To someone who hasn't lived in a foreign country for a considerable amount of time before, Bovril cravings sound bizarre at best, and moronic at worst. I can assure you, as can every expat dotted across our beautiful globe, Bovril cravings (or whatever wonderfully British condiment you choose) are real and painfully poignant.
Imagine, it is a bitterly cold day in your foreign country of choice, you've got dew drops hanging from your rosy nose and you need something to warm your old cockles up. Hot Bovril is your only solution, yet you cannot get hold of this prized possession for love nor money because this fabulous European land has never heard of the sticky brown magic. Genuine whale tears fill my poor eyes just thinking of this horrid predicament.
Imagine, you wake up, fuzzy headed and blurry eyed from a night on the town with the natives, drinking booze brewed from home grown potatoes in someone's grandma's kitchen. You need toast. Toast and Bovril will save the day. You know exactly what you need and you need it pretty urgently because you might end up redecorating your bedroom otherwise, but then the fatal reality dawns on you. No Bovril. No toast.
Now, fast forward a couple of months.
Imagine, home. England. Land of dreams. Sitting in your kitchen, your stomach rumbles; you're not hungry, only peckish. What to eat? Currywurst? Brotchen? The list continues with mundane options, then with jaw dropping breath taking astounding magical phenomenal exhilarating wondrous realisation, you remember that Bovril is in the cupboard and Best-of-Both is in the bread bin. No words can describe that moment. Nothing in the world has ever tasted that good.
With panging emotions that come flooding with the beefy goodness, you remember your Grandad, cockling, long dog walks, fighting with your siblings, Norfolk, hangovers at Woolly D, Nan's gravy, Sunday lunch, midnight feasts, smoky pubs, rainy summer picnics, school dinners. Memories all over the shop with one delicious message:
you are home.youarehome.YOU. ARE. HOME.
Bovril, you are the meaning of home and I love you.
Christmas time, mistletoe and wine. Well, actually, lots of wine. So much wine that today I have the mother of all hangovers, a red wine stained hat, no money and an empty bottle collection on my bedside table that would put any hardened alcy to shame.
I think I can speak for many households in Great Britain when I say, it's the same story every year. One vat of mulled wine and several G&Ts later, Grandad is merrily chewing the ears off my sister with enthralling wartime stories; the dog has nicked Mum's chocolates and has emptied the contents of his stomach on her prized Persian rug; the boys are close to a punch-up due to dubious rule breaking in the Snooker/Darts Championship and Dad has fallen asleep, open mouthed on the sofa whilst claiming to be watching a repeat of 'Darling Buds of May'.
I don't think anyone actually looks forward to this tried and tested formula for Christmas day, it's all a bit too stressful. The festive spirit is just a bit too much for us to handle, so alcohol is used liberally to lubricate everyone's moods so we can maybe start to resemble a happy, 'normal', functioning family. Or maybe just get us so blotto we don't care that Grandad's telling us for the 500th time that he liberated Jersey from the Germans, or that his false teeth keep falling out when he talks.
Pondering on this Christmas' alcohol abuse, and being fully motivated by a tequila-gin-wine-Guinness cocktail hangover, I have decided to give it all up for a month in aid of a charity that strives to help and transform lives, Cancer Research UK. It's all a bit silly really when you think about it; most of the population getting drunk because we can't handle familial awkwardness, while others are fighting with everything they've got for the chance to argue about the rules of Monopoly next year. Perspective, in this situation, is very sorely needed.
So, I'm going to do it. Friends, family, strangers; this girl is going to be G&T free for the entirety of January. This may sound like a walk in the park, but for me - this is huge. How am I going to survive a day at school without the promise of some Amber Nectar when I get home? £5 or £50, I don't care how much I raise, as long as it goes to help someone that needs it more than me.
Christ knows how well this is going to go.
Wish me luck.
