Anonymity

It has occurred to me that I don't particularly want my employers to snoop out this 'blog. I have removed the name of the company from posts and will be changing all names where necessary.

The final journey & One for the feminists?

Fairly lengthy drive from Brandenburg to Augsburg, nothing serious in comparison to previous capers. Stefan and I go to see the "Gartenreich Wörlitz" on the way. A full post on this will follow when I have a quick enough connection to upload photos.

Stopping in two rest areas in Bavaria, I see this type of sign:

Apparently these signs are a measure to encourage female safety in car parks. However, there is no evidence that there is more or less assault in German car parks than in any other country. Furthermore, the main reason for these signs, namely that more women are assaulted in car parks than men, seems to me entirely specious, given that more women are assaulted than men full stop. According to the Polizeiliche Kriminalstatistik 2007, 94.4% of all 40,333 'Straftaten gegen die sexuelle Selbstbestimmung' were committed by men, who also committed 99% of all 6,456 instances of rape. Women represented 95.8% of all victims in these cases.

Germany is by no means one of the worst countries, coming in at #24 with 9 rapes/100,000 people, behind the UK at #13 with 14/100,000, the US at #9 with 30/100,000 and South Africa's unbelievable 119/100,000. One has to bear in mind that these are only reported statistics. Actual figures can be much higher: according to a sign I once saw at Johannesburg airport, a woman is raped every 30 seconds there alone.

Even when you throw extra CCTV and alarm buttons into the mix, these signs seem to be a very ineffective way of combatting a problem that is far wider spread than motorway service stations.

Meanwhile, to return to a somewhat lighter note... In this delightful post-feminist/male chauvinist world of ours, these signs have been healthily mocked. I would hope that this has arisen out of an appreciation of the silliness these signs represent, but I fear that this hope is misplaced. In any case, I include a few examples:

And all this when I was just stopping for a Red Bull...

The hospital, a retrospective

Sometimes, the vague mists of time can give one occasion to look back on things through the rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia. To make sure that this does not happen, and to preserve the horrors of the medical experience here, I simply quote Simon's post on Katherine's wall. This expresses far more succinctly than I managed what it was like (and I just wanted an excuse to repeat it for the amusement of all).

"You have nothing to fear if you fall ill in France; you can be sure to end up dead and to spend your last precious moments being verbally and/or physically abused by some obnoxious nicotine-drenched excuse for a doctor. Meanwhile whoever accompanies you to the hospital will have six hours to wish he had some Domestos and a chemical suit to clean the toilet. For a less balanced assessment of French healthcare, see Marius' blog."

The little black book

In a drive to improve my uptake of new words, I have purchased a small Moleskine notebook from Hugendubler, home of books and Wocochinos, opposite the Gedächtniskirche. Unknown words are written down for future reference, along with the location and date to help remember them. Mistakes are rapidly filling the pages. I hope I manage to persevere with it.

Dreieckig oder rund?

Have you heard the one about the two tour managers who walked to the reception?

They were regaled for a full half hour on the complexities of the key numbering system of the hostel.

Herr W seems to think that both Stefan and I are not only English, but entirely lacking in nous. The hostel comprises two "Häuser", imaginatively named 1 and 2. The rooms are numbered 124, 203, 132 etc. It does not require extraordinary powers of deduction to work out that the first number refers to the house, the second to the floor and the third to the room.

Herr W clearly thinks otherwise. This system is detailed with painstaking accuracy. The list of rooms, already indicating the number of beds/room, is heavily annotated. Every double room is circled, despite the 2 next to it. Lines are inserted indicating the floor of the room, despite the previous lecture. Finally, small circles and triangles are drawn, corresponding to the shapes of the keys for the two häuser.

The length of the conversation is exacerbated by regular interruptions from guests, one of them particularly unsatisfied. Apparently, it is absolutely necessary to change the bed linen because polyester sheets are simply unacceptable. In the words of the disgruntled lady, "Ich habe keine Sekunde geschlafen!" Given that the hostel only costs €22/night for huge rooms, this bourgeois crisis is rather unwarranted.

Final negotiations at the reception reveal more oddities. Not only is the use of a tally to mark wine consumption considered rather backwards - "Hier benutzen wir römische Zahlen", but apparently .co.uk suggests that we are from the Ukraine.

The Choir Tour

Much as with the week's holiday in France, a brief selection of highlights follows:

Moving everything I own up many flights of extremely steep stairs.

Kartoffelkäfer, if only for the name.

Berlin Schönefeld Airport, waiting for the S-Bahn at 0:30.

La Piazza, for the faux Italian who admitted he was actually Kenyan.

Boat trip on the Havel, for the amazingly unfriendly waitress (special mention to the staff at Berlin Cathedral, commiseration prize to the Potsdam Church lady).

Rossmann: A great place for all your toothpaste, breadbasket and bathroom mirror needs...

Starbucks: For not being Schloss Sanssouci (and for hijacking the Fernsehturm).

Hugendubel: For the magical Moleskine vocab diary (to be detailed later perhaps) and Wocochinos!

