P.S - Rabbits

During the week, I attempted to introduce some students to the art of Cockney Rhyming Slang, of which I am no expert myself. I learnt many things, they on the other hand did not learn very much and now think everyone in South London is a poet, or absolutely balmy and should stop drinking warm beer. Either way, it was a roaring success and now I have tribes of German children telling people to 'stop rabbiting on'.



When I was younger (as in, up to the last time I had a chance to speak to my Dad; 1 day still counts as younger...) he would continually tell me that I had 'more rabbit than Sainsburys', and I would secretly laugh at him despite the fact I was getting told off. I thought he was mad: 'errrrr Daddy, Sainsburys don't even SELL rabbits!', and would merrily continue with my aimless one sided babbling, much to his displeasure.

Now, anyone clued up enough to know that 'rabbit' clearly refers to 'rabbit and pork', which obviously means 'talk', will understand what my wonderful father was saying.



Older, not much wiser, yet still monopolising the rabbit market, I realised that when I'm writing, 99.9% of the time I do not know to whom I am writing; I merely just keep going on until my fingers hurt or I run out of things to write, or realise that I am just writing to myself and that the whole process is a little comical. Not only do I own more rabbits that Sainsburys, but also Waitrose and the local butcher (Tescos and Morrisons aren't posh enough to stock rabbit).

But maybe there's method to my madness. Maybe by unleashing the rabbits onto the big wide web, I will save my poor boyfriend from premature deafness, and leave reminders to my 60 year old self about what happened in my 22 year old brain. I am writing to the future me; I want to remind myself of all the fabulous things I have done and seen, all the weird and wonderful people I have met, the best and worst beers I have consumed, the reasons I should or shouldn't be allowed to drink tequila, the colour of the best sunset this spring, the smell of currywurst, the feeling of freezing snow being blasted down your neck, and the sweet euphoria of sniding a coffee before a lesson at 7.30am with 28 moody 13 year olds.

I haven't written a lot recently, because I have been having too many adventures. I'm sorry to brag, but that is the truth. One day I will have to be a grown up and earn proper money in a proper job, and it will probably be pants, so I may as well enjoy myself while I can. With that in mind, I am going to try and write about every adventure I have had since the first adventure here in Germany, and I'm going to call the whole collection:

"the Rabbit House Incident (whereby myself and Samuel woke up in a house full of rabbits)"

Just thought I'd warn ya.

- Jo

Tea Room.

Last Friday afternoon, I was roped in as maître d’ of an English Tearoom being run by an over-excited group of Year 6s.



Every year there is a day in which parents and prospective students come and have a nosey around the school. This principle is not an unfamiliar prospect for me; the school in which I spent my teenage years offered a very similar practice of school showcasing every year. The only difference between these two fine examples of boasting is that my German school took it to levels that my English school could only dream of.

Rethink your standard school tour led by a begrudging 14 year old; enter the Germans with a ski bar. Yes, a SKI BAR. Complete with schnapps, house music and disco ball. I asked myself the same question, what on earth were they promoting apart from teenage alcohol abuse and binge-drinking? Ohhhh, the thriving winter sport syllabus of course. Silly Engländerin.

Continue your school adventure down the corridor and you find yourself confronted by toga-clad 13 year old brandishing fine examples of imitation Roman delicacies. Mmmm, sheep eyeballs, my favourite. When I asked if they were promoting the history department, said sheep eyeball was spluttered at me in a moment of sheer hilarity; 'Oh Miss Ford, you are so funny.' I found out later that they were part of the Latin crew. Of course they were. I didn't even know we taught Latin in our school.

I have no idea what the Geography group were doing. All I saw was what looked to be bamboo poles and children dressed up as gorillas. I didn't stick around to ask what they were offering in the way of refreshments.

Around the corner, up some stairs, was my neck of the woods. I felt safe there. No gorillas, no eyeballs, no schnapps.