With only ten days 'til the long awaited return home to my wonderful Heimat, England - aka magical-place-of-dreams, fifteen days 'til Christmas and twenty one days 'til the End of the World (depending on which rumour you listen to), it is all too easy to lose touch with reality and become caught up in a whirlwind of self inflicted moroseness.
It is a commonly known fact that I am a whinger - as are 99.9% of the British population. Nothing is ever 'alright', even though we insist on a daily basis that it is. It's snowing on Christmas Day for the first time in fifty years, "Bloody freezing"; it's a blazing hot day, the cricket's on and the Pimms is flowing from magical pop up springs, "Too bloody hot for my liking..."; it's raining after a four week midsummer drought, "This country is bloody awful - always bloody raining." Christmas is a prime example of just how whiney and ridiculous we all are, and I will put myself forward as the chief candidate for Seasonal Hypercondriac Syndrome.
Let's be perfectly honest, my life is fabulous, yet I fail to see on a daily basis the utter virtues of the lifestyle I lead.
Reasons my life is wicked:
1. My family are healthy, happyish, and I love them. We throw strops over monopoly, and it's cool. They are the never ever ending link between my past and future. 2. My friends are healthy, happyish and I love them. We do not argue (apart from whether sand in Fuetaventura is imported from the Saraha or not) and they are always armed with buckets loads of gin&tonic formed support. 3. I live the dream; it's snowing, there's a Christmas market at the end of my road, I live in Germany, every weekend is an adventure. 4. It's Christmas. 5. I go to University and have unbounded chances in life. 6. I am young and can get away with doing ridiculous things, such as locking myself in a toilet cubicle for 20 minutes 'cause I'm too drunk, without it having a serious effect on anyone. (Sorry and thank-you to Sam for rescuing me and paying my wine bill...)
Reasons my life is pants:
1. I miss my family. 2. I miss my friends. 3. I'm dreaming of England and Bovril and bramley apple sausages and chicken pie and Walkers crisps and salted butter and custard creams and Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and crumpets and Wispa bars... 4. I haven't bought my Christmas presents yet. 5. I have so much Uni work to do I feel like I could jump into a pool of it and have a little swim around. 6. I am 22 in less than a month, which renders it valid for me to be affectionately called 'Granny Joanney', 'Gran Attack' and 'Joan' by my friends.
As we can see from this clear layout of 'Wicked vs. Pants', wicked wins every time, yet I seem to only ever mention the negative. Is this a British psyche? Or am I just miserable?
As I look out of my little window to the torrents of snow cascading from the sky, listening to the sounds of teenage boys lobbing lumps of snow at squealing gaggles of teenage girls, my immediate thoughts are of disgust and despair at the prospect of having to venture into the icy nightmare and negotiate my way through the hoards of hormonal snowball fights. But why? Whilst reassessing this situation, I scald myself for being such a bore and grumpy guts. What would the seven year old Joanna make of my current opinions? Surely it is clear as gin that snow is perfectly beautiful; virgin white, dousing everything with untouchable silence and reverence, and that the high pitched screams are just as pure; sounds of utter delight and excitement and potential love. Shaking my head, I dismiss these thoughts as vile; snow serves one decent observation - how many people actually piss up the side of trees.
I am not sure how we tackle this Seasonal Hypercondriac Syndrome - it seems too deep rooted in our mindsets. As we hustle and bustle and jostle our way through the shops in the dying days before the day of all days, it seems that all we can think about is the immediate and impending stress of it all. In this one rare moment of mental clarity during a horrific snowstorm tucked in a remote corner of SW Germany no-one at home even cares to know exists, I think of all the people hustling and bustling and jostling for a bargain, and want to cry.
Christmas is about love - every advert and television programme and film rams that point down our throats - but what does that actually mean? I highly doubt that it is practically slapping the woman next to us in contest for the last pair of cashmere gloves in the John Lewis sale. So why do we forget? Why can't we all just wake up on Christmas morning and appreciate the loved ones we have neglected for the rest of the year? Is it so hard to forget the presents, and the money, and the food, and the stress, and see the bliss in the eye of a stranger when we do something kind for them?
