So to start, I’ll apologize to anyone who cares about not updating this blog in so long. If you didn’t know, I moved to Germany on September 1st, and I’ve been in Europe ever since. I’m here on a Fulbright Scholarship, teaching English in a little city, far in Eastern Germany, called Cottbus. I’ll be here until June, and so far, here are my musings.
Now, just to disclose up front, Europe annoys me. I’ve been here many times before, and each time I return I find something new to hate. The food’s too small, not enough ketchup or ice, not enough space on the roads, the hot tubs are too hot, they only have lame colors for mini- golf balls, the rides aren’t scary enough at Disneyland Paris, the list goes on. In that case, you might ask why I would ever agree to live for a year in Europe. And I would say, good question, and my only answer, is that all these minor annoyances are surmountable, in the name of an adventure on the continent.
I landed in Berlin after a brief transition in Frankfurt, and got on my way to Cottbus, in Poland, I mean, Brandenburg, Germany. When I was first assigned here, I was a little confused, because I figured, although I wasn’t a German geography major, that I would at least have heard of the city. As you may have picked up from my Poland joke, Cottbus is in East Germany. Far Eastern Germany. Like so far that the street signs are in German, but also in Sorbian, a tiny Slavic dialect.
The English teacher I work with picked me up from the train station with his wife, and showed me to my apartment, which actually turned out to be more of a commune than anything. I had found the place online, and figured, it would be a good way to meet people, if I had 13 roommates. I was in for a bit of a shock when I discovered that everyone shared all the food (except yogurt, which I assume is used like black market hard currency was back in the Soviet days, in order to buy favors and protection rackets.) But the people were all extremely nice, although they pretty much only speak German to me. It’s great in one sense, that I’ll get to improve my German, but on the other hand, it really whittles down who I am. I’m a very verbal person. I’ve always done well on that section in standardized tests. Sometimes I start to lose my voice just from telling story after story, joke after joke, when I meet someone. It’s difficult because such a large part of my identity is now almost completely gone. I can’t make too many jokes. I can’t dazzle them with my political acumen, or my incisive social commentary. I couldn’t help but think of “Waiting for Godot,” when Vladimir and Estragon continually ask each other “What?” because they’re so incapable of understanding one another.
I like to explain things. I will never miss a chance to talk about my friends with complete strangers, because I want them to understand how funny they are. I want them to feel what I feel, and think how I think. Shortly after I arrived in Cottbus, I went and met my friend in Munich, where we set about a whirlwind tour of Germany and the Czech Republic. We toured the beer halls of Munich, and the famous five story club in Prague, until 8 a.m. one night. Morning? With everyone we’d meet, including some British lads and lasses, and an Australian, we quickly set about explaining one of our friends who has become a mythical being in our collective consciousness. If you know me, then you probably know who this mysterious, legendary person is. You may have selfishly, resented our obsession with this seemingly everyday person. But the obsession isn’t really with the person, it’s from the feeling we get when we explain him in such a way that complete strangers from other countries friend him on facebook, or when we can get entire crowds to yell: “All hail ____!” just because they’re so impressed with the legends surrounding him. I think no matter what job I do, I’ll always be a storyteller by trade. So when I explain him in a way that’s that effective, it’s the ultimate storyteller’s high. I’ve gotten people to experience what I’ve experienced, the joys and sorrows, the puzzlement. Maybe not in the same way that I have, but in some meaningful way.
I don’t think there’s anything more gratifying, indeed, more necessary, than thinking: “Yes. This person just understood me. Completely.” There will always be the question of whether language can even convey our thoughts perfectly, but I think that’s splitting hairs. When someone “gets” what you have to say, there’s a tangible feeling of euphoria. You almost shout over each other with joy at the moment you finally make that connection. And that’s what makes speaking a foreign language, imperfectly as I do, somewhat depressing. My new roommates can never understand my stories, through no fault of their own, but only because we’re separated by language.
So now that I can’t share my old stories, now that I can’t explain my life in the way that I’m used to, I’m at a loss. It’s like being sent back a few grades. Like back to eight or ninth grade, in terms of the thoughts and nuances I’m able to express. On one of my first nights here, I watched “Lost in Translation” with Bill Murray. I watched the film once with my dad years ago, and hated it, hoping for more of the same Bill Murray of “Caddyshack,” and “Ghostbusters,” fame. I’m certainly glad I went back and watched it though, because it touched on a lot of things that I’ve been feeling since of arrived in Germany. In one early scene Bill Murray stands in an elevator, towering over all the Japanese businessmen he shares it with. He looks around awkwardly, until he finally makes it to his floor. This scene happens again a bit later, except this time, Murray’s eyes land on Scarlett Johansson, who sticks almost as much as he does, with strawberry blonde hair. They immediately lock eyes, in a sort of knowing exchange that seems to comfort them, as only two outsiders can comfort one another in a strange land.
