Hilmar Stimmler

I once knew a man named Hilmar Stimmler.  Okay, that wasn't his exact name, but it's only one letter off.  I'm just trying to avoid him running across this when he does a google-search for his name, as he is the type of person who likely does a google-search for his name on a bi-weekly basis.  In the event you do stumble upon this, Hilmar, like usual with unbeknownst subjects of my blog, I mean no harm or ill-will, it's just that, in knowing you, I obtained a somewhat interesting and/or humorous anecdote I feel my audience would enjoy reading.  And also, you were kind of a jerk to me, so I don't really feel too bad if this is unwittingly insulting to you.

What kind of a bizarre name is Hilmar Stimmler, you ask?  It's German.  Still kind of on the bizarre side?  Yeah, I know.  But I also met a guy named Torge (pronounced: Tore-guh), so who knows.  Germans, amiright?

Hilmar Stimmler was my boss.  I don't have a very good history with bosses.  There was the pathological liar (if you haven't read this one, I highly suggest it; it's one of my personal favorites), the tax-evader (who spent time in prison for tax-fraud shortly after I quit working there), another boss who used to have hysterical fits of womanly insanity, and would sob in her office on bad days, but would forget to wipe off the triangles of mascara from under her eyes, so they served as a form of yield-signs to steer clear of her on her "crying-rage-filled-rampage" days, and one who killed himself while I was working for him (it was a very small business with only 3 employees at the time, so that was... interesting).

But Hilmar was my boss during my Fulbright year to German.  I worked as an English language teaching assistant at a high school in a small-ish town in central Germany, or at least that's what I was supposed to be doing.  In reality, I worked as Hilmar's little American bitch.  We weren't supposed to teach the classes ourselves (I spent more than a few nights staying up late while trying to frantically put together a lesson plan for the next day after Hilmar's short notice that I was in charge of the lessons for the next day), we weren't supposed to grade papers (I was handed every paper as soon as the students turned them in, so I could "make the language corrections" for Hilmar - he would then ask what grade I felt the papers each deserved), and we weren't supposed to be translation services (Hilmar frequently called me out in front of a classroom full of students to argue with me over the meaning of a word - usually one that differed between American and British English definitions - I'm sorry, but I'm not going to hire a "solicitor" to represent me in court, and just because you had a routine doctor appointment does not mean you went "to hospital" or had "surgery."  Learn the language, Brits.)

Aside from abusing me in a professional setting, Hilmar seemed determined to make my year a memorable one in many other ways, as well.  For starters, as a participating teacher in the program, it was his responsibility to find me a place to live in town.  Instead of doing that, he offered to let me stay at his apartment until I could find a place to live.  He'd only charge me 250€ a month (out of the 703€ we earned). That didn't seem like a bad deal, considering he would also be feeding me.  Until he went out of town for two weeks and left me alone with his teenage daughter - and no food.  I had no choice but to buy food, for myself and the daughter.  Then, when I spent a week away from the house (with Tante Rose - my German grandmother-of-sorts), he didn't see it fit to lower my payment for the month at all.  I was also confined to three rooms of the house: my bedroom, the kitchen, and the bathroom.  According to Hilmar, he preferred if I stayed out of the other rooms.  Including the living room, with the TV.

Okay, so I was over-paying for meager quarters in a semi-hostile environment.  It was only for a couple months, right?  Not a big deal.

Until he started walking around the house in his short.  Biking shorts.  Sometimes hot pink, sometimes teal.  Skin-tight.  Biking shorts.  He did love to bike.  But that doesn't excuse subjecting my eyes (or those of his innocent daughter) to such a sight for hours every weekend day.  Germans are not necessarily known for their sense of fashion, and Hilmar was more than eager to scald that stereotype forever into my retinas.

And the Stimmlers were musical.  Oh, so very musical.

Hilmar played the piano.  And keyboard.  Regularly.  He was actually quite talented, but any time you're imprisoned in a small room in a quaint, thin-walled apartment, with no source of noise-creating entertainment (since I wasn't allowed in the TV room), the sounds of another human practicing an instrument ad nauseum can quickly begin to grate your nerves.  And his daughter played the clarinet.

