Stone Life

I finally feel at least a bit relaxed, not entirely, but more so than I have in the last 2 days. (let me stop for just a second and tell you, I’m typing on a German keyboard, and many letters and symbols are in different places….I am becoming frustrated already, because I keep having to hit the backspace key) I am at my school, although I did not attend any classes today, I have been to my new home-for-the-summer, shed my backpack and showered, and there is nothing left to do but exist in a different country for a few weeks.

I realize more than ever before how different my brother and I are. What he loves doing, traveling and all of the things that accompany being a vagabond, I have realized I do not. Dislike is not quite accurate, but I certainly could not live the way I have for the last two days all of the time. I enjoy my routine. I like having a place to sleep, showers, bathrooms (that you do not have to pay to use), coffee maker, books, computer; a like having a home. Right now I miss having a home to go home to. (I also really miss Julie….but that is for another time)

I made it to London yesterday at 8:45 am, and, as the previous post indicated, I wandered aimlessly through the city trying to find some ghost of a trainstation that would take me on an overnight to Munich. When I first posted yesterday, I had been walking with my boulder of a backpack for an hour or two, but that was only the beginning. After I left the cafe, I was sure I knew where to go; surely the new set of directions could not be as bad as the first. I was wrong. The directions were not as bad as they were vague. I spent the next several hours walking through London, seeing everything I had ever heard about, but not having time to stop and look around. Finally, I gave up. I hopped a train to Brussels, being told I could find a connection to Munich from there.

As hard as I am trying to remember, I have no recollection of the train ride to Brussels. I remember the station in London, being grilled by a customs agent, eating an overpriced (isn’t everthing in London?) bagel (first meal since 6:00 am), waiting in another waiting room for a couple of hours, and then I cannot even picture the train.

In Brussels I hit a wall. I was tired by the time I arrived there, having not slept more than 15 or so minutes at a time since I left Dallas, and so I was desperate to find a way to Munich. There were not direct connections, but I worked it out where I could take a train to Paris and then layover a few hours and take an all-nighter to Munich. The clerk asked if I would be willing to pay an extra 10€ for a bed on the second train, and I only laughed…that sounded GREAT!!

Paris woke me up a bit. It was cold and rainy, but what a beautiful place. I only wandered around for an hour or so, but that was enough to hook me. I think I will try to talk Julie into going there. It is tough to explain, but there is something uniquely magical about that place. Whereas walking around in London is like walking around New York City, crowded and hostile, Paris was very calm and inviting. I went and had a beer in a cozy little cafe where no one spoke English, though oddly beer did not need a translation, and then I caught my train to Munich.

A bed never looked so good as the one on that train last night. It was one of 6 bunks in a tiny room, each filled by a person. There was one English spoke, though he spoke French and German as well, one Frenchman, and three Germans. The trilingualist and one of the Germans talked well into the night, and so I laid in my bunk attempting to pick up bits and pieces of their conversation. It is funny to me how different the European mind is from the American. Six strangers shared a room together last night, and it was no big deal. I really enjoyed the experience.

I finally arrived in Munich at 9:00 am, had a cup of Milchkaffee, which we would call a latte, and navigated the public transportation system to my new home. After meeting Max, the other half of my host-couple, Constantine and I (he is a Athenian couch surfer staying with Anja and Max) headed back into the city, he to museums, and I to register at school. So, here I am.

Now I am off to buy my books…..and a JACKET. It is rainy and cold here! Max and Constantine both laughed when they heard that I was advised it would be hot here. They said it might be summer-like weather in July, but probably not anytime soon. Oh well, it just adds to the adventure.

Till next time.

I am lost in London. Not being funny…completely serious. I received vague-to-bad help from Gatwick, and now I am somewhere downtown looking for EurRail. I have no doubt that I will find it, but my back is hurting and I’m exhausted, so I thought it would do me good to stop at a little cafe’ and let everyone know that I am safe and have arrived safely. I am hoping to catch an overnight train to Munich….if I ever find the place.

I don’t think I have much to say right now. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I didn’t sleep on any of the plane rides or lay-overs. I did read all but a few pages of a Milan Kundera novel, watched 2 movies, and listened to my Ipod, but no sleep. I’m starting to feel it.

Virgin Atlantic was definitely a good choice. There were only two of us occupying three seats in my row, free cocktails just after takeoff, good food, wine with you dinner….it was a very enjoyable time.

