Fun with Translation

Written from: Merenschwand

While watching MTV in Switzerland (which was in English but with German subtitles) with a friend, this happened:

English Spoken Words: “…urban sound…”
German Written Subtitle: “…Black Musik…”

In a world unbound by the shackles of being Politically Correct, they write what we all think.

Blog #9. 35th Day, 28th Year. Complete.

Retrospection: The elections were happening while I was in Switzerland. One party in particular, the UDC, had some of the best political posters I’ve ever seen (all of which would never be allowed in a regular newspaper). Here’s my favorite:

The caption is warning Swiss people to protect themselves from European infection…and the other 999 words that go with it.

Beginning at the End

Written from: Bern.

I had done some traveling before but Argentina was my first big trip as a real traveler, and though I was in Buenos Aires for 2 months, my trip (and new life) truly started in Ushuaia, the southern most city in the world.

When I first check into the hostel, one of the first people I meet was Franziska, a Swiss-German and some people that were jamming in the Hostel Lobby, Jeremie Andre, a Frenchman, and Jason Koebler, an American.

I had a great time with these folks. In our small amount of time we had some jams, so delicious eats, and some laughs (mostly watching Jeremy be an exaggeration of the French stereotype as he hit on Franzi…it was a first for me).

This was the first time that I had met them and the first time that Franzi met Jason.

-Fast Forward-

About a year and a half later, I’m making my way through Switzerland when I get a message on Facebook from Jason. “Franzi and I live in Bern. You should come by for a fondue.” A wonderful surprise! I take them up on the offer.

As I arrive to their apartment, and look for the bell, I see the following:

“Jason Koebler – Franziska Eggiman Koebler”

I was there. I WAS THERE WHEN THEY MET! And now, they are married and living in Bern. AND Jeremie, the Frenchman who was also there, OFFICIATED THE WEDDING! They met in Ushuaia, traveled for a few months, then Jason went to Switzerland, and a little later, they got married.

So it IS possible.

Blog #8. 27th Day, 28th Year. Complete.

Retrospection:

“I could never have known that I would meet a girl in Argentina and then a year later I would be married and living in Switzerland.”
-Jason Koebler

Crazy Old Man # N

Written From: Sierre (occurred in Hanover)


He’s wearing a backwards sea-captains hat, yet I’m the weird one. His wife shouts german disapproval at him, which he dismisses as rudely as it was given. I understand enough to get the gist of how she is insulting him and me, but mostly him for engaging me; I am not offended…I know what I look like (I was fresh from the farm at this point, so filthy to say the least).


We discuss much in our short train ride, mostly in german, but he dropped this gem on me in english:


“Nobody’s perfect. I’m nobody.”


This was in direct response to my telling him that I’m an english teacher (obviously). He makes me promise to remember it. Then gives me the “word-is-bond” shake twice as he leaves the train (this is when you connect hands at the area of a normal handshake, but instead your hand is above your elbow with fingers and thumbs gripping upwardly; it is usually followed by a one-arm embrace).


I’ll remember every bit of it; you will take a high seat in my memory with the other crazy old men I’ve encountered.


Blog #7. 14th Day, 28th Year. Complete.


Retrospection: I’m not sure if the origin of this gesture is Italian or French, but putting your finger tips to your puckered lips, cocking your head slightly, and pulling them away, while spreading them and giving a loud kiss sound is an international way to positively describe women, locations, food and fun.

Adventures in "What?" -Hostel Creole

Written from: Lausanne.

“I can’t understand anything.” “No puedo entender nada.” “Non posso capire niente.” “Je ne comprends rien.”

These are the statements we hear throughout the Ushuaian Hostel lobby as we beat on in Day 2 of our conversation. She is Swiss, from the French speaking part, with her second language as Spanish, here third as Italian, and barely a fourth, English. I am American, with a second language of Spanish, a third of Italian, and barely a fourth of French (phrases mostly). Some how, in this descending order of languages, we are able to talk, joke, discuss, and edify each other in a Creole we invented in the moment as a mixture of all of these, a Creole that fluent speakers of each can’t decipher. It’s ours, and for reasons neither of us can understand, it works.

Fast Forward.

A: “Nous avons besoin d'un peu d'eau.”

B: “Je vais demander à la prochaine personne qui vient par la.”

A: “Perdón! Podriamos tener un poco de agua?”

C: “Olivia?”

