The First of Four

Today is (or, almost, was) the first of the four Sundays before Christmas; in German, they are commonly referred to as Advents-Sonntage, i.e. the Sundays of Advent.

Not being religious in my outlook on life and not belonging to any organized religion, I still like some of the traditions that were originally shaped and introduced by the religious authorities (sometimes rather unwillingly, and based on "heathen" traditions that were in place long before them) in my part of the world.

One of these traditions are the Sundays of Advent, with one important feature being a wreath made of fir green and adorned with four candles. As the four Sundays follow each other, the candles are lit on the wreath; first one, then two, three and finally four.

I like Christmas and the weeks leading up to it, although I do not claim being Christian, neither in my non-existent beliefs nor in my behaviour or morals. To me, it is mainly a treasured reminder of a childhood that was made beautiful by loving parents and grandparents, who had in turn grown up with the very same traditions themselves.

Therefore, this heathen Librarian has put some Christmas-themed decorations up in her home, and maybe you would like to see them?

Follow me on a quick tour through my small flat, then!

In my bedroom:

On top of the chest of drawers in my tiny hallway:

The garland has to be above this window in my kitchen every year:

And the "pièce de résistance": the Adventskranz (advent wreath), given to me by my parents (the cookies were made by my mum and by a close family friend):

Pukky was an unwilling model today, as you can see :-)

(The "Burberry" Father Christmas in the first picture was a gift from my sister, bought at the Christmas market here in our hometown some years ago. I broke my own "tradition" this year by putting him in the living room instead of the kitchen where he used to hang out previously.)

I hope your weekend was as cosy as mine!

Had it not been...

...for this blog post of a friend of mine (thank you, Perl, for keeping to provide me with interesting, inspiring and thought-provoking reading material!), I doubt I would have ever clicked the "Stats" button on my dashboard.
Now that I have done so, I am amazed and intrigued and suspect it will become an almost daily habit from now on to check on my stats here.

Not that long ago, I wrote about why I so enjoy blogging here, and the enjoyment stems not only from writing, but also from reading AND being able to comment on what I read on other people's blogs, something I can not do when I am reading a book or a magazine, much as I'd sometimes like to voice my opinion on a certain paragraph or chapter.

So, yes, blogging seems to be ideal for the likes of me, and it would be dishonest to pretend I am only writing it for myself - I AM writing for myself, true, even if only to sort my head out or "outsource" something that is threatening to drive me mad otherwise, but of course I am striving for attention, I want comments, I appreciate comments, I need some kind of feedback from whoever happens to read my blog in order to keep it going.
If that wasn't the case, I suppose I'd simply put my thoughts, ideas and ramblings into a secret diary, and once that diary was filled, I'd lock it and throw away the key.

My blog is no comparison to what some of the blogs I am following have achieved in terms of popularity and distribution; I know that some of you have HUNDREDS of regular followers, whereas I have a tiny elite of twelve. Some of you I have known for a long time, some I have met in the offline world, too, but no matter where you are from and what motivated you originally to click the "Follow this blog" button when you read something on here, I hope you do know that I treasure each of you, and your comments and opinions are truly of high value for me.

Some big surprises were in store for me when I first looked at my stats: the total number of page views - more than 3.000 - was one, as was the origin of page views, not only sorted by countries (people living in almost every part of the globe have been looking at my blog, it seems; for instance, I have had views from Russia, South Korea, Japan, South Africa, Brazil, Canada, Malaysia, Poland, Belarus, Slovenia, France, Germany, UK, Netherlands, US, Turkey - to name but a few), and I only know for sure that some of my followers are from three or four countries listed here.

The most intriguing information, though, is the source - how did a reader of my blog end up on here? What were they originally looking for? Of course, this is not always clear, but there is a story behind every such source information, and if you have been reading my blog for a while, you will know that I love such miniature glimpses into people's lives, and the inspirational spark it can provide, setting my mental caleidoscope in motion, creating images of colour and beauty (some more so, some less), of symmetry or bewildering chaos.

