Sunday, 14 August 2011
Wednesday 13th July
We finished at the Oasis really late tonight. And while it's lovely to cycle through the vineyards alone in the day time, I’ve discovered it's less pleasant to do so at night time. Thank you Lord for gangster angels.
Tuesday 12th July
You know, I’m just not sleeping well at the moment. I’m tired when I go to bed, but I can't fall asleep very easily. I think it's because I’m in this big, old house all by myself. Every noise I hear could be a burglar, every shadow a menacing threat and I feel that I have a responsibility to check it out. Normally I sleep fine, figuring that my housemates will deal with any problems, but now I’m it. I’m the last defence. So I lay awake at night waiting to see what that creaking sound was or if those drunken youths are going to hop the fence and try and break in. It probably doesn't help that I’m watching NCIS just before I go to bed. Or that I’m on the wrong side of someone on the wrong side of the law.Or that there's about 100 chickens living just a few metres away from my room.
I mowed the lawn this afternoon and cleaned out the terrapins. It's probably a shameful admission, but before coming here I’d never mowed the lawn before in my life. My folks have a gardener and my uni gardens have always been very insightfully paved over.
I mowed the lawn this afternoon and cleaned out the terrapins. It's probably a shameful admission, but before coming here I’d never mowed the lawn before in my life. My folks have a gardener and my uni gardens have always been very insightfully paved over.
I don't mind mowing the lawn as such, but I hate how loud the lawnmower is and how much attention it draws. I’m on the main road opposite a building site, so there are plenty of people to stare at me. And trying to get the darn thing started in the first place, oh my word! You put the cord, pull the cord, pull the cord, nothing happens! You feel like a complete failure. It's so embarrassing. And how are you meant to get all the bits round the edge? A monkey could do a better job than me!
Monday 11th July
Today was my first men's clothing room. It seems totally strange to me that the women on the team should be present at a men's clothing day because it was so gender separate in Athens, but it's different here. It's a small team so everyone has to muck in where they can.
My job today was to fold and pack clothes into plastic bags, to fit people for flip flops and to make sure no one was taking more items than allowed. While I’m not great at folding clothes with one hand, I’m even worse at telling impoverished refugees that they're only allowed to take one T-shirt, not two and one pair of shorts or trousers, not both. We don't have enough stock to let people take as much as they want, which is what I think all of our hearts is, so we have to be quite strict in enforcing the rules.
I used my Farsi today, and wished I’d spent some time revising the wardrobe section of my book before coming here. But I managed hold my own, and even proved to be quite useful as the other team members don't speak any Farsi. I also used my French. We've had an influx or North African refugees this past week so it's been a good opportunity to get some practice in. Again, I’m the only one on the team who speaks French, so I’m feeling quite useful at the moment. Most of the refugees are Russian speakers, which has left me feeling linguistically redundant. I’m appreciating the change. Not that my Russian hasn't vastly improved since I’ve been here. I know at least three words, not including vodka, and my accent is uncanny.
Since we finished at the Oasis quite early today, Claire and I decided to cycle home together and take some photos in the sunflower fields. On the way, my bike started making a loud clonking sound. Not going very fast and eager to know what it was, I looked down to see if I could see the cause. The next thing I knew, the door of a white Volvo was pressed up against my face and there was a sharp pain shooting through my ego. I had crashed my bike! Into a car I might add. Now before you all get too worried and start flooding my mailbox with Get Well Cards and flowers, I should provide one minor detail. The car I crashed into was stationary.
Now those of you who have seen me ride a bike before, or indeed operate any kind of vehicle or machinery, will no doubt, not be particularly surprised at this announcement. It was pretty much inevitable. Like Agent Smith killing Neo. But as in the Matrix, my story also developed a nail-biting twist. But we'll get to that later. First the story of the detour of my Monday afternoon.
The owner of the car was nowhere to be seen, so I wrote a little note in German and tucked it under the windscreen wiper. It contained an apology and my contact details. Surely this would be enough to discharge my responsibility as a good cyclist? Apparently my moral compass didn't think so, which is why it marched me to the local police station so that I could formally log the accident. In German I might add. That's the test of your language skills, when you spend the afternoon at a foreign police station explaining how rubbish your spatial awareness is. I of course started off by trying the old schoolboy trick, “kanst du English sprechen?”, but was forced to stumble on when the reply came “nein”.
