In which we crawl back into the real world.

The Shakespearean adventures of the last many evenings/weeks have finally come to an end. 'Twas all marvelous good fun with truly marvelous people, though I am relieved to have myself back. 'Twas also exhausting. I'll share pictures at some point.

In other news, winter has finally arrived in Hamburg with a light (but devoted) layer of snow, ice on the Alster, sub-zero temperatures (Celsius, mind) and freshly frozen sunshine. There was a lovely moment  late at night after one of the last Hamletings which consisted of me walking home from the S-Bahn amidst the feathery sparkle fluff puffing around the air. It was cold enough that my eyeballs were icing over, but with this cold and this white came a cleanness that was wholly delicious. I felt like I was walking through a scene in a film that had been put on pause, it was so still and muted. (Ha, I first wrote "mutated", which I suppose would make it a zombie film. Mmm, brains.)

And speaking of brains, all the words in my brain are currently tangled in a big, sleepy mess and don't seem too keen on sorting themselves out any time soon, so I'll leave you with some more heart-warming translations from the world of cruise ships that are not floating on their sides off of idyllic Italian coastlines.

In addition, some outer cabins are featured with a luxury balcony. Let the breeze and the fresh sea air blow around your nose. 

Many stores invite you to extensive shopping-tours. Inside, you will find a multifarious assortment of products.

The balcony features wooden deck chairs, a table and a telescope for an incredible far-sightedness.

Furthermore the gym is perfect for everyone who wants to impoverish or calm down a guilty conscience.  

...Have you impoverished your guilty conscience today?

In which we word aloud.

 
   Night:   histrionics now history, glitter deglitzed, this should-be-tuckered self
   sought not to be snuggly tucked, but instead avoided bed with a jaunt. Wanting
   to relieve/release/remedy a certain restlessness,
   Magical Thrift Store Cowboy Boots (MADE IN TEXAS) clop atop
   rainwashed sidewalks, gold in the bright light of the wealthy shopping glow—

   no stopping, go. Lungs slurping up the evening fresh o're
   The Almost Lonely Promenade, empty but for the clopping
   of the Magical Thrift Store Cowboy Boots (MADE IN TEXAS)
   and the tut-tut tittering (not yet twittering) of The Snazzily Clad Octogenarians
   emerging from the no-longer bellowing belly of the Opera.

   This-- this is nice.
   Yes, please paint my flesh with this air, this fresh, this deliciously exhaled
   sigh. Sit me down awhile aside this canal, filled to its seagull-spotted brim with dark
   ripple sparkles, arching their backs over the black before rejoining its deepness.
   This water sings like an accordion. No, wait-- the water brings the accordion, carefully

   carrying its melancholy musings from the hands of the Musician across the way--
   too old for this cold, empty hat overturned on the ground instead of warming
   itself with the fullness of his hairless noggin. His body is framed perfectly twixt
   waves of white arches.
   Opening this heart as it lurks in the shadows, it pulls in the song

   of arthritic fingers, pulls in the wind
   whipping flags above as they jangle their poles in protest, pulls close
   the sound of sleeping gulls, heads tucked
   under wings, swathed
   in the feathery silence beneath.

   Pretty sure I saw this scene
   in a movie somewhere.
   Seven stars wink their tiny
   selves above green spires and golden ships.
   They've seen it, too. Can't remember how it ends.

   Knees unbent, anchor pulled, this body shakes off shadows, drying off
   their dark drops with the breeze. Clop.
   Magical Thrift Store Cowboy Boots (MADE IN TEXAS) call out to bare
   ears as they make their way by the water, wander bridges and pause
   at the mouth of the tunnel glow, the player the pinpoint

   of this echoing perspective. Clop. The accordion hands groan more beautifully
   to the hard sound of heels on stone. No one else
   has walked these ways for fifteen minutes-- I know.
   I was there as you played to the shadows, I was a shadow as you played to the night.
   Tension builds as the clopping approaches, fingers flying now, notes careening

   toward me with cupped hands outstretched--
   the clopping veers reassuringly, laugh lines crinkle, an empty
   hat finds itself a friend.
   Knees unbend, lifted by finger wings. Thank you.
   No, thank you. And I am blessed.

   It fills me as I descend into the earth, this blessing--
   granting a grateful weariness, lulling me, tuckered
   and tucked, to that sleep that is mostly dreamed of.
   It sounds like an accordion, far away in the night, fading
   to feathery silence. I join the gulls.

Sometimes I really miss my mother tongue.

Sing it, Etta.