One source link that I found most intriguing was this one:

http://www.bing.com/search?q=picture+of+a+boy+diek&src=IE-SearchBox&Form=IE8SRC

So, someone must have been looking for something specific (what did they mean by "diek"?); the search results do not even show the link to my blog, and yet the person looking for "picture of a boy diek" by some meandering path landed on this blog post of mine. Were they disappointed, or did they like their find? I 'm afraid I will never find out, but you can see what I mean by there being a story behind every source information, can't you?

This mysterious blogger read my blog (or was at least long enough on my page to leave their mark in my stats) but I can not read theirs, which I think is a shame, as I'd really like to have a look (my curiosity is genetic, I can't help it):

There is a lot more similarly intriguing information to be found under my "Stats" button, and if you haven't looked at yours yet, there might be a few surprises in store for you!

Feels Like Friday

Do the days of the week differ for you in more than just their given name or the regular tasks they may or may not bring?

A friend of mine once said, for instance, that for him, Tuesdays are yellow.
Now, to him yellow means something entirely different than to me; I love the colour yellow,

whereas I know that for said friend, Tuesdays tend to be quite on the tedious side where work is concerned.
If I had to attribute colours to the days of the week, I think Saturdays would be light blue, as they have a freshness about them, probably originating from my usual weekly cleaning of the flat.

For others, maybe different days come in different tastes, like the delicious scent of home-made bread or freshly brewed coffee that one could attribute to Sunday mornings.
And what about sounds? There certainly is a different chorus of traffic noise, birdsong, church bells and neighbours' voices on a typical Wednesday than on a Sunday.

Generally, though, the days of the week have a distinct "feel" to them for me; distinct and yet hard to describe at the same time.

Last week, Monday was a holiday in my part of Germany, but I went to the office nonetheless (and wrote about it here). Everything was different from a normal Monday, and so it was hardly surprising that for the rest of the week, I felt a slight confusion as to what day it was, and had to keep reminding myself of it every now and then.

On top of that, I had Friday off (in exchange for having worked on Monday), and so my Thursday felt like Friday from the moment I woke up.

What exactly felt like Friday?

Was it the knowledge, always at the back of my mind, of not having to go to work the following day, and therefore wanting to finish all my tasks at work, even those I would normally not mind leaving until tomorrow? Was it the generally rather relaxed atmosphere at work, what with many of our customers being away for a holiday and with a very good previous month under our belts?

I really don't know and was actually hoping that writing this would give me a clearer idea, as is sometimes the case with writing.

All I know is that last week, Thursday felt like Friday.

One Year Already

He hated cardigans, political correctness and marzipan.

He loved food, The Beatles and GTA.

His life had not always been easy - whose is?

The first and the last ten years had been best, adding some kind of symmetry to what was often an unhappy, rather chaotic and unstable drifting through time and space in the 20 years that lay in between.

Today, it is a year since I came home from work late on that Thursday afternoon and found him dead on the floor in our living room.

One year already.

I have not forgotten.

Ghost Town

Yesterday, in many countries all over the world the day was, according to the calendar, "All Saints". In some parts of Germany (mine included), it is a public holiday or bank holiday, but not in the whole republic.
Therefore, my bosses had asked for someone to man the phones, just in case some of our customers from other parts of Germany would want to order something or ask for quotes and so on. As usual, I volunteered - it is an easily gained day off for me on a day of my choice, and I much prefer having time off when shops and offices are open and I can get things done.

So I got up as on every working day and left the house almost precisely at 8.30 in the morning - and found myself in a ghost town.

(View from my front door to the street)
Not a single soul I met on the way to the station.

No different at the station itself - there was nobody in sight.

Looks a bit eerie, doesn't it? As if the whole of humanity had suddenly disappeared (a thought I find more intriguing than scary, actually).

