Things to Do and Places to Go

A lot of interesting events happened last year. Two that stand out are 1) I talked DH into going to Cleveland because I wanted to see the exhibit for the 2018 inductees to the Rock’n’Roll Hall of Fame, specifically The Cars, and fell heads over heels in love. Cleveland is really cool, and if I wanted to stay in the US, I’d pack up the cats and the man and move. Also, I got to interview Joe Milliken for my other blog; Joe is the author of “Let’s Go! Benjamin Orr and The Cars,” a great, in-depth biography that came out in November. So for all things Cars-related, here is my heartfelt thanks to the late, great Ben Orr!

2) I decided to see if I liked the idea of teaching English (see also my previous post), got certified, certified, certified, and certified, found a job, and am having a great time learning with and from my students, even it’s mostly biology. Whoda thunk?!

Both occurrences have roots, or rather tentacles, or maybe runners, that stretch into 2019. In the summer, we’re going back to Cleveland, and I can’t wait! We would probably have planned another trip anyway, but now it’s definitely on the list because this morning, I was accepted to the CELTA course run by International House Frankfurt in July! This is a prestigious, intense, four-week training class run by the University of Cambridge, and I am literally frothing at the mouth that I got in (ok, it could be because I didn’t have time for lunch today and I’m hungry, sue me!). The two words that describe me best right now are TOTALLY and TICKLED.

Closer to home, I’d like to make it official: the Fort Wayne weather service is the absolute worst on the planet. Sure, sure, it’s kind of windy out there, but is it cold? Wet? Snowing? Nope. Balmy and sunny! Sunny, as in that golden orb in the sky, and balmy, as in the so-called meteorologists that make these predictions. Do you have to pay money to go to school for that? *snort*

Nature or Nurture?

My mother used to make fun of our last name when my parents were still married. She claimed it was a derivative of “Schultheis”, only she’d pronounce it “Schul-theis”, emphasizing the ‘Schul’ or ‘school’ part. It certainly seemed fitting: pretty much everyone in my dad’s family was somehow associated with school or university. My grandfather used to be a teacher, then the principal of the school my father went to. Dad’s eldest brother was a professor at the local university, the middle brother a teacher in Switzerland. My dad himself had planned on attending uni for teaching, except I came along, and plans, well, changed.

As a kid, I always thought being a teacher seemed kind of boring. And a lot of work. In other words, not a job for me. If I couldn’t marry Prince Edward and be a princess, I’d be the singer in a rock band, and if that didn’t work out, there was always the option of becoming an adventurer in Australia. Naturally, I married a man who considered teaching as a career after retiring from the military… *cough, cough*

Many people seem to feel nostalgic about their time in high school. I look back upon mine with fear and loathing. After I was held back a grade, what remained of my less-than-stellar scholastic career comprised some of the shittiest years of my life. You can imagine my surprise when I, for lack of a better idea, enrolled in college in the US and actually started to enjoy learning! Decades passed, education happened, professional development occurred, but nobody ever mentioned the T-word again.

Until the husband decided to consider a degree in TESOL. He even did some observation and student teaching, from which he quickly gathered that, on second thought, this was not really the right path for him. But somewhere along the lines, the acronym TEFL kept popping up like a cartoon speech bubble in my head. I have always enjoyed language learning. English was my favorite subject in school. And if you do it right, you won’t be stuck teaching a bunch of kids. Right?

It turned out that a friend of mine had gone the TEFL path and very much enjoyed it. I had also become aware that an unreasonable percentage of my Facebook friends were in education, as teachers, principals, deans, tutors. It was beginning to look like a setup!

It took some soul searching and some serious consideration of pros and cons, but finally I signed up for an online TEFL course. Living in the vast wasteland of, well, anything as we do, of course there were no classroom courses available in my area, and being unemployed (or less than optimally employed) didn’t allow for the financial folly of spending  a few weeks in a more educationally aware place like, let’s say, the Big Windy. Again, surprisingly, I enjoyed the course. So much so that I decided to add on a specialized certificate in Teaching Young Learners. And while I’m on the topic, why not tack on Teaching Business English? Oh, there’s a sale, let’s pick up Preparing for the IELTS. And what the heck, might as well get an idea about Teaching English Online…

I see that superior smile you’re cracking: sure, sure, that’s a lot of pretty papers, but that doesn’t make you a teacher. No, you’re right, teaching makes you a teacher. When I signed up for the TEFL course, it did not include a practicum like other courses do. And even the one that did basically said “arrange for your practicum, and we’ll give you extra credit for it.” Instead, I started to look into what types of jobs were available. When I stumbled over postings for ESL School Assistants, I knew I was on the right track. Within a short period, I had interviews lined up at the elementary, middle, and high school level. The principal of the elementary school never called me back (which is, by the way, unprofessional and bad manners – always call back, even if you decide to hire someone else!). The AP of the high school was really nice and seemed to really like me, and just as importantly, the guidance counselor sitting in with us also really liked me. They were so enthusiastic, they offered me the job that afternoon. I was so elated, I accepted. The interview with the middle school never happened.