In which thespianism reigns.

Tomorrow my social life becomes subject to the slings and arrows of outrageous rehearsal and performance schedules-- a moodily-lit limbo in which it shall reside until the great advent of February. Suddenly seeing our sexy posters in very public places around the city has really revved up my excitement levels. To be revved or not to be revved is not even a question at this point.

One thing that I really love about theater is that I'm sometimes able to try on and live personalities that are so unlike mine it's laughable. That's what happened two years ago when I spent a semester metamorphosing into a crazy Russian drug dealer with fabulous hair, high heels, and an alcohol problem (see here). All I'm going to say this time is that, well, if you've ever wondered what it might be like to see me strut around on stage in heels and leopard-print spandex, you've got eleven whole chances to do so! And then, and then? Never again! The rest of the show is actually a lot more worth seeing than that, however. You can check out our website with info and our promotional photos here!

It's been really wonderful to be part of this special group of theater lovers again, what with being able to spend time with old friends and make new ones. Particularly new ones that read this blog from time to time. Love you, Giggles!

Looking across my room at the bookshelf, I have a perfect view of eleven delicious holiday cards that came from far and wide to stick themselves in my postbox. Thanks for those.

I'll leave you with my favorite mistranslations of the day:

3. With [cruise company] relaxation and the enjoyment of nature are always a priority, this is why it abstains from show performances or similar entertainment.

2. In addition also the youngest quests have their own area for playing and tumbling-around.

And finally, the one that sits most smiling on my heart:

1. On all [name] cruise ships there are no standards existing regarding to your clothing. Only in bars and restaurants sports or swimwear is inapplicable and gentlemen are advised to wear long trousers.

In which nothing is rotten in the state of Denmark.

Ha, weeell, I'm pretty sure that's false, as my brain has recently been invaded by a whole lot of Hamlet and (Spoiler Alert!) its multitude of corpses hints otherwise. Not that I allowed ol' Billy Shakespeare to falsely color my initial perceptions of that fine land, of course.

Righto, righto, here we go. Once upon a time, last year, there came upon a midday clear a Special Guest from a faraway land. It just so happened that this Special Guest had Special Relatives in that most Special of Countries known as Denmark. Special Guest's travel lust not yet having been satiated after thousands of miles on the air, it was decided that we would entrust ourselves to further modes of transportation over land and sea, to see what there was to see, and to see Special Relatives. Additional information: The train that takes one from Hamburg to Copenhagen actually trains itself into the belly of a ferry for a 45 minute pleasure cruise across the misty, gray Baltic. Neat, eh?

Along with the added bonus of Special Relatives, København greeted us in a very wintery, that-part-of-the-world kind of way, namely with rapidly darkening skies, rapidly face-licking air, and extremely proficient, high-tech rapid transit.

Our time in this city, however, was spent at a very non-rapid pace. In fact, it was quite leisurely and a delight to simply walk, walk, walk, and practice my simultaneous-umbrella-holding-while-taking-photographs-with-an-expensive-camera balancing act. Here's some fruit salad of those toils:

I think a great story could be written about the characters in this one. Any takers?

Once upon toward the beginning of that time, we stumbled across the changing of the fuzzy-headed guard.

All the monkeys had come out of their tour buses for the show.

It appeared that most of the city had decked its already-colorful walls with boughs of holly for the season. The particularly photo-hogging Nyhavn area looked particularly smashing sporting its holiday best and Christmas market booths and boaths.

Further perusal of the streets unveiled a great abundance of shiny <3 hearts <3, filling the night streets with, uhh, <3 loooove 'n' shyit <3. By which I mean red light. But not in a red-light district sort of fashion. (Well, not everywhere.) Even Danish kroner has <3 hearts <3 on it.

 

 

One evening had us following the rain parade to Tivoli, Kopenhagen's famous realm of family-friendly amusement, which had its best "Russian Christmas" bling on display. (The Blogger spellchecker doesn't yet recognize the word "bling." Snark.) There sure was a lodder purdy lights, ayuh. Additionally, reindeer.

(!!!)

My favorite sight of the evening, however, was this scene found in the window of a lingerie store. The creatures were dancing. With undergarment bling.

And now, a short study of Spotted Blue Baltic.

I watched the storm system above for a while as it slowly tap danced all splitchedy-splotchidy over the wrinkly waters. Standing there reminded me very much of watching storms move across the desert back in the Land of Enchantment, only with more rain and fewer pineapple tamales. (Profound sigh.)

Another stroll along the water later that morning was a perfect breath-provider before training/floating back in a southerly fashion toward the Deutschland.