In European thinking, it is completely reasonable to bring the featured cappuccino machine while hiking in Chalten, but I guess unreasonable to bring water. On this small, remote, and beautiful trail towards a glacier, we happened across each other again (the cappuccino machine and conversation were both functional yet confusing).

Fast Forward.

Now our Spanish is much better, and with her boyfriend who speaks the same (slightly better English) and some Japanese (which would be in 5^th place for my languages) we have the most in-depth conversation about the cultural effects of the varied languages in Switzerland (specifically Lausanne), which turns into all of us on our feet, starring a world map, engaging us more than any TV set could.

This is us in Ushuaiah, Argentina at sunrise. This is us in Lausanne, Switzerland at sundown. Hopefully there will be a midday picture somewhere in 18 months from now.

Blog #6. 9^th Day, 28^th Year. Complete.

Retrospection: When trying to correctly pronounce the name of a certain French city, my friend’s tip was to mimic the sound of a donkey. So French really sounds the way most of us think it does.

Do You Know How Foreign You Are? #1

Written from: Zurich.


As a matter of fact, that’s correct Romano Gribaldi, my name is also Italian, and let me catch that olive oil dripping off your name with the Ciabatta bread I keep in mano for just such an occasione.


You have a lovely daughter who looks just like you, but she must have her mother’s eyes. Blue. Big. They can’t be yours. I haven’t been in the car with you an hour and you’ve already referenced them half a dozen times. But


do you know how foreign you are?


The longest story you tell me is about an American woman you spent only 4 days with. You invited her to Italy and she never came. You keep a piece of nothinginparticular with you all the time because she gave it to you. And after all your references to your family, you tell me (with the same sincerity!) that if this American came calling, you would leave it all, leave them all, and follow this infamnia that your genetics command you to keep in your back-pocket. Your wife. Your daughter. Your world you would leave them for. You love all of these equally; the only thing you love more is the tension that this creates, and THAT is how I have come to define all Italians.


Blog #5. 7th day, 28th year. Complete.


Retrospection:


            Italian                         X               English     =     Fanabala
Napoletan + Sicilian


Fanabala is the Italian-American dialect that originated from the phrase “va fa Napoli”.


examples: fugazi     (fake)
                 gavon      (slob)
                 stugatz    (balls)
                 scarol     (bullshit)
                 a gabi?   (understand?)

Jump Street

Written from: Hamburg.


Thank you, Hamburg friends, for allowing me to invade your apartment and gank your WiFi for 3 hours of classes, but I need to get a change of atmosphere, see more of the city, and all that. And again, thank you for recommending a local coffee shop with good cakes and promised internet; the idiot-proof directions are a plus too.


In the 40 minutes I give myself for the 15 minute walk, I get lost and use the 40 minutes and 1 hour that I’m supposed to be teaching to wander around like a Dumbfbacker (this german for someone who can’t follow idiot-proof directions). I did find the Coffee Shop, and there was no internet (not that it mattered now). What I did find in this plan that was fucked from Jump Street, was a lovely local woman who went out of her way to put me back on track.


Nadine, thank you for looking in my eyes. I’m leaving Saturday morning, but you make me want to stay and see you at the bar you have invited me to on Saturday night, even though I know this just an extension of your politeness and quality of character.


Today is my 28th Birthday.


Blog #4. 28th Year, 1st Day. Complete.


Retrospection: I have never learned to read a map nor been good at directions. 2 years of traveling hasn’t helped either of these problems; the only skill it has developed is my ability to negotiate and navigate through dire and difficult situations…I have learned nothing of how to avoid them.

Mercy

Written from: Hannover.


It’s freezing and I am as ill-prepared as a Californian could be. Yes, I have money, and I could afford a warm-meal and accommodations, but I have committed myself to eating out of my backpack and sleeping on the train station floor for the 1 of 2 things that will happen (it was not nearly this cold when I made this decision). At this point, I have already been hassled by the Polizei twice. They asked me to leave the mild cold of the terminal for the frosty/rainey train platform. I find a place by myself to play some guitar and pretty soon into this I start thinking about going home as quickly as possible.


1,2,3 people come to talk to me, ask me to play for them, and offer to give me something, and THAT is part-one of why I put myself in these situations. If the situation went worst-case, I would have dealt with it and gotten through it as I have with all other debacles. However, these people are as good of friends to me as I have ever had. In their few minutes, they feed, clothe, and warm everything of me that needs it.