Still, the train arrived as it always does, and took me to the small town where I work within four minutes.

There, pretty much the same picture: Empty roads, sleepy-looking buildings.

No children on the playground, either; nobody walking their dog, as they would normally be doing every morning when I come past this bit:

There, the white cube-shaped building at the far end of the road, is where I work:

None of my colleagues were standing outside, having a fag (that's smoking a cigarette for my non-British readers), and no trucks were pulling up, delivering goods or picking up shipments.

I unlocked the main door, using a relatively complex system of keys and magnet stripe cards, and went in.

My office is on the first floor.

As expected, silence and empty desks were greeting me instead of the habitual "Good morning!" from my colleagues.

My own desk...

...the only one that was not left empty today!

I spent the day working on translations, sent and received some emails and took, all in all, less than 20 phone calls - as I said, an easily gained day off for me on another day.

When I left the office at 4.00 pm, the ghost town had come alive.

And today, everything was back to normal anyway.

"Tu es une fille avventurieuse!"

(This is, finally, the continuation of my "Souvenirs from Sicily" series; it is part XII, and the continuation of this post.)

Come back with me once again to the month of October, to the year 1987, to Catania, a big bustling city on the Mediterranean island of Sicily.

My friend Brigitte and I have now been here, enjoying the hospitality of Brigitte's friends at their flat, for several days. So far, we have done some sightseeing, attended a birthday party and I have spent a morning at school, talking to a class of students learning German.

What's next?

Next is something that has been arranged for us during Maria Pia's birthday party: an evening out with some of those who were present at the party.

Back then, my Italian was limited to a few words, so I had not known anything about the arrangement until shortly beforehand, when Brigitte informed me that we were going to be picked up by a friend of Maria Pia's in a bit, and would be driving out to Aci Reale, a smaller town on the Sea front in the greater Catania area.

Getting out of the bustling city with all its noise and dirt was quite welcome; I remember how everything was constantly covered in black dust and a cloud of car emissions was hanging over the place every day. Mind you, this was before catalysators for cars were invented!

One morning I made the mistake to go out on the balcony barefoot, to have a look at the city in the morning sun; when I came back into the room, I left dark grey foot prints on the floor - in spite of the girls sweeping the balcony every other day or so. And every time I washed my hair in Catania (which was almost every day), the water in the sink was a mucky colour which made you not want to think about all the stuff you'd been breathing all day.

The evening came, and so did Maria Pia's friends, ready to pick us up.

We all piled into one car; I can not be entirley sure but I guess there were six of us; Brigitte, myself, Antonio, Gaetano, Anna and her fidanzato (fiancé) whose name I have forgotten.

Does the name Antonio ring a bell?

If you have read "Maria Pia's Birthday Party", then maybe you remember that he and Brigitte met at that party for the very first time, and got married years later. In hindsight, I am quite sure that Antonio was smitten with Brigitte even back then, and maybe it was he who engineered this evening out so that he would get to see her again before the two of us would be leaving Catania and travel back to Germany.

It is probably an unspoken rule the world over and not just valid on Sicily that, when you go out with friends, you try and make sure to get an even number of boys and girls, unless it is a "girls only" or "boys only" affair. We were sticking to the rules, and assigned to me was a very healthy-looking, relatively tall (for a Sicilian) man with black curly hair named Gaetano. He was also the driver (and probably the owner) of the car, and the only one to speak French in a manner that allowed for a conversation.

As I have mentioned before, back in 1987, I did not speak Italian yet, but my French was quite good, and so I welcomed the possibility to speak to someone else than Brigitte.

Gaetano was wearing what in those days in Germany we would call a "Popper" outfit; in other parts of the world, I guess you'd call it a "preppy" or "Sloane Ranger" type: cloth trousers with a front pleat (no jeans!), a polo neck shirt and a cashmere jumper casually slung around his shoulders. The jumper was of a shell pink and looked (and probably was) very expensive.