Restaurant Ranke 2 for the following situation: During an intense discussion of politics I was forced to make the following statement, "I think I may have dropped some Boulette in my shoe."

Café am neuen See: two excellent evenings.

And, last but not least: Somerville College Chapel Choir, for being such a lovely bunch of people and fine musicians, tolerant of an extra Germanist.

Radio entertainment

Classical radio keeps me interested on my journey. Seemingly good stations include:

Bayern 4, MDR Figaro, Deutschlandfunk. Honourable mention to MDR Sachsen, whose reverb enhanced oom-pah-pah accordion music kept me laughing for a full ten minutes while hurtling along. Or maybe that was the energy drinks...

An odd degree of Anglophilia on the radio: one station going on about 'das britische Understatement', another with a festival entitled 'England, oh, England'. Sadly the Latvian National Choir's rendering of Purcell does not live up to the good intentions of the organisers.

Arrival in Germany

The Stau is a peculiarly German phenomenon. It is a traffic jam that occurs without warning and usually only for a few minutes. It involves slamming on the brakes and praying that you don't hit something or get hit from behind. There is almost always a sign warning you that you are in a Stau area. They seem almost animal in nature, like a vehicular elk.

The first Stau happens because of a tank being transported. I was not expecting such an early reminder of the might of the German war machine...

Further Staus are mostly caused by roadworks, it is in a break from one of these that I stop at Lonetal Ost service station, somewhere north of Ulm.

A strange place, as these stops often are. The interior is of a mostly red and white persuasion. Food is offered in the form of either Burger King or Gusticus. As the latter sounds like an infection, I opt for the former.

And now a riddle, to be answered afterwards: Was Schöneres gibt es als einen Grillabend?

Overheard while ordering food: "Ach scheiße! Ich hab' mir den Finger gegrillt." My Long Chicken Menu is inexplicably flavoursome.

A male Gusticus worker gets into a deep conversation with a female counterpart at Burger King. The situation is fraught with possibilities for a roadside Romeo and Juliet adaptation.

Ein Restaurant, wo den ganzen Tag gegrillt wird.

The fourth journey

Milan to Brandenburg. Started at 8:20, arrived at 21:30. 641 miles (about 1030 km,) 11hrs 41mins driving. Tired. Red Bull works wonders for concentration. Distance looks ridiculously huge on Google Maps.

In the spirit of European togetherness induced by driving through 6 countries in two days (France, Italy, Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Austria, Germany), I will make an exception to my usual rule and compliment the Swiss. Their scenery is impressive, their motorways pretty, their Vignette fairly priced (in comparison to Austria) and their petrol cheap.

How anyone managed without GPS is beyond me. Still cannot quite believe how easy it is to leave Milan and navigate halfway across Europe.

Augsburg accommodation chaos

Madness. Flat is not available until 1st August. I say flat, they said flat, they meant room. Bathroom shared, facilities shared. Am now investigating other options, sadly all more expensive. Possibility of renting a flat from local Antique Dealer looks promising. Still one week without roof however...

The third journey

Travel re-organised around ankle. Massive drive to be undertaken on second leg (of journey). Hotel + garage booked in Milan.

Left Les Issambres at 16:30, should have been in Milan by 20:30. However, world-statesman Bono and his noise-making accomplices make it absolutely necessary for the police to shut half of Nice's motorway exits. 30km long traffic jam. Arrive in Milan at 22:30. Hotel room small, dark, but very clean with good bathroom and comfortable bed. Car & possessions locked behind fetching pink garage door. Not too bad for a last minute €115 Euros. Breakfast too.

The dramatic final hours

Mosquitoes. Normally a mere annoyance. Until you have a 10 hour drive the next day. It was on Tuesday evening that a particularly ambitious mozzie decided that, rather than eating a normal meal, it would tap into a veritable feast and go for a tasty foot vein.

3o mins later the pain sets in. 2 hours later and despite several anti-histamine pills, walking is no longer possible. It is at this point, around midnight on Bastille day, that I decide to go the hospital, as the pain is heading further up my leg. Saint Simon comes with to the hospital.

Never have I been treated more rudely than in Fréjus-Saint Raphael hospital. Aside from the very long wait, which is in fairness to be semi-expected for non life-threatening injuries at A&E, the number of doctors was risibly low - 2! is Bastille Day really that important? - and the staff made no effort to explain what needed to be done to negotiate the French hospital system. I was asked why I had bothered turning up at all, as if allergic reactions can't be dangerous and then dealt with in as offhand a manner as possible before being told to go. If it were not for one very friendly orderly explaining that 'go' actually means pick up your prescription and leave, I would have been without medication.

Finally returned home in the morning at 6.00, plans for travel to Augsburg scotched. The Venerable Wareham kindly picks up my prescription from the bottom of the hill later on.

Avoid French hospitals at all costs. I suspect just going to a normal GP the next day is vastly preferable.

Les Issambres & St Tropez

A week of relaxation overlooking the Mediterranean, with a trip to St Tropez thrown in. As it is strictly holiday material I will dwell only on a few choice aspects.

Table-tennis: Losing to Edmund, repeatedly, even if only in knockabouts.