I explained what had happened to the officer at the desk, who apparently found it so funny that he called over one of his mates and made me tell the story again. Stifling laughter, the second officer grabbed his friend and asked me to take them to the car I had crashed into so they could survey the damage. It's worth mentioning that the car was parked right in front of the Lager, and a group of Afghan women whom I’d befriended were sitting outside chatting. “Salam,” I said as I passed by. “Khoubi?” They nodded, eyes wide and eyebrows lifted high. I was so embarrassed. And I didn't know how to explain what had happened in Farsi, so I’m sure a few rumours were started that day.
Two deep scratches and a basket sized dent in the panel were the sum of the damage, and it looked pretty bad. We went back to the station to try and contact the owner, and that's where the twist comes in. We couldn't get hold of him because he's currently in prison doing time. Yes, I crashed into the car of a convicted felon. But don't worry, he gets out in a month, so we'll be able to sort it all out then. That's just super! And he knows where I live because my address in on the police report. Joy, joy, joy, joy, joy.
My job today was to fold and pack clothes into plastic bags, to fit people for flip flops and to make sure no one was taking more items than allowed. While I’m not great at folding clothes with one hand, I’m even worse at telling impoverished refugees that they're only allowed to take one T-shirt, not two and one pair of shorts or trousers, not both. We don't have enough stock to let people take as much as they want, which is what I think all of our hearts is, so we have to be quite strict in enforcing the rules.
I used my Farsi today, and wished I’d spent some time revising the wardrobe section of my book before coming here. But I managed hold my own, and even proved to be quite useful as the other team members don't speak any Farsi. I also used my French. We've had an influx or North African refugees this past week so it's been a good opportunity to get some practice in. Again, I’m the only one on the team who speaks French, so I’m feeling quite useful at the moment. Most of the refugees are Russian speakers, which has left me feeling linguistically redundant. I’m appreciating the change. Not that my Russian hasn't vastly improved since I’ve been here. I know at least three words, not including vodka, and my accent is uncanny.
Since we finished at the Oasis quite early today, Claire and I decided to cycle home together and take some photos in the sunflower fields. On the way, my bike started making a loud clonking sound. Not going very fast and eager to know what it was, I looked down to see if I could see the cause. The next thing I knew, the door of a white Volvo was pressed up against my face and there was a sharp pain shooting through my ego. I had crashed my bike! Into a car I might add. Now before you all get too worried and start flooding my mailbox with Get Well Cards and flowers, I should provide one minor detail. The car I crashed into was stationary.
Now those of you who have seen me ride a bike before, or indeed operate any kind of vehicle or machinery, will no doubt, not be particularly surprised at this announcement. It was pretty much inevitable. Like Agent Smith killing Neo. But as in the Matrix, my story also developed a nail-biting twist. But we'll get to that later. First the story of the detour of my Monday afternoon.
The owner of the car was nowhere to be seen, so I wrote a little note in German and tucked it under the windscreen wiper. It contained an apology and my contact details. Surely this would be enough to discharge my responsibility as a good cyclist? Apparently my moral compass didn't think so, which is why it marched me to the local police station so that I could formally log the accident. In German I might add. That's the test of your language skills, when you spend the afternoon at a foreign police station explaining how rubbish your spatial awareness is. I of course started off by trying the old schoolboy trick, “kanst du English sprechen?”, but was forced to stumble on when the reply came “nein”.
I explained what had happened to the officer at the desk, who apparently found it so funny that he called over one of his mates and made me tell the story again. Stifling laughter, the second officer grabbed his friend and asked me to take them to the car I had crashed into so they could survey the damage. It's worth mentioning that the car was parked right in front of the Lager, and a group of Afghan women whom I’d befriended were sitting outside chatting. “Salam,” I said as I passed by. “Khoubi?” They nodded, eyes wide and eyebrows lifted high. I was so embarrassed. And I didn't know how to explain what had happened in Farsi, so I’m sure a few rumours were started that day.