I wish I had something eventful to report. London is great, I’ve seen all of the sights already. Hopefully in a day or so I will have more to report from Munich. Till then,

Michael

Tuesday, I walk back from the mailbox dejected, but still hopeful. Wednesday, same dejection, and only a slight tinge of doubt. Thursday, no sign of it anywhere, and I am beginning to get a bit anxious. As I gingerly step towards the box-o-mail on Friday afternoon, I am hope against all hope that it will be there, but I am disappointed yet again. Now the USPS is just joking around with me. The State Department’s website said that my passport should have been there on Tuesday, but there is still no sign of it anywhere. There is only one day left for the package to arrive before I have to start changing my travel arrangements, and so all my chips are riding on Saturday afternoon.

When I reluctantly open the box on Saturday afternoon, about 1:00 pm, I am elated at the sight of a priority mail envelope….and it is from the State Department. “Oh, thank God,” I say, “I thought it would never…….” Julie Stone? It was addressed to Julie Stone. I rip open the package, and sure enough, it is Julie’s passport, not mine. Julie’s passport, which she had applied for several weeks after I had applied for my own, was in her hands before mine was. She might not even use hers this year, but I NEED mine!!!!

After a series of long, not-for-blog tirades against the USPS, the State Department, the neighbors dog, the soap dispenser, and anything else that I could see or think of, I started making phone calls. You would think it might be easy to speak with someone at the post office about a missing package, but the USPS has become completely automated, and it took the better part of 30 minutes to get an actual person on the phone. When I finally got someone on the phone, Paula, she was exactly the kind of person that I needed at that moment. She was concerned and willing to help me. After hearing the story of my woes, she vowed to call me back after she made some phone calls. I was unclear whether I would ever hear from her again.

She did call back. Turns out that my passport had inexplicably been shipped to Keller, Tx. According to the postal employees that I spoke to, there is no rhyme or reason for this, it was just a mistake. The second mistake apparantly worked in my favor. The Keller people were supposed to mail it to the Ft. Worth facility on Friday after they had mistakenly received it, and this would have ensured, according to Paula, that I would not have received it until Thursday or Friday of this next week. Instead, they accidentally put it in the wrong stack and it was still there, by the grace of God, on Saturday afternoon. We had to drive out and get it, but the passport is now in my possession. I now shower with it, sleep with it, use it as a fork, and anything else it can be used for, because it is too valuable to let out of my sight.

Now I am on for Monday. I fly out at 12:00 pm, and so I will see you all in August.

Aufwiedersehen for now,

Michael

Has anyone seen one of these (left) lying around….maybe with my picture on the inside? I am supposed to be leaving for the Deutschland on Monday morning, but if these bound pieces of paper, with a plastic-veneer, and a picture of yours truly do not arrive by Saturday I am going to have to change my flight plans, and this will make me oh’so cranky. I’ve been patient, but even the State Department said it should have been here two days ago. They also said, depending on my local mail service, this might take an extra couple of days. With that in mind, I’m not overly concerned, but I am a tad bit irritated.

So, if you thought it would be funny to take this from my mailbox and hide it until the last moment, “ha, ha”…..now return it, please. And, if you are my wife, and you just don’t want me to go, this may not be the best deterrent….although, it certainly would be effective.

Yesterday I came home to what I thought was surely junk-mail. Sitting on the counter was this week’s edition of “Human Events: The National Conservative Weekly”. For those of you who are not subscribers, and how could you possibly call yourself an American and not be, let me give you a rundown of the enlightening content. Simply put, it is exactly what it sounds like, complete with the obligatory picture of George Bush on the front page, and replete with the word liberal, used as a curse-word of sorts (picture to the right was taken from an advertisement on their website). Julie nearly threw it out, but she noticed the subscription information, and it was addressed to me.

You might be saying to yourself, “Michael, are you a closet fundamentalist conservative?” Though my credibility in denying this has taken a serious hit by being an apparant active subscriber to a publication that has as its second page story, “The Da Vinci HOAX: Exposing the Errors in the Da Vinci Code”, nontheless, I have to say that I have not crossed over to the dark side. You question me? As well you should. I hear the questions, “Where did such propagandist literature come from?”….”Did it just magically appear on your doorstep?”….”Did the credit card act on its own initiative when it paid for this year-long subscription?”

The answer to each of these questions is quite comical. Several weeks ago, one of the parents of one of my students informed me, much to my surprise, that she and her husband would like to purchase a year’s subscription to a philosophic journal on my behalf, as some sort of going away present. She mentioned that they knew a philosopher, which sent red-flags up all around me, (no one calls themselves that, and most misuse the title as some sort of catch-all for someone who reads books not on the bestseller’s list) and he had recommended a few scholarly journals that I might be interested in. I was nervous, but nontheless flattered and excited, because I had been wanting to subscribe to a journal of some kind….and this one was free.