There are no conclusions to my observations, only vague and distant hopes.
I hope to forget my adult cynicism and dissatisfaction. I hope to love more and moan less. I hope to one day fully enjoy the beauty of snow. I hope that everyone this Christmas forgets their made up and imagined problems, remembers everything good that has ever happened to them and has a bloody good time.
A few weeks ago, myself and Samuel went to see James Bond, auf Deutsch.
We went to the little cinema in G-town, and sat clutching a litre of Coke and some M&Ms. I did not leave this lovely little establishment disappointed; quite the contrary, I left pining for London and all things British.
I had never been quite able to place my finger on the exact thing that seperated us Brits from our charming German friends, until Mr Bond cracked a joke and the only cackles heard in the cinema came from the two naughty expats sitting at the back.
It is not as if German people are not funny, or do not have a sense of humour, it is just that it is starkly different from our own brand of highly ironic, tongue in cheek, take-the-piss-out-of-everyone comedic pessimism. We actively enjoy being miserable, and everyone else being miserable too. We love a stereotype, adore the underdog and hate the know-it-all, successful, smug, wholesome type. We are still in the midsts of a God awful hangover brewed by our gin swigging Victorian ancestors, and so could not possibly let our stiff upper lip waver. Heaven forbid in times of imminant life threatening danger, that we should forget to utter a joke about the weather.
Quite a lot of the time whilst trying to control an angry mob, otherwise known as a year 8 class first period on a Monday morning, being positive seems to be the last eventuality in the world. I think I can speak for a few people when I say that it is far more likely that a full on temper tantrum favoured by three year olds in supermarkets, followed by a sulking fit that would put any jealous teenage girl to shame, will ensue, rather than the more favourable smile-and-nod technique which is usually encouraged in schools.
The simple fact is, they don't care about asking for directions in New York when they are sitting in their dull classroom, with dull weather beating against the window panes, in a dull corner of Germany, at the impossibly dull time of 7.37am. It is far more likely that they will fall asleep within the next hour, than ever make it to the fabled Big Apple.
I know they don't care. They know I know. Chaos, tantrums and sulking seem the only option in this rather dire situation.
It's Sunday. The mere thought of tomorrow morning sends me spiralling into a pit of self-pity and loathing. 'Why, WHY am I here?! No, seriously, why am I even doing this...' - sinking rapidly into this unsavoury sea of despair, I question why I am bothering with German language (it's ugly expressions grate on my conscience); I question my capabilities as a teacher (envisage a riot - it is more controlled); I question the merits of even living in another country for a year (there is no marmite, or bovril) and images of my life panning out as a Hausfrau wearing Hausschuhe and sipping Apfelschorle became a delirious truth. Drowning. Drowning and choking and drowning, the only way out is another human whose sanity has not yet been effected.
You need that person to haul you out of the water, towel you dry and give you a cup of tea, whilst continually reassuring you that Queen and Country will still be there in December, and that Gold will not stop playing repeats of Only Fools and Horses and AbFab in your absence. You need them to tell you that clotted cream and walkers crisps will taste like an orgasm has erupted on your tongue and your tastebuds are having an orgy, if you just wait it out, ride the storm, restrain the urge to jump on the next flight to England, and linger a little longer in your self prescribed hell before you raid the fridge of your dreams.
Your saviour will be someone/people you have met here. The bond of mutual homesickness and adventure will never be broken; you will no doubt be lifelong friends, continually picking each other up out of the mud and rescuing each other from angry mobs of 14 year olds.
With this in mind, it is all worth it. Human companionship makes it worth it.
Make Monday positive, the smile-and-nod technique might just work after all.
Today, the Karma police snuck up on me in my sleep, and came to bite me on the bum.
I run a conversation class every Monday for members of the sixth form in my school, and have been doing so for the last three weeks. Not one member of the sixth form has of yet turned up for said conversation class.