The children (the English teachers) had revamped the classroom to a state that you would never have recognised it. Teapot, scone, sugar cube heaven, complete with silver tea spoons and white table cloths; I was very happy. Standing at the entrance of our 'Tearoom', I flagged parents and children our way by brandishing a very large Union Jack and hollering 'Getcha tea here chaps - real English tea'. Del Boy's selling tactics came in very handy here. Lie a little, stretch the truth, talk in an accent they don't understand, get their money and run.

"Oh yes Mrs Schmidt, I drink tea with the Queen every weekend."
"No, no Mr Becker, English women never drink anything as vulgar as beer."
"Ha ha, funny you should say that Miss Müller - I am actually a personal acquaintance of Harry Styles."


What a tricksy hobbit I am.

The whole point of this exercise, apart from making the school look well-mega-wicked-cool, is to raise money for the individual classes' 'Kasse', which subsidises school trips etc., etc. A rather good idea, if you ask me, as the children take responsibility for their own class' fate and funds. No credit cards for these children when they reach university. In this case, don't follow in Miss Ford's footsteps children.

All round, very fun. Well done Germany, you beat us fair and square.

Trendy, Part 2.

Hey Y'all fashion loverrrrs!

So sorry sweeties for not publishing this earlier, have been dashing around like a moron trying things out so you don't have to! I know you've all probably been dying to get your next installment on how to become the next trendsetter, but let me reassure you darlings, patience really is a virtue in this instance.

Joanna Ford: Trendsetter Part 2. 'Go on a diet'.

Now, I know what some of you are probably thinking - 'oh my goodness, she's mental' - but this diet really does work! No more nasty low-carb options, and it leaves you feeling full and content - what more could you want? I've called it The German Diet, and have compiled a typical day's menu for you to sample, because caring is sharing, fashion friends!

1st meal: Pre-breakfast snack.


Milka. Preferably the variety that is on offer in Rewe for 55 cent (it makes it all the more delicious). I advise leaving the chocolate on your bedside table, so that you don't forget to take your morning supplement before you get out of bed. Think of this ordeal as you would suncream; Milka chocolate will protect you the from world's ills. A chore, yes - but one you will be thanking yourself for by the moody mid-afternoon slump! Mood enhancing factor 30! What's not to love?

2nd meal: Breakfast.


This should include at least four types of sausage or cured meat, cheese that tastes like a foot, three varieties of bread, unsalted butter, honey and enough coffee to kill a small animal. And there you have it; ready and prepared to take on the world before the sun has even decided to rise.

3rd meal: Mid-Morning snack.


Butter Bretzel. You should purchase your butter bretzel (pretzel with butter for all you 'deutsch-phobics' out there!), in a local bakery where they are fresh out the oven and neatly stacked in orderly lines to maximise selling efficiency. At a tidy little 1 Euro - it's a snip! Not only do you receive the chewy, salty, doughy pleasure of the pretzel itself, but you are also presented with a 5mm thick layer of butter too! WHAT AN ABSOLUTE BARGAIN! Ideally enjoyed in the not-so-grosse-Pause at school, at 9am. Remember fashion friends, this is Germany! Mid-morning = 9am, not 11am; you've been up since 5am!

4th Meal: Midday Meal.

For this meal, I am offering you a variety of options - the world is your oyster. So long as it predominantly involves carbs, you are in for a winner. Here are a couple of suggestions:


- Maultaschen. Somewhat similar to Ravioli, you could be forgiven for thinking you were eating an Italian delight, that is if you ignore the fact your ravioli pieces have quadrupled in size, and are swimming around in a hearty broth! Surprisingly delicious, and perfectly filling, this is one diet option not to miss out on.


- Any Würstchen you can get your hands on, cradled by a crusty roll and enveloped in oodles of mustard. Does what is says on the tin; Nigella needs to watch out, 'cos this really is a sexy little diet option.


- Wiener Schnitzel. As do all the best things in life, Schnitzels come in a variety of sizes, and it's not always 'the bigger the better'! I, for one, have eaten a terrible schnitzel which was utterly HUGE, and I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. It just stuffed me, and left no room for some after-dinner 'Willi'.