Well, this was the upper middle class of Catania's young, well-to-do intellectually inclined set of young people, so it is hardly surprising that I felt a bit underdressed in my pair of jeans and some t-shirt or other (funny, isn't it, how I can remember exactly what Gaetano was wearing, but not my own clothes).

Aci Reale (often spelled Acireale) is part of a small set of towns neatly lining Sicily's East coast just out of Catania: Aci Reale, Aci Castello, Aci Catena, Aci Sant'Antonio, Aci Bonaccorsi and Aci Trezzo. These communities have their name from the river Aci (Sicilian: Jaci; in ancient times known as Akis or Acium).

To get from Catania to Aci Reale by train takes about 10-15 minutes; by car it takes somewhat longer - the reason for which is obvious if you look at this picture, showing the typical traffic on one of Catania's main roads leading in and out of the city.

Of course, we take one such road, and a hair-raising drive ensues, with what is actually a four-lane road made into a six-lane one by all those drivers who are convinced that they have to be there first, and fast!

Strangely enough, nothing happens, no accident, just what our hosts assure us is the normal chorus of car horns, and we arrive at the port of Aci Reale all in one piece.

There, only few other people have chosen to walk, and the relative peace and quiet of the small harbour is welcome.

We stroll along the harbour walls, and to have a better view of the Sea, I climb on the rocks that line the quai. Gaetano watches me and says: "Tu es une fille avventurieuse," * which I find rather funny because to me, this is simply something I habitually do when my view is blocked by a wall of rocks and not something I would consider to be adventurous in any way, but of course the girls he usually accompanies for walks all wear high heels and pretty dresses and would not dream of scrambling up some rocks only to have a better view.

Not much else I can remember of that evening.

I suppose we went for dinner somewhere, and it must have been then that Brigitte and Antonio exchanged addresses, because we did not meet this very kind group of people again; only much later I learnt that my friend had begun to receive letters from Antonio which eventually lead to the two of them getting married and having three children.

For us, the time had come to say good-bye to Catania.

* "You are an adventurous girl."

(All pictures found on the internet, not my own.)

A Monument To Friendship

The first king of Württemberg lived and reigned in my home town, Ludwigsburg.
He was, of course, not always king; up until he made a deal* with Napoleon, Württemberg was not a kingdom but a dukedom.
When he was still young, Friedrich had a friend, Johann Carl.
Their friendship (some sources say they were probably lovers as well) must have been really strong, because it withstood military and political intrigue as well as the ever-changing scenery of the time, what with Württemberg being at war against Prussia, the French, the Turks, and finally Russia.

When Carl died in 1801, Friedrich had a monument built for his friend, a mausoleum.
Inside the mausoleum, a white marble statue by court sculptor Johann Heinrich von Dannecker was placed, the "Grieving Friendship". An inscription outside on the portico of the mausoleum reads "Dem vorangegangenen Freunde", "To the friend who proceeded me".
Underneath the mausoleum, Carl's coffin was placed, and Friedrich's intention was that after his own death, he would be put to rest there, too.

The "Grieving Friendship"

Alas, by the time he died (in 1816), he was king - and protocol wouldn't allow for him to be put anywhere else but the dynasty's own crypt beneath the castle.
So, to this day, Carl's coffin is the only one there, and the two friends who wanted to be "reunited" in death are still apart.

I had the chance to go inside the mausoleum (normally it is closed to the public) with a guided tour I took on Saturday.

*The deal went like this:
Naploeon: "You give me soldiers for my war against Russia, and I make you king."
Friedrich: "Deal! Here are 15.000 men. Now, where's my crown?"
And thus Württemberg became Kingdom. It didn't last very long - in 1918, the last king of Württemberg was forced to abdicate, when Germany became a federal republic.
Of the 15.000 men sent to Russia, 300 returned alive.