I have tried everything. My dignity is now on the line. I have tried to lure them with the promise of cakes, coffee, chocolate, help with English essays, gifts and prizes, with no success.
So, this is now my last resort. I am making a public apology to all of my German teachers and assistants who lovingly prepared interesting and fulfilling classes, debates and discussions, to which I never turned up. It was rude, selfish and arrogant of me, and I am sorry.
It is never good to get a taste of your own medicine, and now I honestly believe that what goes around, really does come back around. Karma, please leave me alone now. I have learned my lesson.
A post about love. How could you ever sum up love? The word drives me crazy - it cannot encapsulate the myriad of emotions that it is meant to represent, so we throw it around, abuse and misuse it. "I love your dress", "I love chocolate", "I love you", "I have never loved you".
I truly believe that this last month in Germany has taught me more about that word and its emotions than the previous 21 years ever could.
Perhaps I am homesick; or maybe it's the flashes of golden sunlight streaming through yellow and red leaves. It could just be that the people I love are not happy, and there is nothing I can do about it.
The solution to all these problems might just be Fleetwood Mac.
We went to a bar where they had 23 varieties of gin on offer for the perusal and pleasure of the merry customers. I was a very merry customer.
Who seriously needs 23 varieties of gin?
This girl.
This girl is hooked on life. Life which is dizzying, petrifying, heartbreaking, heartmaking, sleepless, anxious, toe-wriggling, eye-glistening, stomach-churning, blinding, winding, ever-changing, unpredictable, inspirational, breathtaking, choking, suffocating, intoxicating, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, mindblowing and beautiful.
Last week I got called an immigrant. No, I'm lying, I got called a 'fucking immigrant', and got asked politely to 'go back to my own fucking country'.
Now, I'm not sure about you, but I have never really thought about the impact that word could have on someone. I recognised that it was a label, a label we use on a daily basis in the media, but I never thought of how it could make someone feel, as surely 'immigrant' is just a technical term to describe someone not living in the country they were born into? Surely?
That word 'immigrant' made me feel sick. As I stood outside my German class with a mixed bunch of foreigners all keen to learn the language, we got abuse hurled at us from a respectable looking middle aged man, who did not look dissimilar from my own Dad. He was wearing a suit, we were in his way, he was probably tired and irritable from a long gruelling day in the office, but that only made his words all the more venomous.
'How dare he? I'm not an immigrant!' - The instant rage bubbled beneath my skin; I could feel my fingertips tingling with adrenaline and my neck stiffen ready to battle with the lines 'two world wars, one world cup', but within milliseconds, this insatiable rage gave way to utter humiliation - 'Oh Christ, I am an immigrant. I don't belong here.' The heat radiation coming from my burning cheeks could have fried an egg. No exaggeration.
But why should I feel so ashamed? Because I am wholeheartedly taking advantage of the generous German FSA scheme? Or perhaps because I stick out like a sore thumb in a place where anyone wearing anything but the jeans-tshirt-converse-scarf-leatherjacket combination is considered pioneering. But most likely, it is because I am not like everyone else; horror of horrors - I am British.
Immigrant suggests that you can never wash the taint of your home country off of your skin. You can walk the walk, talk the talk, eat their disgusting food, but as soon as you're called an immigrant, your charade as a native is viciously pulled away. You are exposed for what you truly are. Naked and vulnerable to a culture that is not your own.
All of these sentiments washing through you and over you and into every part of your being, with one small word. Reducing someone to a mere label. You are an immigrant, you are nothing.
I address this post to everyone living in their native country; I beg of you, please rethink how you use this term. Don't make others feel different, I'm sure they are well aware of the many social faux pas' they make on a daily basis, and don't need you to highlight the fact that they said 'shall we kiss', instead of 'shall we cook'.
I am humbled, humiliated, sometimes hated, and my British high-horse has been firmly swept away, but that's alright, 'cos I'm a job stealing, benefit thieving immigrant, and I bloody love it.