Now prepare for some great stripes. Ready, set, go!

'Twas a short little jaunt, but a rewarding one to be sure. I was happy visit this exotic land after a year of almost having done so the last time around. As it turns out, the rumors of high expensiveness were true, as were those of high pleasantness. I don't think I really have too much else to say on the matter, except maybe this: <3.

In which there are vampires and much sparkling.

I've been snyooggled here under me covers for a while now after an eventful day in which I corrected translations by non-native English speakers, thespianed, and witnessed the wind bend the metal pole of my umbrella into a perfect right angle. It was a little unfortunate, but as the droopy thing wasn't really doing anything in terms of keeping me dry anyway, I just laughed for a while and bent it back. After all of this incessant gray, it's nice to have a bit of spicy atmospheric conditioning for a change.

On that note, I just peeked out the window to see what all the wooshy vacuuming was about (see here) and maaan, those giant trees sure are lookin' a bit flip-floppy-toothpickish. However, I would much prefer to see a bit of bluster than the scene which normally greets me, being this one:

Seriously, there is a bald-headed, black-wearing old man (not Patrick Stewart, woe is me) who resides in the window across from mine and spends the majority of his time leaning outside, smoking, and staring directly at me. It's quite possible that he's not actually as much of a creeper as I think he is (I bet you're reading this right now, Mr. Nosferatu Creeper Man!), but watching antiquated German vampire flicks has made me wary, if not downright paranoid. Several weeks ago I made the holy pilgrimage to IKEA in order to purchase another layer of drapery to protect myself against his plague-spewing gaze, aaand walked out the store with not only new curtains, but also elk-head-shaped multigrain pasta! (Betcha didn't see that one coming.) Once back in my lair, I treated Mr. Nosferatu Creeper Man to a show of me hanging up my new curtains. That was, of course, after I doused them in garlic powder. No suspect bite marks on this neck yet.

Back to the topic of correcting translations done by non-native speakers, I hereby present to you an example of why such things are important. From the fine world of cruise ship cabin descriptions:

"All cabins have limited view caused for example by a jollyboat hanging in front of your window. Therefor this cabin is perfect for passengers who do not expect a beautiful view out of their cabin."

Totally cute, is it not? My side job currently consists of spending ten hours a week turning practical translations into good translations, which takes just about as long as translating things myself, if not longer. It has the potential for tediosity, but the hearty chuckle I get every now and then from funny phrasing and silly word selection makes it all worth while. (The moolah doesn't hurt either.)

But anyway, now that linguistic tickling is done we can get onto the juicy visual stuff. The Christmas markets have come and gone (though the season continues for another three days yet, eh!), but luckily technology has devised a way of making them reappear. For example, pictured above (above Max Schreck, that is) is a scene from the popular market on the Rathausmarkt, in the rain, as usual. (Love me some rainy night, colored light fotoz.) There we are again below, but under unusual weather conditions.

And while we're going on about things that the atmosphere does, can I just say how much I love the starkness of late-November/early-December skies? (This is 'Merica, I can say whatever I want!) ((Ehrm, waitasecond...))

And and and then let's talk about how excited Margaret gets when it snows! VERY EXCITED. Too bad it's such a rare and delicate thing in this mooshy climate.

No, that's not snow below, though it is a neat photo, fo'sho. Oh, oh.

All this talk of snow is making me hungry (heeee), so let's have a look at Christmas market foooood instead! Such as nutella roasted almonds!

 

Or alternatively, my all-time favorite market food, the thing I'd been salivating about in my dreams for past two years, the one, the only, the savory, the delicious, the hot cheese-stuffed-and-baked-inside-long-tubes-of-bread-dough-and-then-sits-like-a-rock-in-your-stomach-for-a-week, the Dresdner Handbrot!

One evening getting into the early 20s of December, I accompanied myself on an extensive Foto-Spaziergang around the city center. I wanted to put a little of the sparkle in jars to taste again in July.

The lone photographer stalks its prey along the edge of the wavey waters.

My favorite moment of that solitary adventure was discovering this little detail. It gave my heart a squeeze and told it that it wasn't alone in it's love for this place, that it was never alone. Now isn't that just nice?

P.S. Speaking of not being alone, I have to confess that I start to feel a little lonely each time I put so much juice into a post and then have it be received in silence, with the exception of my most ever-faithful reader-- I love you, Mom. I'm by no means needy, but I am honest. If you're out there, a little hello in my comment box from time to time might be more special than you know. Kthxbai!