Apparantly, yesterday I received the scholarly journal that was promised to me….and I have 51 more fun-filled issues to eagerly anticipate. With articles entitled, “Read My Lips: No New Amnesty”, “The Da Vinci Code: Cashing in on Defaming Christ”, “The Left is Hopelessly Tied to the Culture of Death”, and other such ‘fair and balanced’ articles, I can hardly contain myself. If nothing else, I cannot imagine that I will be absent fodder for my blog for the forseeable future.

Here is my one question about this purchase: Who gets to know me for more than 5 minutes and thinks that this is my kind of news rag?

I am on my way out of the door, but I just have to say….

Two days ago I read a short story by Frank O’Connor (right), entitled, “The Drunkard“, and certain themes have stuck with me since. It is a very short read, so if you have a few minutes, I think it would be well worth your time. It was a funny twist of fate that even led me to this story. I was looking for a short stories by Flannery O’Connor, and I stumbled on this thinking it was hers. Quite lucky for me, because it was great.

For those of you who don’t have the time, allow me to recap. It is the story of a young boy and his alcoholic father. The father has a tendency to fall-of-the-wagon when the circumstances are right, and this usually has catastrophic consequences for the young boy’s family, symoblized by the memory of his mother having to go and pawn the kitchen clock.

The father’s binges are caused by certain events, which the boy and his mother fear when the words are so much as mentioned. One such ‘trigger’ is funerals, and the story ominously begins with the retelling of the death of one of the father’s peers. Though the father is not particularly close with the deceased, there is a certain social responsibility involved with his attendance at the graveside, and so he goes to the funeral, son in tow. After the casket is lowered into the ground, the throng descends upon the local pub. The son pleads with his father to take him home to no avail, but the cycle has already begun, and there is nothing for him to do but watch the inevitable destruction of his father and family.

As the father gets his beer, he turns from it to chat with his chums, leaving the glass unattended to tempt the boy. The youth’s curiosity takes precedence over his better judgment, and he chooses to steal some drinks of the mysterious brew, whose allure is so strong that it continually wrecks his family. When the father turns around it is too late. The young boy has downed the entire beer and is thoroughly drunk. The remainder of the story centers on getting the drunken child home and the consequences that necessarily ensue.

What I love about this story is the obvious reference to the hypocrisy of human nature in the concluding interchanges between the father and son. When the effects of excess alcohol are evidenced in the son; the beligerant attitude, the buffoonery, the shame, the father is repulsed by what he observes. He is shown to be hypocritical, because these same attitudes and actions in himself are acceptable, while in someone else they are shameful.

The question must be raised, who is the drunkard. The easiest route is to say that it is both the father and the son. What I know for certain is that I am the drunkard. I am both the son, who mirrors others’ sins, and the father, who is repulsed by my sins in others. Either way, both of the characters are similar in the fact that they each mirror the other. The father’s hypocrisy is more scandalous to the reader, but is it truly any different than the child’s? Am I any different than either?

I find my sins and/or character flaws quite comfortable to live with, yet I am repulsed by the attitudes and actions of others that are only different manifestations of my own wicked heart. The greediness of those around me, seeking money and possessions above all else, turns my stomach, but I am entirely comfortable with amassing my own fortune, though it might be smaller than others. It’s sometimes as simple as being frustrated by those who speed on the highway, but undoubtedly I will do the same the next time I am late for a meeting, disregarding the safety of those around me. I hate cell phone users in public, but I have been/will be guilty of the same offense. Laziness is irritating in my student, but in myself I excuse it as “much deserved rest”. Self-righteouness, lust, bitterness, anger; the thought of my reactions to them, internal as they may be, cut me to the quick. In fact, as I run through the laundry-list of what I deem to be shortcomings in others, I find that the majority of them are my own disguised in different forms.

It seems, in the words of Val Kilmer (the first and last quotation I steal from him I imagine) from Tombstone: “Apparantly my hypocrisy knows no bounds.”

Jamie has been politely getting-on-to-me for not posting about my good news, but I have been a little hesitant this last week to really be excited about anything yet. As those of you who are close to me may know, I have been in an interviewing process with St. Albans Episcopal School for the past few months, and at times it has seemed like a shoe-in, while other times it has been painfully slow and nerve-racking. The waiting is over, though, and last Monday I received a contract offer, which I jumped at. From all that I know, it is a great school, and I have a great opportunity presented to me.

I met with my new principal briefly on Monday, and she handed me over to one of the other English teachers there, so that I might discuss curriculum. Coming from Christway Academy, I assumed they would force me to use textbooks, or that they would at least be pretty strict about what the classes must consist of. I was dead wrong. They are the type of school that I was hoping for. I have been given almost complete freedom to design my classes as I see fit. The only real stipulation is that the read novels and learn to write papers over them. Is that not every academician’s dream?!