Until a day like today pops into your life, it is very easy to believe that they do not exist, that they are the fictional produce of Hollywood and Jane Austen novels.
Today is a day which is brimming with joy, joy which is all the more delicious because you know that you are the only one responsible for such intoxicating feelings. No-one else has made you feel like this - this is the culmination of days, weeks, months, or even years worth of hard graft. And it's all yours.
Today is the day that you realise that it might all be worth it; there might actually be light at the end of the tunnel. Fulfilled dreams are not a lifetime away, they are right in front of you waiting to be snatched up and greedily consumed.
And today is the day that you recognise that 30 shit days are completely worth this one day of utter happiness and contentment, because you did it yourself, and no-one can take that away from you.
I know this may shock and surprise some people, but it is true; they really do love the stuff. So much so, that towns dedicate whole weeks of the calender to celebrate the majesty of the beer produced in the region - singing songs, holding hands and guzzling litres of the liquid gold, whilst parading around in leather trousers and bosom enhancing dresses.
Last Saturday, I found myself in the midst of this mayhem. Picture the scene, myself (a timid, modest young lady who enjoys a quiet ginger beer at the end of a long day) accompanied by two like minded gentleman, stranded in a beer hall where the only occupations available to us were: beer, beer songs, beer induced dancing and beer induced friendship making. Terrible. Bad Canstatt promised a 'Volksfest', rather naively I believed this to involve a tombola, merry-go-round and a tin of sweets.
After this horrendous encounter with the beer-loving masses, I decided to investigate further into this dark underbelly of German culture.
My first stop was the supermarket. Not only were there nearly one hundred varieties of beer available to take away in crates, they were priced at a maximum of 90c each, and many of them were brewed locally! In my very town! Not only that, dear Readers, but if you take your used bottles back, you will receive money for doing so - practically forcing the poor consumer to drink.
A diversion into work on Monday illuminated me to the fact that the wretchedness of drinking beer is not only forced upon adults in this country, but the teenagers too. A youth, 16 years of age, in my English class informed me that he too had been at the so-called 'Volksfest', and not just on the fun fair rides, Ladies and Gentlemen, in the beer tents too! It is legal to drink beer and wine from the age of 16; well I never.
Tired of this investigation, I arrived back to my home town to find that a wine festival had taken over its sleepy streets.
What ever will they think of next?!
- Oktoberfest.
- Beer.
- Drunk Mark.
- Being really hot.
- Being really cold.
- A random hut party in the woods.
- Inviting myself and Sam to stay at someone's grandparent's house.
- Tequila.
Things I do not remember from last night:
- How we got to the random hut party in the woods.
- Who I was talking to in the random hut.
- When we left the Oktoberfest.
- Where the new German girl is now.
- Where drunk Mark is now.
- Where the Grandparent's house is.
- Why I was in the woods drinking in a hut.
- Tequila.
Moving away, abroad or otherwise, is hard. There is no doubt that changing address, packing your belongings, new bank accounts, insurance, mobile number, culture, language, job, and worst of all - saying goodbye to loved ones, cause unrelenting stress and the occasional outburst of tears. I am no exception to this rule.
So there, I said it. I cried. Cried so much that my eyes stung and my breath got caught in my lungs in shoulder shuddering sobs. Cried so violently that I felt sick, and for so long, that I forgot what I was crying about. Am I ashamed? Not one bit.
This outburst of emotion at seeing an all important train pull away from the platform can only be descibed as release; the physical acknowledgement of the physical changes I have made to my life. Mourning the loss of one stage, and acceptance for the next. For better or for worse, time must move forward, and change must ensue.
This is not to say that I wouldn't kill to spend tonight in my own bed, in a corner of Surrey neatly tucked in next to the airport and motorway, midst the din of family arguments, my sister's excellent baking, and a nutty hound, but I cannot dispute the appeal of everything in my new environment.