On my first day, I got to shadow one of the other school assistants. After my five hours there, I was sure I had made a mistake. These kids were loud! They didn’t know the difference between active and passive voice in tenth grade! They didn’t work! They were unmanageable!! The school assistant’s job seemed to primarily involve yelling at people to be quiet, giving them talks in the hallway, or cajoling them into doing something resembling school work. I went home, shell-shocked. When I told the husband, he said “well, it’s an inner city school. You could just quit.” I went back the next day and decided to visit my own classes instead of doing another tag-along. And then, I stayed.

In the beginning, it was indeed a lot of yelling. Amazingly, teenagers are ill prepared and quite unwilling to stay welded to their seats and pay attention quietly for seven hours a day. The classes were huge, having close to thirty kids in the classroom was the norm. Most kids spoke Spanish as their first language. A great number spoke Karen. A few spoke Arabic. No allowances seemed to made for those ELLs, everyone was taught the same content with the same material. The ELLs had English class before everything else, and naively, I assumed that meant they were being prepared for the academic skills they needed to succeed in school. When in Government class I asked my kids what was meant by “the right to bear arms”, they flapped their appendages. They really didn’t know! At this point I realized that yelling and talking-to would not do with these kids, most of whom really wanted to do better scholastically. I would have to assume the role of tutor and, you guessed it, teacher.

This summer, I hope to attend a four-week CELTA course back home and afterwards, get a job as an actual English teacher overseas. Now ask yourself: have I always had the propensity to teach? Is there a teaching gene? Or was it enough to fall in love with the process and possibilities of learning at college? My mother, by the way, decided to switch gears and go into senior care after my parents divorced. As she advanced in her profession, she did a long-term stint as an educator for the next generation of care-givers. Her husband, who used to be her professor, now runs the care facility where she works. “Schul-theis” indeed.

Letting it All Hang Out

This year, I will tell you honestly, has surprised me. Whether we believe in the transformative power of dates or not, I think that many of us harbour secret hopes every New Year’s Eve that things will magically change overnight, that the worries and sorrows of the old year will somehow stay behind us and we can start over with a clean slate. Just as many of us have been disappointed that merely turning to a new calendar leaf doesn’t really change anything. But sometimes, just sometimes, the whammy comes out of the blue when you’ve given up expecting it, like some mythological Deus ex Machina, to grant us the reset we’d all but given up on.

That’s exactly what happened. Since January 1st, I have been in an inexplicably good mood. Sure, I’ve gotten cranky a couple of times, but each time it utterly failed to ruin my day. I’ve had two days of semi-depression, and even those weren’t as bad as they could have been. My long-buried and half forgotten creativity has pushed to the surface with a vengeance, and I am so swamped with ideas that every day is at least 12 hours too short. There is reading to be done, words are waiting to be put to keyboard, paint to paper; one idea is not quite finished before it yields another and yet another, and so on it goes. And above -or beneath- it all burns that joyful flame that tickles my belly like a swarm of lovey-dovey butterflies.

I’ve tried getting you, my dear readers, involved in the process but you’ve once again proven resistant to the effort. Perhaps you are shy and don’t want to share your ideas. Perhaps you think you don’t have any. And perhaps some of you do have ideas, but you’ve unlearnt the process of letting it all hang out. This year, no matter what turns may come, my creative hair is down. The cork is popped. The genie will not return to the bottle. When we suffer hard times, we tell ourselves to hang in there and ride it out. Well, the time has now come to surf this wave and enjoy it while it lasts. I appreciate you coming along.

Come Together

Hoosiers are a hospitable lot. No doubt about it. If you smell a ‘but’ coming here, you are of course correct. BUT… they seem utterly incapable of making appointments in an orderly fashion. Or follow through on something previously agreed upon. Perhaps that’s my German orderliness speaking here, but it does get a bit irritating. Like this morning. Loewe’s was supposed to call when they were on the way to deliver our floor parts. I knew they were about to show when I heard the truck back up in my driveway. Also, our floor guy was supposed to call to let us know when he’s planning on being here tomorrow. It’s going on five, and nothing. I just hope we’re dressed when the doorbell rings!

