Читать книгу Dear Jeril... Love, Dad - Wayne P. Anderson - Страница 4

Dear Jeril,

We are in a pleasant German village surrounded by fields of grain and small forests. The village, like many in Germany, includes many farmers whose barns and manure piles sit next door to the bank or a modern apartment house. Flowers are everywhere, it is quiet, the air is clear, the temperature is seldom over eighty, and good fresh bread is in the shops—all in all, a good place to relax and do as little as possible.

And that is mostly what I’ve been doing. The last two months in Columbia had been days, nights and weekends of activity, much of it almost frantic. As a result the first four weeks here I slept and read and took an occasional work break. (Actually I teach my classes three days a week.)

We live in a three-bedroom duplex with our landlord above us. They’re friendly, but have typical German compulsiveness. The Germans are the most security conscious people I’ve ever lived among. No outside doorknobs on houses; you must have a key or be let in. All inside doors are heavy with a key prominent in them, and thin curtains are pulled over the windows at all times, or the owner speaks to you about it.

The heavy window shutters must be down at night, and cars by law must be locked at all times. They also correct your pronunciation of both German and English and never fail to loudly point out any minor traffic violations.

Our four days in Paris were very pleasant and gave me an opportunity to reappraise my attitude toward the French. I now feel much warmer toward them. They jay-walk, going against the lights both walking and driving. They never correct my miserable mispronunciations and generally try to be helpful only when asked. I didn’t remember them that way on my former visits, and it may have something to do with the contrast with the Germans. I also find the French to be physically more attractive since they don’t seem to gain weight the way the Germans do as they get older. Fifty percent of the Germans are overweight.

The above should not be taken as any indication we don’t like living with Germans. We do enjoy it here. My German is now good enough for daily commercial matters and an occasional slow, halting conversation on mundane matters. This certainly increases my sense of comfort when traveling.

In what has now become a European tradition with us, our Volkswagen has turned into a jinx. It has a mysterious ability to cloud mechanics’ minds so they do strange unexplainable things, like hook up hoses wrong, put in wrong parts, mis-connect wires and make misdiagnoses. We’ve tried three Volkswagen places, all of which have made mistakes.

In the follow-up breakdowns they stand in awe that such a mistake could have possibly been made. They swear at each other so fast I can’t follow them. I learned my German from books so I don’t understand those words, anyway. They do repair for free their former mistakes. In one case they even managed to foul that up. At times I feel I’ve been caught in a three stooges comedy.

Coming on the base today my car was checked by a “bomb dog” and my ID by one armed guard while another one covered me. We’re on a terrorist alert, and all bases are being carefully checked, and even those of us with military license plates are evidently suspect.

We also get checked on those days when war games are being played. Last week the Education Center at Ramstein became a casualty, but I managed to disappear before the stretcher bearers arrived to carry the ‘’injured and dead” off. The Air Force puts very realistic wounds and blood on its practice victims.

We have finally really gotten into the mood for travel. Besides Paris we’ve been to Strasbourg, Baden-Baden, Worms, Dijon and a dozen villages and small towns in France and Germany. Next weekend hopefully we’ll be in Munich. We got our energy for travel back just as the dollar started to fall apart. Fortunately we don’t have any overpowering urge to dine out much here in Germany. They serve big meals, and like good depression babies Carla and I feel we must eat whatever is put in front of us.

Our best trip so far has been to the Burgundy region to visit an archaeological dig run by an assistant professor from the University of Missouri. Although many places we have visited have old Roman ruins, this site in Burgundy was an attempt to reach down for some Celtic remains.

The Celts used to come out of their hill fortifications—tall, naked men painted blue—and proceed to beat the Romans over the head. That was, before superior tactics finally overcame them. The soil is so acid that remains are hard to find, but we enjoyed seeing the techniques of a dig and did see at least a few pieces that will end up in a museum.

Strasbourg is considered a must-see for those who like quaint cities with a foot solidly in the past. It’s also the season there for music and dance. The dancing is done with much élan, but lacks a bit of finish. The wet, cool weather continues; but from what I hear about conditions in Missouri, we have missed little by being here.

The summer hurries toward its end—a couple more classes, a few more bottles of white wine, and we’ll be homeward bound.

Love, Dad