Ah, the clarinet.  I will always hate the sound of the clarinet.  Not that his daughter wasn't equally as talented as Hilmar the Great, but my older brother played clarinet when we were younger, and the tell-tale squeaking honk sounds of a poorly played clarinet are forever engraved in my mind - in the back of my mind, scratching at my brain like fingernails on a chalkboard.  Any time I hear a clarinet, it's like a group of fashionable black women with those mesmerizingly long, blindingly colorful fingernails have gathered to relieve the itches of dozens of chalkboards located at the base of my skull.  His daughter could play the clarinet for two hours at a time. Or more.  Sometimes more.

He briefly showed me around town my first week there.  But the first day of school, he got up and went in early, so I had to walk there by myself.  When I went to apply for my visa, he set out with me in the morning, walked me to the building, and as soon as we were inside (and to the tricky part of actually dealing with people), he had a "meeting," and he had to run off.  I learned quickly that he was not the type of person to rely on for help.  Or kind words.  Or compassion of any sort.

So the time came (sooner than anticipated) for me to find a place to live.  Well, technically, the time came for Hilmar to do his job and find me a place to live.  But that wasn't going to happen.

"Do you think you could possibly help me find an apartment or something where I could live in town?"  I asked, after drawing up all the courage I could muster.

"No.  You'll have to do it on your own.  What do I know about finding apartments around here?"  Oh, gee, Hilmar, I don't know.  For starters, you live in an apartment around here.  I'd say that's about as knowledgeable as anyone could ever hope to be!

After interviewing with a dozen renters looking for another roommate in town (and being rejected by all of them, most likely because I would have been leaving in July, and their school-year went through September, so they would have been out a paying roommate for two months, but also quite possibly just because I was an American), I began to get panicky and felt like I'd never find a place to live.  But the mother of a student at our school happened to run a dorm (not affiliated with the university in town, although most everyone who lived there was a student at the university), and she had an available room.  At the very least, Hilmar was kind enough to drive my belongs and me up to the dorm, so I didn't have to make multiple trips on the town's buses.  That was probably the only generous thing he did for me - and he didn't even charge me fare for it!

Once I escaped the clutches of living with Hilmar, things seemed to get slightly better.  I only had to see him at work.  On a daily basis.  Unless he didn't show up for class that day, which, granted, didn't happen very often, but for an unprepared 22 year old with no actual teaching experience, once would have been more than enough.

Other times, he would show up, but his lesson plans wouldn't.

"How about you read from our book today?" he'd ask me, in front of the entire class of 17-18 year olds who also, clearly, had no desire to actually do anything productive that day.

"You mean like this paragraph?"

"Sure, start with that.  And then keep reading.  Until I tell you to stop.  They like to hear a real American accent"

Fifty minutes later, the bell would ring, and my "real American accent" would be starting to crack.

It should be noted that Hilmar was married to an American woman.  However, I never met her.  She was living in Florida, teaching there for the year (or longer).  She'd decided she'd had enough of living in Germany (or with Hilmar?), as she'd been there nearly 20 years, so she found a job "back home," and moved away.  He went to visit her several times (including the two weeks he left me to fend for myself - and take care of his hungry daughter), and she came to visit him, too, over her holidays.  Most notably, over Thanksgiving break.

For whatever reason, we had a long weekend over Thanksgiving.  Surely not because of Thanksgiving, as that's an American holiday, but regardless, I spent the day with a couple good friends in the small town of Stendal.  We did our best to make a Germanized version of American Thanksgiving, and, all in all, it was a pleasant holiday.

Back at school on Monday, Hilmar approached me in the teachers' lounge.

"Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?" he asked, and without waiting for a reply, "We had a very traditional one - with the big turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and everything.  Since my wife is American, she went all out and made me a real classic dinner.  I didn't even think of inviting you."

"Uh... yeah.  I went over to a friend's..."