Be that as it may, it’s nice to see that things are moving again.

Laminate

“When I grow up, I’m going to be a laminate floor!”

Pile of Tile

And how about this lovely pile of tile?

In the upper picture you can see a fine example of our current carpeting. I’m looking forward to next week, when things ought to look rather different! Riley, meanwhile, takes advantage of the fact that she can still get into the kitchen by catching a nap on the warm stove.

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

Now, I know some of you are curious what the place looks like on the inside. I hate to present an unfinished job, but here you go. Pardon the mess. It’ll get a bit worse before it gets a lot better.

Dining Room

That’s a view to the dining room from the kitchen.

Garden Room

Adjacent is the garden room where we have breakfast and watch the birds in the morning.

Living room

And our living room. You may have noticed that we have beautiful big windows all around. They are casement windows, which means that you crank open the pane with a little handcrank. The glass bit is on the outside, the screen or storm window -dependent on the season- is on the inside. The drawback to that is that every outer surface is reflective. We’ve had three birds accidentally kill themselves by crashing into the windows in the past few weeks. To prevent that in future, we’ve ordered bird strips from the American Bird Conservancy. They are clear so you can still see through but just opaque enough to indicate to the birds that there is in fact an object in the way. To my astonishment, they’ve already shipped. I hope they’ll help. Have you had a similar problem? What did you do about it? Let’s hear from you!

Notes from Hoosierville

I said on Facebook this morning that you can tell autumn has arrived by the fact that the leaves are turning – and falling- and hordes of birds are invading the backyard. DH has ordered a brand new camera with tele lens just for all the crazy nature shots. Speaking of nature, I’ve noticed something else: when it rains back home, there are loads of earthworms and slugs all over, but here, not a one. Kind of makes me wonder.

The settling in continues. Last night, we tried the local pizza joint, and the pie was rather edible. Taco pizza may sound odd to some, but it’s a bit of speciality around here: instead of tomato sauce, there are refried beans on the bottom, then usually some ground beef, shredded lettuce, cheese, salsa and sour cream, or a variation thereof. Pretty tasty stuff, that.

We also just got a date for our floorwork; they’ll begin with the tiling on the 18th.

And some linguistic oddities for the lovers of the verbal arts amongst you: on the right you’ll see what the Hoosier says, on the left what that means to the rest of us. Read and repeat 😉

Rooff (short ‘oo’) = roof

roott = root

dinner = lunch

supper = dinner

pop = soda, carbonated beverage

crick = creek

Oh, and they put salt on their watermelon… 

Intermission 1

Meanwhile, back at the pad… I am very excited to bring you the following news: we have selected, purchased and signed the contract for our new flooring, which should be in by the end of October! The kitchen and master bath will have some lovely tiling done, most of the rest of the house will get a gorgeous laminate laid. And the bill was exactly what DH had expected, so that worked out great. While hanging about at Lowe’s, we started looking at doors, as well, as our back door is in sorry shape indeed. So you see, things are progressing.

We’ve also ventured into supporting local businesses. Our previous tenants run an antique/general store (can’t seem to get away from that unbeatable combo) in an even smaller town near here, where amongst other goodies, they sell a fair trade coffee that is roasted locally. It’s actually a nice, robust blend that gets me going in the morning, so I’d mark that as a good decision.

If you know about our passion for pancakes, you can guess that we need maple syrup. Lo and behold, one of our neighbours makes his own! You can purchase it in various sizes at the sugar shack.

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The Bad Poets’ Society strike again

Perth certainly is an inspiring place. All I wanted to do this morning is go to the beach and write bad prose. You know, the ‘woe is me being all alone on this stinkin’ beach’ kind. But when I arrived there, so did a huge black cloud, and not of the proverbial kind, prompting me to write bad poetry instead. I really must get the band together while this streak lasts! Without further ado, here is my ‘woe is me being all alone getting rained on on this stinkin’ beach’ poetry…

Place in the Sand

The ocean rushes at me angrily

It’s been waiting

But I was late for our appointment

Contemptuously, it has me sprayed from above

But I am stubborn too:

I curl myself into a clam

With my back to the rain

And insist;

This is it, my place in the sand

The clouds practise benevolence in parting

The water gushes away from the shore

And I get to be a piece

Of this sandy puzzle

Let’s just say that freezing in the breeze after getting drenched for no reason at all didn’t exactly improve the mood from earlier:

On the Beach

Ankle-deep on the beach

Knee-deep in quicksand

Up to my neck in the Swanbourne Mire

In over my head

Oh, Pathos, my long lost brother! Can I scrape up any more wounded warrior stuff? You bet! How’s this for you jilted lovers?

