4 March 2020
I do believe that I have confused the fuck out of my housemates.
#1: There is no doubt that these are some of the best humans Germany has to offer. Upon my arrival and more-or-less immediately unemployed state, they did not for a moment hesitate to pay for my share of the groceries until I can work again. Not a question; not a complicated through process; virtually instantaneous and, to them, the obvious thing to do.
#2: I don’t know if you know any Germans, but they are a little bit like the British and a little bit like New Englanders in temperament, particularly regarding matters of the heart. For example: the first time I saw one of them get really loudly emotional about something was a board game. When asked how they were doing with the corona situation during our weekly house meeting, few personal feelings were expressed; no, they spent their check-in turn musing about their curiosity of what effects the general slowing down of life would have upon human behavior and sociology. These are educated, lofty-minded, deeply compassionate-once-you-scratch-off-the-surface-with-a-penny-like-a-lottery-ticket humans.
Enter me. The Sicilian-American with a Mediterranean temperament. The force of nature whirlwind artist. The girl who laughs like a hyena at things that others find only vaguely amusing. That was, I believe, quite an adjustment for them in and of itself in terms of daily volume.
Add: One prostitute deciding that any and all objects in the household are fair game for choreography, because I have no studio and only two suitcases worth of my own stuff.
Week one: Ernestine finds a small ladder and dances on it. A video is dispersed on the household group chat and elicits a single response: “It’s amazing to see what you can do with your body.” Um.
Week two: Ernestine finds a bigger ladder and, with true delight, manages to get it through the windy corridor, into her room, and back again. During film shoots, I depart the dance space (i.e., bedroom) rarely, but when I do, I am in full stage makeup and a see-through bra, sweating profusely and clearly in an altered mental state (the only proper headspace for deep, reflective, introspective dancing).
Week three: Ernestine is sighted bringing up a bad of kindling (sticks) up from the basement (five floors! Five! Accidental cross-training!) because, much to my delight, this apartment is heated exclusively with one “hoven” in each room. (These things are from—well, they are super old, and I believe that “oven” is not actually a correct translation—I think they are closer to the pellet stoves that are all the rage in Vermont and every American’s ski cabin.)
Housemate: “What are you planning to do with all those sticks?” She assumes they are my next hare-brained choreography prop.
Me: “No, I just ran out of sticks for my oven.”
(When picturing me doing this chore of the sticks up the five flights of stairs, please picture an orange mesh bag approximately half my height and twice my girth, slung over my shoulder, panting heavily.)
I have danced choreography with sticks before; but they were long, elegant, forest sticks, not commercial wood-burning sticks. It did not occur to me to use a pile of wood as a prop; nor did it appeal, and splinters ow ow ow. However, the comment lit up my mind with a sort of nest built out of said sticks. Nice image; nest of sticks; not practical, and yet, in the eyes of the housemate, This human is weird enough to dance in a pile of sticks in her bedroom.
It is hard to tell if they have accepted this co-living scenario with an American with pidgin German on the best of days, and whether or not they find me a nice, enjoyable (or at least tolerable) presence in the household; given our house-bound state and frequent interactions, I try to not get stuck in the mental spiral of “Do they like me? Or do they thing I’m crazy? Can they not wait for June? Or do they—very quietly and mostly unnoticeably subtly—find me to be a rather kindred human (barring the language barrier with them speaking English to me in a way that is clearly fatiguing to them, bless their hearts and I’m studying my ass of each morning to improve my German)?”
“No, I did not plan to dance with the sticks. My room is just cold.”
“Ah.”
>>End of conversation, no opinion expressed, although slight bemusement was barely detected under the calm, rational, level-headed German demeanor.<<
I still have no idea what they make of me, and I work every day to make peace with that. An eminently useful exercise: No external reinforcement of my fundamental goodness as a human being, so I just carry on, being as authentically myself as possible and taking criticism (mostly talking too fast in English) to heart.
Ever one for causing shock and fascination, I find the fact that V. thought I was going to dance with sticks highly flattering. Clearly, they are learning me. For better or for worse.
I am shy about sharing my videos with them. This must end.
For, friends, the beauty of dance is that it is a universal language. So, maybe, sharing my newly immigrated rawness when I dance is how these wonderful people become lifelong friends. Would that be a rosy thing to emerge from this bizarre circumstance.
Fondly,
Ernestine
P.s.
I am now not, of course, ruling out the sticks. Make there will be a stick video. Maybe I will dedicate it to V. Inspiration comes through curious channels.