"Oh, good.  Because I realize now I probably should have invited you.  Oh well!"  In spite of that realization, Hilmar didn't see fit to invite me for any of their Christmas celebrations, either.

Some mornings in the teachers' lounge, he would refuse to acknowledge my existence.  I'd say hi or wave, and he'd turn his back as if I weren't there at all.  Other mornings, he'd sit down next to me, full of friendly chit-chat and go over our lesson plans for the day.  I never knew which Hilmar I was going to encounter on any given day.

And then there was Spring Break.  I knew that I needed/wanted to come home for a few days, because Husband would be graduating from Creighton and was going to be Commissioned in the Army (and our good friends were also getting married that weekend - and, as it turned out, so were Husband and I).  I asked Hilmar if I could have Thurs-Tuesday off, over two months in advance.

"No.  I don't see how that could work."  Ahh, he was such a compassionate man.

I went back to the drawing board.  I came up with a plan where I could have as little work on those days as possible - finishing what I could before I left, preparing lesson plans for the days I was gone, etc.  A week later, I approached him again and asked a second time, giving him my proposal of how, in spite of being physically gone, I wouldn't actually miss any work.  Besides, he'd had me work far more than I was ever supposed to in the first place - I was frequently used as a "guest speaker" in random English classes (read: a free period for the students to accuse me of every American stereotype known to Germans while I tried to negate and/or acknowledge them; yes, many Americans are fat, but so are many Germans; no, not all Americans are rich, and I don't even own a gun, etc), and I wasn't technically ever supposed to teach a class on my own, much less alone in the classroom.

"I'll think about it, but you're really not supposed to be able to take any days off," he said.

So I booked my flights anyway.  I figured, I'd just call in (very) sick those days.  He'd obviously know I was lying, but we were allowed to take sick days.

Two weeks before my scheduled Spring break, Hilmar approached me.

"Do you still want those days off?  You can have them.  I don't see why it'd be a problem.  But it's probably too late to get plane tickets now.  Or they'd be really expensive, at best."  I honestly don't know if he was trying to be malicious, or if he was truly just that oblivious.

He maintained his "aloof yet unpredictably cruel" demeanor for the rest of my year there.  He wrote me a letter of recommendation but refused to let me read it.  He asked if I needed help getting my belongings to the train station then told me he already had plans to ride his bike for 12 miles the day I needed to leave town.  He made sure I was thanked in the end-of-the-year staff meeting but had a colleague (another teacher I'd worked with throughout the year) give my thank-you speech.

I'd like to end with some kind of moral or witty quip about Hilmar, but the man honestly baffled me.  I don't feel like my life is richer for having known him, yet I also don't feel as if he's caused any permanent damage to my psyche.  I generally feel indifferently amused when I think back on that year and the bizarre behavior of a man who can't recall having ever had the hiccups in his life.  So I'll end with this:

I once knew a man named Hilmar Stimmler (or something close enough to that).

(By the way, sorry for the terrible quality of the picture - I lost the actual copy of it, so all I had to go off of was the little thumbnail version.  That's me, before kids (*sigh*), in Hilmar's room with a bottle of champagne on one of the days both he and his daughter were out of town.  It was the only time I had friends over at his apartment - so, of course, we snuck into the "forbidden" rooms and snapped some super-fast pictures.)

The Day I Got Bird Flu

There seems to always be some kind of flu epidemic threatening to wipe out all of mankind. Last year it was Swine Flu (or rather, H1N1), and in 2006, it was slightly less glamorous Avian Flu. This might not be on the forefront of many of my readers' minds, as this epidemic was primarily contained to Africa and Europe. But I had the great fortune to be living in Goettingen, Germany at the height of the spread of Bird Flu Frenzy through much of Europe, including Germany.

It started quietly, as lethal epidemics are wont to do. We heard news stories in passing about a so-called "bird flu" in Africa and didn't give a second thought to those poor chickens with mild fevers and achy bodies. In our favorite pizzeria or the local cd shop, we would hear snippets of news reports alerting us to the fact that bird flu now had documented cases in Turkey and China. However, these reports were of little concern for us, and not just because they were in rapid-fire, usually incoherent reporter-style German.