Churchill: We will fight them... ... ...on the beaches, Simon.

With a tow-row-row-row-row-row-row for the British Grenadiers: Simon and everyone.

Mike Oldfield: with a special mention to Ali.

Géant Casino, Fréjus: the last minute dash with Tom (Bon)

Petrol-fired barbecuing: Tom.

Cooking: Noreen a particular stalwart.

Mosquitoes (more on that later): to my noble co-sufferer Katherine.

Lethal drinkies: Elen, whose making sure I was alright and giving of pillows is one of few memories left of that evening.

Dorling Kindersley Cards: with quizmaster Usman.

The second journey

Drove to Chez Wareham in Les Issambres near Sainte Maxime on Mediterranean coast. 559 miles, 10hrs 20 mins. Easy trip except for one factor:

One rarely appreciates how good the average standard of driving is in the UK until one goes to France. The roads seem to be dominated by a complete lack of consideration for other motorists. This includes though is not limited to: stopping the car in the middle of roads, on corners etc. wherever most inconvenient; tailgating at all speeds for no reason and refusing to overtake; not moving lanes to allow someone to move themselves. Anyone considering driving on their year abroad should not consider tackling the Autoroute network without prior experience of continental driving, preferably accompanied. This rant will not appear again, hopefully.

Paris

A few days have been spent in Paris continuing the dangerous eating trend established in Provins. Having spent quite a lot of time in Paris over the years I did very little sightseeing, but rather lounged about.

The one small exception to this pattern of laziness was heading to the Louvre where I visited the French pictures section, the last part of the museum I had not seen. Found that the later the pictures got, the less they appealed, a sad reflection of Medievalist tendencies perhaps?

The only other excitement was thinking that my wallet had been lost/stolen. Over-complicated sofa-bed mechanisms make fiendish pickpockets.

Provins

Provins (my first stop in Europe) turns out to be a very attractive medieval town around 60 miles east of Paris (or should that be 96km?). At the centre of many major medieval trading routes, it was one of the richest towns of 13th century France.

Highlights include the ramparts, the Tour César and the Église Saint Quiriace, pictures to follow.

Other tourist highlights include the American-style tourist train, ferrying sedentary visitors between such spectacles as the information centre and 'Arkangai: Les Cavaliers des Steppes' pictures definitely not following...

The first journey

The trip to France by car was surprisingly easy. Sustained by endless CDs, the 350 miles passed relatively quickly, especially during the final romp through the countryside.

The Eurotunnel is bliss. Arrived at the terminal 10:20, train left at 10:43, arrived in France 12:20 French time. If only they weren't going bankrupt, they might be able to lower their prices to compete with the ferries. Here's hoping they don't charge me for the return not taken.

8 and 1/2 hours to go!

The packing is finished.

The car, after having lurked in a BP past midnight is fuelled and the tires sorted. Thanks to the fine folk at Vulcaniza, the oil and filters have been changed and, thanks to the fine folk of miscellaneous eastern european extraction who work out of a shed down a backstreet, the interior and exterior are clean and gleaming, ready to be dirtied over the 340 miles that beckon tomorrow. I also have a handy reflective jacket, headlight covers and a warning triangle, in case the French police do their usual trick of stopping cars on the 'Autoroute des Anglais' in order to pick up money in bribes.

I leave at 8:30, I arrive, hopefully in one piece, at around 17:00 French Time. I can only hope that there are no problems with Eurotunnel or south London traffic.

The continent awaits...

Final preparations

It is now Wednesday afternoon.

I leave for France on Friday, starting in Provins and then Paris for a few days. After that I will head to chez Wareham in Les Issambres for a week before heading to Berlin via Augsburg for the week-long Somerville Chapel Choir tour. One week in Augsburg later and it all kicks off.

Thanks to having lived out of a suitcase at home, re-packing after university is minimal, but enough to cause minor anxiety.

Currently listening to: I sing the birth - New York Polyphony

Highly unseasonal.

The job and the finding thereof

As mentioned in the 'blog description I will be working for a large company, selling computers. It is one of the largest companies in Southern Germany. The marketing division in Augsburg is responsible for all company activity in Europe, the Middle East, Africa and India. I am the 'rent-an-english-speaker'. My job is to correct any mistranslations on brochures, leaflets, datasheets etc. although hopefully I will get to do some other things as well.

I found the job by trawling through old emails sent to the Modern Languages Faculty asking for student interns. While most of these offerings seem to be in France, there are occasional German nuggets and, having seen this job posting over a year ago, I applied for it in September. Some not very exciting CV emailing, telephone interviewing and minor bureaucracy later, I was given the job.

Pay is a fairly meagre €810, but considering Germany has no minimum wage I could be doing a lot worse.

The deadly first post

My only previous venture into 'blog territory was the dreary mawkish effusions of a mid-teenager on livejournal. This 'blog is intended to be a little more functional; it is meant to be a way for anyone interested to keep up with my goings on during my lengthy sojourn in Germany.

I plan to chronicle with reasonable frequency what happens during my year abroad so that it might be of some faint interest. I hope also that the 'blog might be useful in some ways to anyone going on a year abroad in the future.