Post 4th Meal Schnapsle: Willi.


No Midday meal is complete without your best friend 'Willi'. Aiding digestion, and getting you so bladdered you don't care what happens in the afternoon, I can wholeheartedly say that this is the secret to this diet's success. Teamed with its super cute little glass, it's any fashionista's dream!

5th Meal: Afternoon Coffee and Cake.


Any cake you choose, as long as it's 90% whipped cream. They can be found in the ever-so-quaint Konditoreis dotted around the German landscape. SO quaint.

6th Meal: Abendbrot.

See: Breakfast. You must eat exactly the same thing you ate for breakfast for maximum dieting efficiency.



And Ta-dah! Sweethearts, I can 10000% say that I'm loving this diet, and you will too!

Take Heart.

This post is for everyone planning their year abroad, or anticipating an upcoming adventure which will take them to unknown realms, in every way possible. Change is on the horizon and you have every reason to be excited, although at present you may be terrified.

This time last year, I did not think about my impending move to Germany, land of the sausage, too much. I pushed it to the back of my mind and was neither excited, nor scared. It was something I had to do as part of my course, and was not too fussed about it.

Be fussed.

Because I was not bothered by the whole event until it was too late, I did not cash into the unlimited chances to brag about what I was doing with my life. With this in mind, I have written a list of must do things for the months before you leave. Yes, there may be 7 or 8 months left in your home country, but that is no reason not to show off.

1. Let the anticipation keep you awake at night and spend hours Googling the place you will live, imagining yourself in that environment..."And here's where I will buy icecream on sunny days, and here's where I'll be all bohemian and hip and smoke French cigarettes and drink expensive coffee whilst pretending to write my diary but actually just doodle pictures of cats, and here's the bar I'll call my local but never embarrass myself in...". This hobby is ideal for May, when you should be revising. Hours worth of procrastination.

2. Annoy everyone you meet with reports about how brave and proactive you are. "Yes, I do speak German. No, I do not want to be a teacher. Yes, I study the language for the sheer purpose of being a better and more interesting human. Yes, I will be living alone. No, I do not know anyone in the area I am moving to." There is nothing more annoying than a smug 20-something year old who's doing something useful with their life. Once you are here, you will realise that there are a lot more interesting and brave people in the world, so pre-move is your only chance to utilise this.

3. Plan your time wisely. Use the summer to earn a ton of cash, because it will evaporate into the magical money vortex before you can whisper 'Guten Tag'. You are living abroad for a year, you do not want to be scrimping and saving and worrying about whether you can afford to go on that wicked trip to the Alps next weekend. Remember, you are here so you can upload one million photos to Facebook, and be the envy of all your friends at home. Photos require a certain amount of capital, unless you steal them from someone else's travel blog and claim them as your own.

4. Remind everyone on a daily basis that, "this time next year..." you will be doing something that sounds WAY more fun than what you are all doing at that point. Make them realise they will miss you by pointing out that although this year's Christmas preparations were really fun, next year you will be trolling round Christmas markets to the dulcet tones of German choir boys singing 'Oh Tannenbaum', off your rocker on too much Glühwein. Guaranteed to tug at the heart-strings of every family member and close friend.

5. Unleash your inner, hidden hipster. In all honesty, what on earth could be more hip or arty than moving to another country?! All you have to do is look back in history to see that all the best arty types sodded off to the Continent when life got too hard in old Blighty. Take inspiration; buy a beret or bowler hat, invest in a moleskin sketchbook or journal, and do not leave the house without a small volume of Romantic poetry. Just these items alone will up your art-output by 74%.

Take heart adventurers - your move will be revolutionary.

Immigrant.

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.

Winning at Life.

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.

Beer.

It turns out, Germans like beer.

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?!

Last night.

Things I remember from last night:

- 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.

Dry yer eyes mate

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.

Trains.

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.

Let's hope, for all our sake, that it's on time.