As the flu spread across Europe, the message of its danger slowly worked its way into our heads. Somewhere, hidden among my thoughts of the cute new line of sweaters at H&M or how unbelievably cold central Germany can be at 2am after a night of drinking in the local "Irish" pub, these invasive thoughts began to take hold. Without realizing it, I began to avoid large groups of pigeons (a difficult feat in downtown Goettingen, as the Gaenseliesel is a prime target for pigeon excrement-shooting practice). "Bird Flu" eased its way into our vernacular. Upon seeing a dead sparrow in the gutter, someone would jokingly call out that "bird flu has claimed another victim," to the naive laughter of those around.

Spring spread slowly across Germany, carrying with it the dark cloud of reality that was bird flu. Gone were the days of lax joking at the expense of a fallen bird. When the news came on between atrocious German techno songs on the radio at our beloved pizza restaurant, an eerie calm fell over everyone as we listened anxiously to hear of the latest dead goose with bird flu found within the borders of the Fatherland. We hurried past the loitering group of ominous looking pigeons as they taunted us from atop the Little Goose Girl statue with their potential to die suddenly at our feet and thusly condemn us to an abrupt, albeit terrible, death by Bird Flu. We memorized lists of possible symptoms of the virus and were quick to unapologetically banish anyone from our midst who so much as sniffled.

The government began issuing warnings to the public. Typically, public health warnings are somewhat tame; a short news bulletin you listen to in passing, casually taking into consideration the suggestions for maintaining your own good health and preserving the health of your loved ones around you. But that's because we typically hear public health warnings in English (those of us from English-speaking countries, at least). There are few things more terrifying than hearing a solemn male voice dictating instructions to the public through overhead speakers (the radio speakers were hung from the ceiling in our friend's pizzeria) - in German.

Instantly, my mind took me to 1944. What was this voice saying? Were the Allies going to bomb us soon? When would the air raid sirens go off? Who, exactly, was this, addressing his public with that stern, determined voice of confidence? Everything will turn out okay if we just obey your every command, Authoritative German Male Voice? We won't die if we blindly follow you to the bitter end?? JAWOHL, MEIN HERR!!!

Okay, it wasn't really THAT terrifying, but I'd be lying if I said there weren't whispers of such vague impressions hidden among the news broadcasts.

It was in the midst of this wide-spread public hysteria that my daily 4 mile walks around town in several inches of snow and not nearly enough clothing (because who wants to be warm when you can show off your sexy Euro-trash-style clothing?), combined, most likely, with the consumption of far too much pizza, finally caught up with me.

I woke suddenly early one morning, around 3am, sweating profusely, shaking violently, and under a heavy fog of fever-induced delirium. I made a mad-dash to my dorm-style apartment's unisex, shared bathroom and threw up violently for several minutes. As I literally crawled back to my room, my body shaking with regular convulsions from the illness that had taken over, it dawned on me that I had, in spite of my unfaltering obedience to the German government and their warnings, somehow contracted bird flu, and was hereby condemned to die.

Back in my room, I huddled on top of my sweat-soaked sheets, pulled my knees to my chest, and began rocking back and forth as I sobbed to myself over the realization that my last hours were going to be spent alone and miserable in Germany. Eventually, I managed to fall back into the April 1945-esque nightmares of my delirious sleep.

Several hours later I awoke, fever broken, and feeling alarmingly good for someone who had surely just died of bird flu less than 3 hours ago. As the sun shone brightly onto my sweat-stained sheets, I realized, had I really be dying (or really had bird flu), it probably would have been reasonable if I'd called my boss and requested a ride to the local hospital. I hadn't thought of such a simple solution due to the nightmarish ramblings of my fevered mind. Fortunately, it turned out to only be some kind of 24 hour bug.

In spite of this near-death experience, I still never bothered to learn how to call an ambulance in Germany. I just always figured, I lucked out and didn't need medical attention, surely I wouldn't get that sick again. After all, I was in Germany, where bad things never happen twice.