Untitled

Rumour has it, I gave you my heart

What then is this bloody rag

You’re stuffing back into my chest

Carelessly jangling its tattered edges

With your long fingers

As if braiding a bracelet

I came here for you

But all I find is emptiness

At the business end of an invitation

To parasitic friendship

Raise a glass to disillusionment!

Here, let me help you tie that noose now, shall I? At this stage I’m willing to blame an acute lack of sleep for my misgivings. Oddly enough, being here feels quite natural, as if I’d never been anyplace else. 

 

Cold Feet

Expectations are somewhat of a double-edged sword, the little cousins of Hope and Despair. Sounds a bit dramatic? Believe me, from where I’m sitting right now, it feels even worse. Of course, this anti-climactic crash in excitement is neither uncommon nor unexpected. I get it regularly, whether I’m supposed to spend a weekend at my mum’s, go to a concert, or even just attend a reading near my house. Invariably, I’ll be looking forward to going until the event is nearly upon me, at which point all I want to do is crawl into a hole and die (or hibernate, if you prefer less drastic measures).

My upcoming trip to Perth is no exception and indeed is worse than usual. Then again, the build-up has been much more intense and enganging, as well. In three short days, I’ll drag my behind through four airports to reach my destination. I might meet with some undoubtedly lovely people while there, stay at a cosy place near the beach, see the sights, soak up some sun, and generally live the fabulous life. Still all I can think right now is how cool it would be to just stay here, sleep in and go on with the daily routine. What if it rains? What if I hate it? What if it hates me? What if it turns out to be a colossal waste of time? WA, after all, never greatly featured on my map, like, ever. Plus, there’s that tiny superstitious voice in the back of my mind whispering that there once was a time in my younger days when I believed I’d be safe in air travel as long as I hadn’t realised my dream to go to Australia. This trip is my second. What if I’m tempting fate?

Ridiculous? Don’t be so unkind! High-strung, overwrought and entirely exaggerated? You bet your bootie! Fortunately, as we learn from studying economics, every system has its ups and downs, and this too shall pass. By this time next week, you’ll all be bored with my constant outbreaks of rapture. Meanwhile, thanks for listening.

Vyv Does Oz: Come Together

First, a hearty g’day to my most recent visitor via Telstra, location merely identified as ‘Australia’ (a tiny island off the New Zealand coast, as we know). Second, apologies to all those visitors who for some odd reason keep coming to read about my rye bread adventures. The first try turned out rather disappointing, and I honestly haven’t had the balls to try again – not that I’m not normally ball-less, for obvious reasons.

As I gleefully noted yesterday, there are 41 days left in my calendar until I can quit retail hell. I have been assured that I’ve earned enough dough to finance my excursion to the Bushland, so it is with great relief that I will make my escape one day before my birthday. And since I know how difficult a time you have all had, my dear readers, I will now finally unveil some of the facts about this trip.

I am going to Perth, Western Australia, dubbed “City of Light” back when residents lit up the place as John Glenn passed by far above. That was back in 1962, obviously a momentous year for many reasons. Why am I going to Perth? Well, for one, it looks like this:

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(I do not own this picture. It belongs to someone who previously posted, then apparently deleted it from Flickr. This is a cached copy from Google. I hope to replace it with my own shot when I get back)

For another, it was a flea brain idea with no real reason behind it other than a somewhat goofy joke about winning the lotto and buying a derelict house in the lovely ‘burb of Peppermint Grove, whose postal code happens to be nearly the same as my old telephone prefix from Frankfurt. I had a penpal in WA once, but it wasn’t serious, and going to a desert state never occurred to me, but here we are. Made for each other, perhaps.

I’ll be leaving German shores on April 17, which will hopefully get me to Perth on the 18th, even though my flight plan has been changed about fifteen times since I booked my ticket. That’s ridiculous. I’ll enjoy two weeks in the ever-changing city with the worst customer service outside of the United States, if you can believe recent articles in the WA Today, then return to homesoil on May 2. Why? For one, I wanted to be in Perth for ANZAC Day. Blame it on Sydney. I was THERE for ANZAC Day, and yet totally missed all of it, so I’m going to satisfy my curiosity about how the Australians spend their version of Veterans’ Day. Whilst planning this trip, I accidentally discovered an oddity besides that, which I like to call the Mystery of April 18.