Two deep scratches and a basket sized dent in the panel were the sum of the damage, and it looked pretty bad. We went back to the station to try and contact the owner, and that's where the twist comes in. We couldn't get hold of him because he's currently in prison doing time. Yes, I crashed into the car of a convicted felon. But don't worry, he gets out in a month, so we'll be able to sort it all out then. That's just super! And he knows where I live because my address in on the police report. Joy, joy, joy, joy, joy.
Sunday 10th July
When I visited Cat last weekend I met Debbie, another Exeter student who I’ll be living with next year. We arranged to meet up again today so that we could get to know each other a bit. We agreed to meet at Karlsplatz, but I got there five minutes early and was absolutely bursting for the toilet. I ran about for ages, tears in my eyes, desperately searching for a loo when Debbie called and suggested I go to the one in the underground station. Oh my word these stations are hard to navigate. It's the most ridiculous signposting system in the world. They'd be better off not putting up any directions and letting us sniff the toilets out ourselves. The signs are so confusing; it's like they're put there to deliberately mess with your mind and challenge your bladder control capabilities. I honestly considered squatting in a corner somewhere in the station. Or maybe they just do it so that by the time you find the toilets you don't care that they're charging 70p to get in; I would have given £70.
Bladder relieved, I went to Karlskirche to meet Debbie. We walked to the canal together and had a picnic of Mc Donalds, lebkuchen and watermelon. First impressions, she's really nice and we'll have fun sharing a house next year.
After the picnic I had to get changed into more modest clothes because I was meeting a couple of Iranian believers that I met at the Oasis on Friday night. They'd invited me to their church and we arranged to meet at a high profile station so that I would be able to find it OK. But somehow I got hideously lost and was thirty minutes late. I was planning to change in the bathroom at Philadelphia Bruke station but because I was so late I had to change in between stops in the platform. Let's just say I’m no Houdini. I ended up ripping the sleeve off the top I was changing out of. Arrgghh! It's so frustrating.
I find the transport system here really confusing. The stations aren't very well marked so it's hard to tell when to get off the train. It was only as I approached the end of the line that I realised I'd gone too far. Then when I finally made back it to Philadelphia Bruke station, I found myself trapped in an underground labyrinth of escalators, kiosks and passageways. I went up here, down there, through that way, past the kiosks, back upstairs, round the pillar and I still couldn't find my friends. In the end they came looking for me and we were on our way.
Going to an Iranian church was really interesting. I recognised some of the songs- they must have been translated from English, but judging by the music most of them were written for the Farsi Church. Singing in Farsi is definitely a challenge for me. I find it hard enough to keep up with the words of a new song in English, so trying to read the lyrics in the Persian script in time with fast music was hard. It should help improve my overall reading speed for when I’m back studying Farsi at uni.
Bladder relieved, I went to Karlskirche to meet Debbie. We walked to the canal together and had a picnic of Mc Donalds, lebkuchen and watermelon. First impressions, she's really nice and we'll have fun sharing a house next year.
After the picnic I had to get changed into more modest clothes because I was meeting a couple of Iranian believers that I met at the Oasis on Friday night. They'd invited me to their church and we arranged to meet at a high profile station so that I would be able to find it OK. But somehow I got hideously lost and was thirty minutes late. I was planning to change in the bathroom at Philadelphia Bruke station but because I was so late I had to change in between stops in the platform. Let's just say I’m no Houdini. I ended up ripping the sleeve off the top I was changing out of. Arrgghh! It's so frustrating.
I find the transport system here really confusing. The stations aren't very well marked so it's hard to tell when to get off the train. It was only as I approached the end of the line that I realised I'd gone too far. Then when I finally made back it to Philadelphia Bruke station, I found myself trapped in an underground labyrinth of escalators, kiosks and passageways. I went up here, down there, through that way, past the kiosks, back upstairs, round the pillar and I still couldn't find my friends. In the end they came looking for me and we were on our way.
Going to an Iranian church was really interesting. I recognised some of the songs- they must have been translated from English, but judging by the music most of them were written for the Farsi Church. Singing in Farsi is definitely a challenge for me. I find it hard enough to keep up with the words of a new song in English, so trying to read the lyrics in the Persian script in time with fast music was hard. It should help improve my overall reading speed for when I’m back studying Farsi at uni.
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