For Christmas, our guest family gave us tickets to a varieté show called "Soap" which is playing at the Chamäleon theater in the Hackischer Märkte. I was pretty excited, because the Hackischer Märkte part of Berlin is one of my favorite parts of Berlin. I had seen this theater, but never had been inside of it. Mostly because I'm a starving student. And partly because I had some suspicions regarding German entertainment.
It turns out that varieté is French for a combination of comedy, song and dance, and antipod work (in which rings and other objects are juggled/twirled/balanced with the feet) performed for an audience seated at small tables where overpriced alcohol is served. The show was entertaining, but I felt very unflexible while leaving, and vowed to do add "become more flexible" to my new years resolutions for 2010. On the way home, Herr Weimann announced that Frau Weimann had made some pickled herring. He noted that it looked very unappetizing, but didn't taste so bad. Frau Weimann then detailed the culinary craft of creating pickled herring. I can't remember what all happens with the fish, but I know it gets to sit for a while in some kind of fluid. When we arrived home from the varieté, Frau Weimann had to rescue the pickled herring from the cold where she had left it to pickle. That was on the 26th.
Today, Frau Weimann interrupted the cleaning of my apartment by calling to remind me that I had promised to come over at 3:30 to drink tea and eat cookies with some old people. I think she even extended the invitation with those exact words: 'drink tea and eat cookies with old people'. With my reply "Yeah, we'll see", I had inadvertently fully committed to attending the event. When she called, I had my shorts and sport shoes on, all ready to go to the stake young single adult sport night. I would have to be late to sport. I imagined myself making a short appearance, lending some life to some old Germans who were crowded in silence around some Christmas cookies, grasping dainty teacups in their prehistoric hands. After a short introduction, a few impressed exclamations that I could speak German so well, and a few pleasantries, I could excuse myself and be off to play basketball before the guests could gather their walkers to block my escape.
Unfortunately, the guests were not dinosaur-aged, as I had expected. I knew that it would be a long visit when I saw that the guests were not seated around the table with cookies, but were gathered around a zither and "Hackbrett" -- the dictionary says it's a "Dulcimer" in English. After a little prelude, we sat down and ate cookies, and Marzipan Stollen. I should have taken off at this point, but I found the zither and hackbrett music to be very pleasant. The instruments are typical Barvarian instruments. The Hackbrett has strings arranged horizontally in the shape of a pyramid with deeper tones at the bottom. Sound is produced by hitting the strings with wooden hammer things. One of the older men informed me that the difference between a Hackbrett and a piano is that the piano burns longer. I think it was a joke.
I guess it's traditional to play tight 3-voice harmonies in the Bavarian songs, so I played the second voice on a cello while the Hackbrett played the melody, and the zither played the third voice. After we were done, I played the Bach 4 that I played at graduation on the cello, and someone wanted me to play the American national anthem. Which I did. With pride. Then I played the German national anthem. I wasn't watching, but I think the commotion that happened during the middle of my playing was caused as one of the older men did the "Deutsche Gruß".. The surprising part came after I finished the song, and one of the women requested the Russian national hymn. I remembered parts of it from the Olympics, but was distracted as she started singing the words -- in German. And that's why I love being here in Berlin right now. It's like I'm in the middle of a teenage city, trying to grow up and find its place in the world of grownup cities. Berlin has a history with some parts that it she would like to forget, and some problems that she is still trying to work out. And it's somehow interesting to see manifestations of these quirks that are in the process of being ironed out. This woman had grown up in Eastern Germany, the GDR. Instead of English, she had learned Russian since she was a little child. And she had learned the Soviet national anthem, with German lyrics, from the days of Soviet occupation.
After music, we gathered again to the table for "Abendbrot", when what to my wondering eyes did appear? The pickled herring, which brought me great fear. Indeed, Herr Weimann was right. It looked pretty bad. One of the guests accepted the offer for some herring, and extended a plate. Frau Weimann dug around in the pile of worm-looking onions and produced a 6-inch long fish with skin and tail, and gently laid it on the guest's plate, who did not flinch.
(Side note: Jordan had spent the evening playing sports, and at this point in recounting the evening's adventures to him, he optimistically remarked that at least the fish didn't cost 37 euros like the last fish with a tail that we ate in Den Hague.) Guests around the table were served, one after the other, and I knew that in order to politely avoid being served pickled herring, I would have to adopt a fish allergy, or fake death.