As movie conventions demand, Murray and Johansson develop a romantic interest, but what results is anything but conventional. Murray is seemingly stuck in a rut with a marriage he’s growing bored with, and Johansson is a philosophy major in a relationship with a superficial photographer. At one crucial point in the movie, Johansson says: “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be.” She goes on to say that she tried being a writer, and Murray encourages her to keep writing. It was one of those experiences that makes one stop and wonder for a moment. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be, and I don’ t think it’s an accident that writing is a big part of my life as well. Writers are weird, especially the good ones. Writers are all or nothing people in a lot of ways. They either languish in obscurity, or write the Great American Novel. Or, they either reach the joyous heights of expressing themselves in a way that they feel is complete, or they spiral into an uncontrollable depression about their inability to articulate their ideas. Lot’s of times both. But I think as a writer, you have to bear in mind Napoleon’s old adage, that “Glory is fleeting, obscurity is forever.” It’s true that even when we do write the bestseller, it might drop off the charts. But that one moment of glory, be it artistic, commercial, or expressive, is enough to get us to walk the tightrope over the chasm of irrelevance. And while we’re doing all this battling with obscurity and reaching for glory, it’s easy to wonder who you are and what you’re supposed to be. The scene seemed so perfectly tailored to what I was feeling at the time, that the director, Sofia Coppola, perfectly accomplished what I always try to, which is to make someone feel what I’m feeling. I felt that question inside me. It really made no difference that Johansson asked it, because it was just as cathartic to have it out there in some ways, as if I had asked it myself. It’s that comfort we seek in checking our phones constantly, or calling mom when we’re stressed. It’s the comfort that some seek in religion, or a benevolent nanny-state. It’s the hope that maybe we’re not alone. That maybe, there are other people who feel like we do, who ask the same questions, and that maybe the answers aren’t really what matters.
It’s the same pleasure I get out of telling stories. When I get someone to feel what I feel, we’re creating an ad- hoc community. Not a community based on nationality, nor race, nor creed. It’s a community based around a feeling or an idea, which are always the most powerful ones. And that’s the existential nightmare, for me, that I really may not be that much in a vacuum. That a lot of who I am I draw from my interactions with other people. If you’re a fan of sociology, you’ll know that this is exactly Charles Horton Cooley’s idea of the Looking Glass Self. It basically states, that we base a lot of how we perceive ourselves on how we perceive others perceiving us. That’s a whole lot of perception, and naturally, it has a chance to get muddled and mixed up. You’d form a weird image of anything if you only had pictures of people taking pictures. But I see it a little more hopefully. I think there is something that’s really me, deep down there. There’s a personality that is James, yes, I know all my Buddhist friends are crying over that. But I think our personalities only really bloom in the presence of others. In fact, the word bloom itself reminds me of a scene from another movie I love very much. In it, a young heiress becomes a shut in at an early age. But because she has essentially limitless money, she collects hobbies. She becomes an expert guitarist, juggler, Dj, and reads countless books. But she just languishes there until she meets the other main character in the story. The “point,” being that we can be the most amazing people, but if we never share that with other people, if we never use those talents, what’s the point?
What’s the point? That’s really the question I think we’re all asking. I was struck on my first day, by this little boy continually asking his mother Warum? or, why? If you’ve ever been around a child, you shouldn’t be surprised at this. But I was intrigued that this simple activity, seems to be universal. German kids ask it just as much as American kids. It’s not an accident that actors need their “motivation” to put together a good performance. And unfortunately, I think I’ll leave you all a little deflated, because I can’t really tell you the point, other than that we’re all looking for one, no matter where we’re from. Vladimir and Estragon may have to ask each other “what?” all the time, but they can understand when the other is hurt, and they eventually decide to keep waiting, and most importantly living. And that there will always be some way to make that community that we so desperately need to reach our full potential. I went out to a dance club with my new roommates this weekend, and for a few hours, we all got along, just dancing and hanging out. We didn’t talk a lot, but we all sort of understood each other, just by being young and enjoying life together. And so maybe that’s the point. Be young and joyous together, even if you’re old or depressed. One of the wisest men I know summed up human nature to me once:
“Boys will be boys and girls just want to have fun.”