Why You Shouldn't Smuggle Drugs Into Norway

The year after I graduated from college, I got a Fulbright Scholarship to spend a year in Germany, working as a teaching assistant in English at a German high school. I lived in Göttingen, a small town in central Germany. Whenever my skills as a bilingual dictionary weren't being abused by the school (they must have missed the "assistant" part of my job title), I tried to travel as much as possible. This often led to a week of near-starvation at the end of every month, as the US State Department grossly underestimates how much monthly bills as a TA in Germany add up to be, but for me, the choice was usually an easy one. Who wouldn't rather see amazing new cities than eat?

When a group of my friends scattered around Germany (not all were Fulbrights) found round-trip plane tickets to Oslo for 22€ (around $30 at the time), we jumped at the chance. I saved up as much money as I could in preparation (about $100), and eagerly counted down the days until our journey.

The day before our flight left, we all met up in Berlin. Our flight was out of the capital city, and some of the people going with us were lucky enough to be living there. As I've told you before, I used to live in Berlin, so I was thrilled to go back "home" for the day. I met up with my friends who lived there, we walked around town (because that's what you do in Berlin), ate some pizza, and then went to one of their friend's apartments, where everyone smoked a lot of pot. Except me. Because I don't smoke pot. But that is actually a very good story for another time. People have always told me they're very surprised when they learn that I don't smoke pot (and never have). I'm never quite sure how to interpret that...

The next morning, the group of us heading to Oslo woke up bright and early (and hungover), to head to one of Berlin's three airports. The excitement of the impending trip helped with our headaches (I do drink - well, at least I used to, before the whole "having children" phase of life), and by the time we were on the plane, everyone was in great spirits. We were going to Oslo! That's in NORWAY!!

The plane landed after a surprisingly short flight (Europe is really small if you spent your childhood road-tripping across the US). Because we were a group of nerds, we were all very excited about the possibility of getting our passports stamped; Norway is, after all, not part of the European Union. We deplaned and got in line, eager to show the important man behind the glass our passports. We talked eagerly amongst ourselves until it was our turn. We all approached at once, spilling our enthusiasm all over the passport man, who, in turn, didn't really care that we were coming in to his country, and didn't stamp our passports.

Mildly disappointed, but determined not to let that minor glitch get to us, we followed the line out of the customs area of the airport, which led through these giant glass doors and into the unsecured area. A woman a short distance in front of us had an adorable cocker spaniel that was holding up the line. An airport official was with them and pulled the dog out of the line. Before long, we were walking past them ourselves. One of the girls in our group bent down to pet the adorable, friendly family pet. She stood up just in time to be briskly whisked away by 7-foot tall Blond Giants into a secret door behind the hallway we were currently walking down. The rest of us froze in horror as the dog greeted us in his friendly way and the airport official told us gruffly to keep walking.

Before I had any idea what was happening, we were on the other side of the big glass doors, minus one member of our party.

"What the hell happened to Jill??" I tried to keep my voice from exploding into a scream (by the way, her name is clearly not Jill).

"She had pot on her," I was calmly and quietly informed. Panic began to set over the rest of our group as we stood like lost and confused sheep, directly on the other side of the big glass doors. It didn't take long for the giant blond people to approach us and tell us to "move along." We tried to inquire after our comrade, but all they would say was that she had been arrested.

As the recently deplaned crowed thinned out, we realized we were not the only group nervously pacing and waiting on a kidnapped party. A group of Middle Eastern-looking men were next to us looking just as nervous. It quickly became an unspoken competition to see whose abductee would be the first to show. We lost.

We moved away from the doors, but continued to mill around aimlessly. After waiting close to 45 minutes, another Middle Eastern-looking young man came through the doors, and the other party perked up instantly. They shot us victoriously smug glances as they walked away to Norwegian freedom. Finally, after another 30 minutes or so, Jill emerged. Escorted by one of the extremely tall, perfectly white-haired Norwegian Blond Giant police officers. He quietly informed her that she could have a word with us. She walked over to us and we erupted into a bombardment of questions.