I am not alone. I am part of everyone. And we must look out for each other.


Blog #3. 364th Day, 27th Year. Complete.


Retropsection: Once I put bread in the jar of a busker and a friend asked, “why? She wasn’t even playing anything.” Now you know.

The Californian #1

Written from: Munich.

1)   Place the next set of garb in grab distance, should a friend or bystander decide to get cute.

2)   Losen all belts and buttons. Sag a tig.

3)   Wrap the towel tightly well above the hips.

4)   Drop trou.

5)   Re-robe below towel, reaching under if necessary.

6)   Remove towel and button pants.

No one had to show me how to do this and it is in no way exotic or interesting. I am from California and this is the surf change.

However, transpose this to the Waschcenter in Sudstadt, Hannover, and every eye is fixed on me. I look more bummish than usual; my pants have visible mud and blood stains, my shirt and sweater have dog and boar hairs everywhere, and my hair is greasy and dirty from a week of just rinsing. Most of the crowd is looking at me with disgust; they’re older and this is disgusting. My bag only adds to the-CIA-put-a-chip-in-my-brain look I have going, which is only creeping them out more. Then I reach into the bag, and pull out my smaller work bag and take out my MacBook Air to write what would become this. With one action, the disapproving old man is smiling and all are unconcerned with what I’m doing, having apparently forgot about the mess I walked in as.

“He has a computer; surely the blood covering his pants is from something wholesome.”

Blog #2. 362^nd Day, 27^th Year. Complete.

Retrospection: Tuck-n-tail, pits, feets and face…if you can sink wash these sans mess, you have the mark of a JV Traveler.

DON'T TEST ME

Written from: Heidelberg.

“DON’T TEST ME!!!” I scream-type from my Heidelberg Studentenwohnung (“student house”, but German is hilarious), closing an email entailing the details of a last minute trip to Paris I arranged for less than 30 Euros and ONLY because a friend dared to question my ability to unscrew the unscrewable, fix-last-minute the unfix-last-minuteable, and in sum, meet them for an unplanned weekend of fun in Paris. Sadly, once they received the email in the wee hours of THE NIGHT BEFORE I’D BE LEAVING, they gave me some junk about how they didn’t think I could swing it (obviously they forgot that I swing the unswingable), and that they couldn’t entertain me if I did come. WHAT A CHUMP! But at least I was able to prove my clout as the Instant Traveler with this easily negotiable hurdle in the life of a Modern Nomad.

So what do I do now that my Paris plans are a Parisn’t-going-to-happen? I pull some more strings from who-knows-where, and arrange a trip to Munich for the last weekend of Oktoberfest (incidentally, the end of Oktoberfest is the only part actually in October), which is a sight like I’ve never imagined. A tent full of 5,000 dancing, singing, dunkel/leiderhoustupidpants clad locals and travelers assembled for the celebration of Beer.  Sure there were fights. And sure, there were people tossing cookies all over the street…but wouldn’t Beer be proud of this? I’d like to think Beer would say, “it wouldn’t be a celebration of me, if you didn’t celebrate ALL of me, so please, muster your courage (drink more if you need it), go and talk to that way-out-your-league, blond-haired, blue-eyed, daughter of Bavaria, and right when you think your game is at it’s peak, I will make you throw up on her. Why? Not because I hate you, but because I love you. I am Beer. More than scoring, more than sounding cool, I want to give you a rotten story of rottenness to tell again and again and again, because the lovers of my supple Hopsties will enjoy it, enjoy me, and thus enjoy us.”

Hi.

My name is Mike Ruffino and I said I would never have a blog. However, these are the things you come up with when you’re sitting in a coffee shop at the Munich train station, which you’re planning on playing guitar in until you fall asleep, only to wake up and get a ride with a total stranger to Hanover, where you will work for 3 weeks at a sustainable farm, learning everything about such endeavors, but also how to go from “I’m a mooing cow” to “I’m a delicious steak”…a task who’s blood-riddled steps are sure to haunt my dreams forever.

It is at this point I realize that I have no choice. I will again begin the sticky endeavor of creation, and much like the offspring I one-day hope to have, this too will probably be thought of as a mistake.

Blog #1. 27^th Year, 353^rd Day. Complete.

Restrospection:

Apologies to the friend I called “chump”. The bag of apples you gave me will be my food for the next 2 days.