The outlook was not optimistic. Dusseldorf Flughafen, Germany’s third largest airport, was closed due to bad snow and ice conditions; incoming flights were intermittent, outgoing flights were cancelled. This was the night before our flight plans, made months before, assured us that we would be in Essen for Christmas. Bummer.
Next morning, after arguing about what/not to take and how to pack it (a ritual Nancy and I have shared throughout our international adventures, extending back to before we were even married), we awaited a taxi at the top of our apartment driveway. As I struggled up the slope pulling all the heavy stuff, Nancy, astride the crest of the hill, framed in the Islamic mist like a hooded artic goddess in purple, raised a daintily gloved hand and, ever so gently, cupped a tiny snowflake.
.
"A snowflake?" I thought. "If it’s snowing in Istanbul, what the hell’s awaiting us in northwestern Germany?"
Snow-laden, horizontal surfaces awaited us. The evenly regimented highways and roads were clear, but the uniform sidewalks, steps and curbs were treacherous. The snow, however, was of the right variety for creating snowballs and snowmen. I made a snowball and looked around for an appropriate target. There it stood, a snowman! But he only had two balls. He looked sad, dwarfish, deflated. I empathized. I dropped the snowball and walked up the evenly spaced, similarly shaped steps to our host’s home.
Something felt different, and I soon realized what it was: Predictability. With a little scrutiny, I could figure out what the signs meant; I could walk at a hasty tempo, letting my feet fall without having to look down in case I was about to step into a hole or onto a sleeping dog. I had become accustomed to the irregularity of life here in Istanbul. The quirky had become the norm. To my shock and dismay, Germany was boring.
Then there was Bach. In English speaking countries, the holiday season is wreathed in performances of Handel’s Messiah, the composer’s most famous and least typical oratorio, never intended to be performed outside of Lent. In German speaking countries, Bach’s Weihnachts Oratorium (Christmas Oratorio) is the normatorium. Dennis (bass), Margaret (alto), Nancy (soprano) and I (tenor) formed a complete quartet, so we muscled our way into the center of the chorus of 300 or so and sat together at the internal corners of each section.
Bach’s opus is not a real oratorio, consisting instead of six cantatas intended to be performed on feast days between Christmas and Epiphany. We sang cantatas I (Christmas), IV (New Year) and VI (Epiphany), with an excellent orchestra and soloists. The audience was seated around and among the chorus. Some even stood up with us when we arose to sing. Everybody either brought their own score or ‘rented’ one: a deposit was paid, to be refunded at the return of the score. “Jauchzet, frohlochet; erschallet Ihr Lieder” ("Shout" or "rejoice," "make merry" or "be happy;" "sound forth your songs" or "resound in song," whatever). Whatever, it was a spiritual, cathartic experience, singing great music with dear friends in a crowd that loved, knew and could perform Bach’s brilliant music.
Snow-laden, horizontal surfaces awaited us. The evenly regimented highways and roads were clear, but the uniform sidewalks, steps and curbs were treacherous. The snow, however, was of the right variety for creating snowballs and snowmen. I made a snowball and looked around for an appropriate target. There it stood, a snowman! But he only had two balls. He looked sad, dwarfish, deflated. I empathized. I dropped the snowball and walked up the evenly spaced, similarly shaped steps to our host’s home.
Something felt different, and I soon realized what it was: Predictability. With a little scrutiny, I could figure out what the signs meant; I could walk at a hasty tempo, letting my feet fall without having to look down in case I was about to step into a hole or onto a sleeping dog. I had become accustomed to the irregularity of life here in Istanbul. The quirky had become the norm. To my shock and dismay, Germany was boring.
Then there was Bach. In English speaking countries, the holiday season is wreathed in performances of Handel’s Messiah, the composer’s most famous and least typical oratorio, never intended to be performed outside of Lent. In German speaking countries, Bach’s Weihnachts Oratorium (Christmas Oratorio) is the normatorium. Dennis (bass), Margaret (alto), Nancy (soprano) and I (tenor) formed a complete quartet, so we muscled our way into the center of the chorus of 300 or so and sat together at the internal corners of each section.
Bach’s opus is not a real oratorio, consisting instead of six cantatas intended to be performed on feast days between Christmas and Epiphany. We sang cantatas I (Christmas), IV (New Year) and VI (Epiphany), with an excellent orchestra and soloists. The audience was seated around and among the chorus. Some even stood up with us when we arose to sing. Everybody either brought their own score or ‘rented’ one: a deposit was paid, to be refunded at the return of the score. “Jauchzet, frohlochet; erschallet Ihr Lieder” ("Shout" or "rejoice," "make merry" or "be happy;" "sound forth your songs" or "resound in song," whatever). Whatever, it was a spiritual, cathartic experience, singing great music with dear friends in a crowd that loved, knew and could perform Bach’s brilliant music.
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