small talk) or just out of despair with the lack of proper seasons, combined with the continued hope that yes, one day, it will be summer. (Actually, that came true: Summer lasted about one day.) So when you see summer end before it even seems to have arrive, what can you do? Yes, exactly: Try the "Summer" setting on your favourite Android camera app and avoid looking at the world without that friendly digital filter. (Yes, I see it too: It makes it look kind of... sunny-autumnal. Still better than rainy-autumnal though...)

Over before it's begun

I'm quite sure that this is the first time I've seen a ripe chestnut before my sister's birthday, which should be at the peak of summer and traditionally involves complaints about the heat and demands for ice cream. Not in Ireland. August 26th and the trees have already begun to drop decidedly autumnal bits and pieces onto Dublin streets. Meh.

What remains of the (birth)day

Oh wow, has this blog been neglected. Well.
It's not for the lack of pictures to post or stories to tell, so other than way-too-long days at the office, I have no excuse.

So. Jumping straight back into this: Rounded squares shall be the new format of choice to capture snippets of daily life. Here, it's a birthday "cake" (well, a decorated 'Amerikaner' pastry) that was a) tasty and b) a Space Invader kit voucher, because glass mosaic tiles were hard to bring across Europe.

And when the bakery offers only subobtimal wrapping, so that the frosting on your pastry gets damaged, what better way to cover that than a shooting space invader?

Whom should I trust?

I am so confused.