You see, back in 1989, when I had first made an attempt to get across the pond, I had actually applied for and been granted, a travel visa. I found it a few months ago in a long-since-expired passport. The issue date was April 18. Haha, I thought, and kept on rummaging through my drawer in search of some documentation I needed to get my job. Then I came across the passport I used in 2006. My entry visa was stamped April 18. When I originally planned the Perth visit, I chose the departure date based on the fact that my BFF wanted to accompany me, and I wanted to leave shortly after her boyfriend’s birthday; hence, the 17 April date. That now, again, I shall set foot onto red soil -albeit buried under concrete- on 18 April is downright spooky.

I’m flying with Qatar Air. Why? Because when I flew to Sydney, I did not, and this happened: I arrived at the airport at six o’clock. In the bloody morning. Which got me to the hotel, exhausted, sick and in desperate need of a bed, by seven. The staff were very apologetic, but they were fully booked (because of ANZAC Day), and my room would not be ready until that afternoon. I crashed, literally, in an armchair in the lobby, surrounded by various members of various marching bands, as well as piles of instrument cases. Luckily, a room was found by eleven o’clock, and I promptly spent my first day in Australia in bed. Hoping to do better this time, I expect to arrive late in the afternoon, so that I can settle in and go to bed at a more reasonable hour.

I’m not booking a hotel. Why not? Because it’s been discouraged from everything I’ve read, and because I’ve found airbnb. People privately rent rooms and even apartments and houses, and the pickings are far from slim. I also appreciate the user/visitor feedback people can give, and the vast range of accommodations. If my first choice should fall through, I’m looking at staying in Freo. I’d rather be close to the ocean and have to go into town to do stuff, than the other way round. If you’ve grown up landlocked, like I have, you understand why.

Thanks to the fantastic webbing of Facebook, I find myself in the odd situation of knowing Perthites now: original Perthites, ex-Perthites now congregating in Melbourne, ex-ex-Perthites who have happily settled into their hometown, and folks who moved there for various reasons from other places. Who knows if any of that means anything, but it may at least lend some inspiration for an evening or two out.

And so things stand as of today. As snow falls outside my windows, whereas in WA temperatures are routinely in the 30s these days, the whole notion of going to a place where palm trees grow, cars drive on the wrong side of the road, and people make funny faces at my English until I pretend to remember how to “talk properly” (leading my friend Nigel to exclaim that I sound ‘like a Canadian who’s lived in Europe for some time’) seems like the fog-brained dream it was a year ago. Yet, I can feel that little excited spark building somewhere deep inside my restless soul…

Vyv Does Oz: the Devil is in the Details

Or at least, that’s what they say. Whoever “they” may be. Fortunately for me, “they” are wrong. The devil has left the details to me, and they’ve been taken care of. First, I’ll be in the City of Lights for two weeks, and knowing me, anything might happen, especially if it involves running into traffic whilst still half asleep or stumbling over my own feet. To cover any potential bumps and bruises, I’ve taken out overseas insurance. It was both easy and cheap and took about five minutes via my automobile club (“why, it’s the nice young man from the automobile club!!” -chuckle-)

Because my trip is nearly six months away, I’ve sprung for travel insurance this time round, too. I’m fervently hoping I won’t need to use it, but better safe than stuck with a huge bill, right?

I remember that getting into Australia is not as easy as landing at the airport, showing your passport and getting sent on your way. Especially, do not mention the word “work” if you’re a tourist (won’t happen. I’m on holiday, yo!). Nor should you attempt to smuggle in tiny bits of chocolate. So what, if you got the bloody choccy from some Qantas guy, and he probably got it from his Aussie caterer in Sydney. Yeah, there’s a story behind that, but since I wasn’t actually trying to smuggle choccy in, I’ll stop here. I’m also not flying Qantas this time, but Quatar. What I thought was supereasy was getting the e-visa. Takes no time at all, just do it online. It’s good for a year, so should I win the lotto between now and next August, I can still do Brissie in September before it expires.

If you think there’s something vital missing, you’re right. I haven’t made any arrangements for accommodations yet, although I have a few non-hotel options. I really, REALLY want this one place… near Cottesloe… like I’m gonna cry about beachside quarters… 😉 Update to follow, once there’s something to follow up on.