Tomorrow is May 1st, and May Day is still celebrated in Germany (and most of Europe, as best I can tell). The beginning of May is observed with a Tanz in den Mai (“dance in to May”)– streets fairs, maypoles, festivities. Schools are out and celebrations are afoot. And so, you know, is mischief.
The evening of April 30th is Hexennacht (Witches’ Night), and tricksters are out in force. We’ve been told to hide our trash and recycling cans, bring in our potted plants, and garage our cars (really? have you seen the state of my garage?)
I will try to do all of the above, and hope that the tricksters are kept at bay by rainshowers. But still, I’ll brace for ketchup, mustard, and toilet paper on my house or cars or shrubbery. Our neighborhood is quiet, but not lacking in youthful tricksters!
The origin of this mischief lies in medieval and pagan lore. The Queen of Spring was set to enter the county come May 1st, but evil ghosts and spirits (and their cold and dark) would try to keep her at bay. (And barring any success at that, apparently they liked to toilet paper cars and turn over garbage cans to show their displeasure.)
*Brought to you by Dr. Freud and “Thought I Said One Thing, But I Said Something Entirely Different Thursday.”
Every expat blog should offer an occasional thought on the faux pas, because it’s what we strangers in a strange land do best . . . or at least most regularly.
So I’ll open the conversation with my misstep of the week (so far). Yesterday, I was in my German language class, plodding along and trying to learn a few things. By the way, I’ve changed classes: no more sitting by Paul Newman’s twin (so sad), but I do really like my new teacher (a very elegant older German man). We were reviewing some useful phrases for eating out–something I fancied I knew a little about. The teacher asked what the word for appetizer was. I boldly hollered out “Vorspiele!” What I meant to say was “vorspeise”– the word for appetizer literally means before (vor) the meal (speise).
But my teacher nearly fell off the side of his desk laughing. . . and I knew, immediately, what my mistake was. Instead of “speise,” I said “spiele.”
“Spielen” means “play.”
Yep, I’d enthusiastically shouted out “Foreplay!”
All in a day’s work for an expat.
More thoughts on the art of faux pas next week, but for now just remember that, despite what Freud says, sometimes an appetizer is just an appetizer .
Somerset House, venue for London Fashion Week, Feb. 2015
Maybe you’ve seen the headlines in fashion magazines, the svelte and stylish stars in tabloid print; maybe you’re a fashionista and you are in the know. Last week was London Fashion Week and festivities took place at Somerset House–a beautiful, neo-classical complex built in the 1700’s and nestled between the River Thames and the Strand (that major London thoroughfare that runs from Trafalgar Square through Fleet Street, home to British banking and legal offices). The first few days of London Fashion Week belong to industry insiders and celebrities, but the later part of the week is open to the rest of us. . . and that’s how my daughter and I ended up shopping the stalls and attending the Amanda Wakeley catwalk last Thursday.
It was my daughter’s idea. (I love to look good–and have a love of jackets that borders on fetish–but I also love to be comfortable. This means I vascillate between style-mama and sweatshirt slob. My daughter, however, is just coming to that age where style is the ultimate, and requisite, in self expression. )
So a couple of weeks ago, I got a call from her around lunch time. She’d just returned to school after two days of a nasty virus, so I answered the phone expecting to hear misery and fever on the other end of the receiver. Instead of fever, I got fervid. “Mom, London Fashion Week is in two weeks! Look it up, Google it! We need to go!” I wasn’t prepared for this and, lacking any other comeback, I said, “You know, that’s not much heads up, but I’ll give it a look.” My way of saying, I’m not ignoring your request–since you are so enthusiastic–but you know that’s just not going to happen. So, it turns out, the laugh was on me.
I did Google it, and it sounded kind of fun. Too bad we couldn’t go.
Could we?
I logged on to RyanAir.com–an Irish airline known for (usually) cheap tickets when you travel within Europe. Imagine my shock when I saw that we could book tickets on our travel days for 20 Euro per person each way. For the next two hours, I skittered the sticky strands of the world wide web, and eventually extricated myself with airline tickets, London Fashion Week tickets, and reservations at reasonable, but extraordinarily well-located and well-appointed hotels in hand.
And theater tickets; every trip to London needs theater tickets.
So next thing you know, we were off to LFW!
We arrived Wednesday mid morning, after only 2 or 3 hours of sleep. (One way to catch a cheap flight is to fly at a God-forsaken hour. Ugh.) We weren’t due at Somerset House until Thursday, so we checked into our hotel near the Tower of London and jumped on the Tube (London’s rail) to head out to Kensington and make an afternoon out of Harrods Department Store and the Victoria and Albert Museum.
Harrods is a London landmark, and it lives up to its reputation. If I were plump with cash, I could have a really good time there. Sadly, I am not. The clothes were beautiful, but here’s how it works at Harrods: your daughter sees a fabulous swimsuit and pulls you that direction. You turn over the price tag and realize that it’s an $800 swimsuit (maybe more–I’m a little vague about exchange rate math), and next thing you know the chic shop girls are reviving you with smelling salts. And, yes, I suppose “shop girls” is outdated, but it seems to fit here, because Harrods isn’t just a store. No, Harrods is a theatrical production. It’s like a West End stage set, where everything glitters, and you turn a corner and –pow!–you’re in a different land. You move from the colorful, sparkly set of the jewelry department, to the finely choreographed fragrance floor with it’s fleet footed sales-people-spritzers, to gallery after gallery of magnificent women’s clothes, to a children’s section full of books and toys that is so visually perfect and orderly you will wonder if any REAL children have actually been in that space in the past 24 hours, to a food hall that is amazing. . .truly amazing.