Yes, relatively, I am alone, but that only means I have room to make new friends. No, I cannot speak the language very well, but I will just have to learn; millions of people do it every year. The weather is dismal, the fashion is appalling and to say the people are conservative is an understatement, but that does not mean I will not adapt.
In conclusion, I wanted to share this horrendously personal insight into my life for the sake of all the people resisting changes in their's, whether greater or smaller than mine, because sometimes it's good to know that someone else had a crap time too.
But, always remember the great philosopher Derek Trotter and his wise words, "This time next year, we'll be millionaires", and maybe one day, just like him, your optimism will be rewarded with riches beyond your belief.
Stereo-typically, German trains are famous for working like clock work; clean as a new pin, regular, cheap and always on time. I would like to point out, that this stereotype is not entirely correct, as my adventures this week have highlighted.
On Tuesday, myself and Jonboy ventured out to the nearby city of Stuttgart. We got told to depart the train when we were one stop away from the city, travel back to the previous station in order that we may catch another train to take us into the city centre. No reason was given for this mysterious rerouting, but added an extra hour and a half to our journey. Once in Stuttgart, we had lunch in the gardens overlooking the new palace, then wandered round the beautifully renovated Cathedral. It was gutted in WW2 by bombs dropped by the Allies, and almost had to be completely rebuilt. The result of the renovation is purely stunning - the beautiful old building maintains its ancient charm and majesty, yet is fitted in almost entirely modern decoration.
We filled our trip to Stuttgart with cultural excursions to the old castle, the Vodafone shop (another story...) and a few oldy worldy bars, before jumping on a train to take us safely back home. Before too long, the ticket conductor was shaking his head and trying to rob us of all our lovely Euros. 'Wrong ticket, you cannot use this train'. My poor English head couldn't understand this supreme German logic, and I pointed out that the ticket said 'Stuttgart-Goeppingen, any route', although he retorted that this was a special train, which we hadn't paid for. No-one bloody told us. Having none of it, I hastily resorted to pretending that I did not understand anything he said, and looked as if I was going to cry. That told him. No fine was paid.
Wednesday's train to the Mercedes Museum was similarly delayed, but we minded little due to the childlike excitement we both had at seeing lots of shiny cars. If I ever needed motivation to work hard so I could afford the finer things in life, that place certainly was it.
A trip to Tuebingen to see Mark, and the wonderful medieval town, sealed the deal on my lack of faith in German transport. Saturday afternoon saw us miss every connection due to delays in the network. Where's Southern Railway when you need them? All delays aside, we had a lovely evening perusing the old breweries in the town, watching a brass band playing outside the Rathaus (Town Hall), getting lost down the cobbled backstreets, and gorging on Italian food for dinner.
Perhaps my rant on the state of the trains is duly unjust, as I feel I may have a personal hatred of them tonight. The delayed-by-five-minutes-we-are-sorry-for-the-inconvenience train, which whisked J off to the airport, left half an hour ago, and left me standing like a plonker at the platform.
And so, my true Jaunts in Germany begin tomorrow, 7.07 AM at the same platform I was left at earlier, with a train to Cologne, taking me to the place which will train me to be a language assistant.
Resting my face on an open grammar page, amidst a sea of optimistic looking text books, I have the horrible realisation that I cannot speak German. 41 days to go until I board the plane whizzing me to my new Black Forest home, and I do not know the word for light bulb, pillow case or plug socket, and I have successfully told my future landlady that I want to kiss her, instead of telling her that I look forward to seeing the kitchen.
Despair at my hopeless case continued to wash over me all evening, until I happened upon a fool proof plan; post-it notes.
Much to the horror of everyone around me, I have decided to plaster post-it note labels on everything I own, with the intention of soaking up all this extra vocabulary stress free. I refuse to see a flaw to this I-don't-speak-German-I'm-moving-to-Germany rescue remedy.
After 10 long years of attempting to master this language, a neon coloured light is twinkling at the end of the tunnel.