The aroma of pickled herring filled the room. The wallpaper began peeling from the walls. The plant in the corner began to wither. As did my hope for surviving this evening. Why hadn't I just gone to play sports?
I was up.
"Kendell, would you like to try some fish?"
"Uh sure."
I passed my plate around the table toward the herring. I secretly hoped someone would sneeze on my plate as it passed, so that I could perhaps make an escape to the kitchen where I could bring back a plate full of bread with no room for fish.
"Maybe could I have just a half piece? Or a quarter? Or an Eighth?"
Unfortunately, my piece had been cut, and as the pickled herring was gently placed on my plate, I felt my mind pulled back to the mission days. I'm not sure what I ate on my mission. And even when an explanation of ingredients were offered, my culinary German was not up to par. Frick. If I could offer one suggestion to the MTC, it would be to require MTC teachers to teach future missionaries food and cooking terms in the new language. I think that would significantly reduce the number of eyes, hooves, reproductive and digestive organs, and other gross animal parts eaten by missionaries. I guess the church just relies on the policy of including a clause protecting the future missionary from being killed by eating anything bad on his mission in the setting-apart blessing by the stake president at home.
Unfortunately, upon arrival back home off my mission, in the mission release blessing by my stake president, he revoked all protection from bad foods. I first realized this when I tried to consume a funny food called "Matjes" (which is described on the
German wikipedia site as "salted herring") during adventure in Berlin last summer. I ended up taking one bite, and refused to eat the rest.. bleh.
Unfortunately, eating one bite, then refusing to eat the rest was not an option. My relationship with the Weimanns was on the line. What would I do?
"Do you want some onions too?"
"Sure. Pile them on. If I'm going to die from fish, I might as well have onions on my plate."
Actually, I just said "Sure." The rest, I thought in my head.
As the plate came back around the table, I said a little prayer in my heart. For once in my life I was grateful for the fish bones, as picking them out postponed my having to eat the fish.
(Side note: German has a different word for the bones (Knochen), the bones of a fish that you pick out (Gräten), and the bones that you eat because you are too tired of picking the Gräten out (I'll have to find this word)). When I finally mustered the courage to try a part of the fish, I was pleasantly surprised that it tasted good. And when I mean good, I mean that it didn't taste like fish. It was very salty, and reminded me a little of tuna. The onions weren't bad, either, although I made the mistake early on in my pickled herring eating experience of putting the Gräten in a pile a little too close to the onions, so I had to pick them out of my onions too.
Anyway, I'm still alive. That's good. Although I have to agree with Herr Weimann. Pickled herring tastes better than it looks. And smells.
Overall, I didn't find the guests very old. Although they all looked like they were at the age where they were starting to look forward toward retirement.
I was talking with one of the guests over onions and Gräten, and he complimented me on my musical talents. I politely thanked him, and graciously deflected his compliment by explaining that everyone has different talents, then asking him what his talents were. He said he was good at math, but never really studied it. He went into Economics, which he regretted. He was excited for retirement in two years. I asked him what his hobbies were. His answer was stereotypical German... and I kid you not.. this was his list of hobbies in the order he told me.
Stereotypical German hobbies:- Going to the sauna
- Playing Badmitton
- Schwieorbeilandne
Yeah. I didn't understand what his third hobby. I asked him about it, because it seemed the least embarrassing. Evidently, it's a Bavarian dance sport called "Schuhplattler" which sounded to me like the word "Schublade" which means "drawer" as in the thing you keep your silverware in. It was good that I was open minded and had asked more about his third hobby, because going to the sauna, badmitton, and drawers were a pretty sorry set of hobbies.
After a little persistence, the accordion was fetched, and I witnessed Schuhplattler. It reminded me of the cool, boot-slapping part of the "Boot-skootin boogie" line dance you learn in 4th grade. Except with significantly less hip gyration. The dance started out with the universal sign for "Touchdown!!" with both hands extended above the head. In the middle, lots of hopping and slapping of the hands against legs, arms, and feet happened. At the end, the guest looked pretty exhausted, and I saw in his emotions that traditional Schuhplattler is not performed in a suit and tie. I found a cute
clip of schuhplattler on youtube. As the guest finished the performance of his third hobby, he apologized profusely, explaining that the "Lederhosen" -- the bib-looking Bavarian getup -- provide for a better slapping sound.
It was a good evening. I guess there's always Stake Sport night next week.
My only unresolved question is whether the French would be offended if I started a varieté with Schuhplattler.