However, not to be a downer, but the $5 strawberry I ate in the food hall–plump and juicy as it was–was really nothing special. I’m sure that’s the exception to the rule. At least, everything LOOKED amazing. And all the shoppers LOOKED amazing. It really was theater at its finest.
As the curtain came down on our afternoon at Harrods, however, I had a little trouble getting out the front door. More than a little. Alarms went off, security guards stepped forward. I handed over my purse and my tiny Harrods bag of macaroons. (I had no large Harrods bag filled with thousand dollar swimsuits.) I unzipped my coat, as the guard said, “It’s probably a clothing tag you never clipped.” Who knew? My year-old red ski jacket (which, note to self, is not a cool thing to wear when you shop at Harrods) had a tag on the inside that clearly said “clip after purchase.” It had escaped my attention. Had it said, “Clip after purchase, or you may be arrested exiting Harrods under the gaze of posh customers,” I suppose it might have registered.
So that was our interesting Harrod’s experience. Don’t let me dissuade you — it’s a lovely store. I’m just not sure I’ll be allowed back in.
So, on to the V&A Museum. The truth is, I wish that I could tell you more about the Victoria and Albert Museum. It is huge, and filled with fabulous things. Even the “lunchroom” is a grand production. But, honestly, Kate and I were the walking dead by the time we got there. We’d been up all night; we’d ridden the highs and lows of walking Kensington and shopping Harrods. We were enthralled by the V&A, but we were beat. We entered the museum wide-eyed, immediately sat down to some nibbles in the food wing, and hoped to refuel sufficiently.
Once back in the museum, we strolled the magnificent clothing galleries, enjoyed looking at silver and furniture, and then it all goes to a blur. We were both about to hit the mat, and we knew we were going down hard, so we grudgingly left the V&A, with so much still unseen, and headed back to our hotel. It was time to tuck in for the evening, eat dinner, and rest up for the next day, the main event–the London Fashion Week extravaganza.
I’ll forgive you for thinking that chestnuts roasting on an open fire and Jack Frost nipping at your nose are only Christmas time delights. Here on the French-German border, they are the stuff of wintertime, even after St. Nick has packed up and headed home.
We spent a very cold weekend in Strasbourg, France, and found this chestnut roaster and his “heisse maroni” stand waiting for us outside the door of the Cathedral Notre-Dame de Strasbourg.
Chestnut roasters are a sight I’ll always welcome. Jack Frost, however, is growing tiresome.
You and I tend to know February 2nd as Groundhog Day, but it’s been a festival day for a long time, and its roots go back deep into the calendar of the Christian church, and far deeper still. The day marks the midpoint between the winter solstice and the spring equinox, so it’s considered the beginning of spring, or at least (if you live where it is still remarkably cold, like I do) the tipping point where winter and dark begin making way for warmth and light.
Candlemas is rarely observed in the church these days, but our old hometown of Ripon, England still honors the day. The cathedral hosts a Candlemas service in the evening, and the cathedral is lit by thousands of candles. To clarify–it is lit by thousands of candles only. It is brillliant. The first time I walked into one of these services, my children in their winter pajamas (they were young, and it was late and cold out), we all gasped and immediately whispered “Harry Potter!” This is the best way I know to describe the look of the cathedral to a Candlemas novice or a wizard fan–think of Hogwarts’ great hall and its floating candles. In Ripon Cathedral, the thousands of candles are set around the edges of the ground, in the clerestory ledges, and in every shelf and cubby along those ancient stone walls. They appear to float and rise. It’s heady stuff, and it’s one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen.
The Ripon Cathedral website posted the following blurb about Candlemas last year:
Candlemas is one of the most ancient feasts of the Church, and occurs 40 days after Christmas, on the 2nd February. It is also known as the Presentation of Jesus at the Temple, in reference to the episode in Luke’s gospel (2:22-40). This ancient festival has been celebrated at Ripon for centuries. A visitor to the Cathedral in 1790 declared that the whole building was “one continued blaze of light all afternoon”. This year, the Cathedral will once again shine with the light of thousands of candles, symbolising Jesus as the light of the world.
It’s good to know that, dark and cold as it still is (whether we are speaking of the weather and season, or of world events), we can look to a tipping point and the hope of spring. (Even if Punxsutawney Phil is right and the next few weeks will be chill, spring must come some day.) It is also good to know that, in a world of cultural globalization, where McDonalds is edging its way into every corner, you can still stumble on those few enclaves where something ancient, unusual, and beautiful will make you catch your breath. . . even if you find yourself whispering “Harry Potter” in the aftermath.
And, as my dog knows, this means trouble!
Travels and Tomes: One Expat's Amblings and Ramblings 