After spending 2 hours with this teacher, I was excited, but there was also an undeniable knot in my stomach, which was only partially attributable to the impending Mavs’ game later that night. What made me most nervous was the fact that these teachers know what they are doing. The other two teachers in the English department are seasoned veterans who have been teaching over 20 years apiece, and who have read more novels than I by a mile. It is not just that they have done those things, though that is impressive in itself, but they both seem really, really sharp, University of Dallas PhD.-student-sharp. As I left the meeting the full weight of the situation came upon me; there are these two apparant literary giants, and then there is me, a newcomer to the academic community. I am going to have to pretend to be one of them, which means that I am going to have to study for arse off this summer in preparation for the Fall.

Last night Julie and I thumbed through our library in pulled a couple of dozen books that would be suitable reading material for the 2 English classes that I will teach next year. It sounds as if the 2 History classes already have curriculum, but I found some stuff to supplement those classes, too. In the next week before I head overseas, I am going to have to winnow this stack of 20-30 novels down to 12-15, and come up with some rhyme or reason for doing so. I will then pack these up, read them this summer, and then figure out the best way to teach them. I am excited and scared-to-death, all at the same time. I have been dreaming of this opportunity for the last several years, and now it is here; I feel a bit overwhelmed at the prospect of it all.

As I get a final list going, I’ll post them for your critique.

I have decided to run for public office. I am all of 25 years old now, and I’m pretty sure that I have the world figured out. Sure, I don’t know much about foreign or domestic policy, I am quite bored with C-Span, and my knowledge of the functions of the government has been routinely set up against the most recent episode of “The West Wing”, but I have a platform by which I will attain victory.

My position is simple: Public Floggings. I believe many of our nation’s problems might be solved with public, legal beatings. Of course, this does nothing to curb illegal immigration or terrorism, or most other major issues, but it would reduce the inconveniences of my day; frankly, isn’t that what is most important?

So, who deserves these public pummelings?

1. Movie Talkers: is there anything worse than those people who cannot make it two hours without talking, and generally quite loudly, to those next to them. If you are incapable to sitting quietly and enjoying the show, stay home!, or suffer the consequences that you deserve.
2. Cell Phone Junkies: there is nothing wrong with answering your cell phone in public places. The 30-45 seconds it takes to tell them, “Hey, I’m sitting at Starbucks right now, so can I call you back when I leave?” is perfectly acceptable. That is the beauty of the cell phone. What is not acceptable is yelling, and does anyone talk into their phone without yelling; I’ve never seen it, while in a public setting. Someone even answered their phone in church yesterday morning….and talked to the person! There are appropriate places for phone conversations and inappopriate places; learn the difference or be prepared for the shame and pain that comes with public lashing.
3. Soccer Moms in SUV’s: I recognize that there are some of you, though the number is limited, that understand the intricate workings of using a steering wheel, and who realize you are truly not the only people on the road; I’m not referring to you. I am referring to those who don’t realize that they are driving what amounts to a military-tank, or a school bus, and who see no need to take into account other people on the roadways or in parking lots. They just talk on their cell phones, take up ten parking spaces at a times, and pretty much motor around wherever and whenever they want. In truth, I wouldn’t let them drive my bicycle, but the DMV has seen fit to let them operate these 10-ton battering rams, and the rest of us are forced to pay the consequences. Well, I say, not anymore.
4. The Absent-Parent: Simply put, when a child is in public, should it not be the parent’s responsibility to control that kid? If I am having dinner with my wife, should I have to pretend to be amused by the 4-year-old reaching from behind my both and playing with my hair? While I’m shopping at the bookstore, should I have to contend with Jr. running up and down the aisles yelling, knocking books to the floor as he goes? I can hardly blame the kids for being kids, so I choose to blame the parents for not being parents. A good, hard flogging should do the trick.
5. “That Happened to Me Once” Guy: you know him/her, the one who cannot let a comment go by without personalizing it and telling their own story. “I had a horrific car accident this weekend; my entire family was killed. We were…” He interrupts, “That happened to me once. I once backed into a car at the supermarket. I had just gone in to buy some onions, or was it lettuce….” The next 10 minutes are filled with his life story, and no one else can enter into the conversation. These people must learn that conversations are for everyone, not just them. There is a title for what they are doing: monologue.

I believe that public floggings would solve these problems, by teaching those offenders and future offenders a lesson….and if not, it would certainly amuse me.

Feel free to add to the list…I’m sure I will