"What's going on?" "Are you going to jail?" "You had pot on you?" "That COCKER SPANIEL was a DRUG DOG?!" "Who the hell makes a cocker spaniel a drug dog?!" "It didn't even occur to us that a cocker spaniel could be a drug dog!" "Did YOU know a cocker spaniel could be a drug dog?" "Are you okay?" "What the hell are we going to do?"

Jill managed to keep her cool (although she was clearly shaken as well). She informed us that they were not going to make her go down to the police station. She had been officially arrested, and would have to pay a fine, but she would be released to go with us - in just a few hours. She told us we could go on to the hotel, but we decided, after all the trauma we'd already been through, it would be best to stick together as much as possible. The Blond Giant approached us from behind, and, in his hilarious Norwegian accent informed us that, "Iht was tihme to go bahck." First he escorted her to a near-by ATM, then walked her back through the big glass doors. He wouldn't let her say anything else to us. We stood in slightly calmed desperation, watching our adorable little friend being dragged back to Blond Giant airport prison.

We spent the next two hours getting to know the airport and writing prison letters to our dear friend in lock-up. While waiting, we had another terrible realization: Norway is insanely expensive. We had to share airport food, because we couldn't afford to each eat our own meal. It was the start to a very thrifty four day vacation, which included switching from our decent hotel to a not-so-decent hostel, walking through miles of very cold snow (our visit was in early January - no wonder tickets were only $30!), and eating at gas stations to try and save money, where even the gas station attendants speak English ("Hof course, Ih speahk Henglish").

Finally, our Jill was released to us. She came out through the giant glass doors, once again, but this time without her perfect aryan escort. We sat on a bench outside the airport trying to recover from the terror and fear we'd all just endured (Jill more than any of us) for the last three+ hours. After ensuring Jill was doing better and feeling okay (she even laughed at our prison love-letters), one of the other girls in the group got a sly grin on her face.

"Don't worry, Jill. It'll be okay," she said, quietly, through the conspiratory grin. "They didn't catch me." She pat her bag.

I was shocked. I stared in absolute disbelief. There is no way TWO people in our group attempted to smuggle illegal drugs across countries - especially going from an EU country to a non-EU country, where we were sure to have to go through customs. And yet... here we were. Maybe it's just because I don't smoke pot, but I was starting to question the ability of my friends to make appropriate critical thinking decisions.

Finally, we set out on our way to our (expensive) hotel (that we could only afford to stay in for one night). As soon as we were there, my friends "partook" in the illegal substance they were able to bring along. My disbelief had started to wear off (after all, I have spent a good deal of time with people who do smoke regularly - maybe that's why people are always surprised to learn I don't...) And then, Jill blew my mind (and I wasn't even the high one, people!!).

She confessed to us that this was not the first time she'd smuggled marijuana illegally into another country. In fact, she'd done it just a few weeks before. When she went to ISTANBUL. In TURKEY. Where they probably would have thrown her in jail for a few years (if she was lucky), had she'd been caught. Although now, in retrospect of our afternoon, Jill was lamenting her foolishness and expressing her intense gratitude at being caught this time, in civilized and polite Norway, rather than terrifying and outrageously-strict-on-drug-smugglers Turkey.

The rest of our trip was significantly less eventful and overall very enjoyable. Albeit very cold. Oslo is a beautiful city (even in several inches of packed snow), and we had a great time seeing authentic Viking ships from the 800's, Munch's "The Scream," trying to find Bunny Island, tracking down the tallest person we could find (he turned out to be a German baker who was well over 7 feet tall - we figured he must have moved to Norway to finally live somewhere where he could fit through all the doorways), seeing giant Norwegian fishing boats, shopping at authentic Norwegian butchers (with real stuffed reindeer in the window), watching all the beautiful Blond Giants at their annual equivalent of the Oscars, talking in our best (terrible) Norwegian accents, and tromping through the snow.

And of course, smoking a little grass.