Image if you will … it’s 20:15 on a Sunday evening in Germany. Anywhere in Germany. Anywhere at all in Germany really. The show is on. Tatort. The familiar flickering of the super sized boob tubes cast their long familiar ambient spells and stun their captive audience into a mute fascination. It begins …
It’s only TV I know … and TV is furniture but it’s the fun kind of furniture to sit and watch. Germans love watching their TVs. Especially on Sunday evenings when Germany’s longest running crime series airs. Tatort first aired in November 29, 1970 and continues to this day.Funny thing is I remember this show from it’s black and white days when I was still a younger lad.
And I believe that now that I’ve begun to settle into the weekly viewing habit, and rather anticipating the next show that I’m beginning to become more German. You see, it’s tradition in many households to watch this sometimes riveting crime scene murder investigation.
Watch Tatort on Sundays and investigate together here with us at 20:15
And yes it is a little different than the run of the mill ‘mercan crime shows. I find that this show in particular makes the viewer think a bit as she/he tries to figure out the current case and what makes this show rather interesting is the fact that often an unanticipated twist takes you places you weren’t anticipating. That’s one of the reasons I like the show.
No, I don’t always like the episodes but that’s to be expected but I’ve come to like this or that detective duo and the particular chemistry that make them work, or not work.
And in the months preceding my move back to Germany a couple of years ago, I used Youtube to watch as many of the online shows as I could to get the language back into my ear and head. Now that that’s in there my Sunday evenings are scheduled, ha.
It’s always interesting to discover what kind of a story and writers came up with. See you on the couch next Sunday evening; German style.
This speech was given before a patriotic audience in 1961 at the Willard Hotel, Washington, D.C., on behalf of Conde McGinley’s patriotic newspaper of that time, Common Sense. Though in some minor ways this wide-ranging and extemporaneous speech has become dated, Mr. Freedman’s essential message to us — his warning to the West — is more urgent than ever before. — K.A.S.
Benjamin H. Freedman was one of the most intriguing and amazing individuals of the 20th century. Born in 1890, he was a successful Jewish businessman of New York City at one time principal owner of the Woodbury Soap Company. He broke with organized Jewry after the Judeo-Communist victory of 1945, and spent the remainder of his life and the great preponderance of his considerable fortune, at least 2.5 million dollars, exposing the Jewish tyranny which has enveloped the United States.
I just returned from the village store. I took a few cold beers from their fridge, the coldest beers around. I like that. It’s summer. Three beers. Having a store in the village rocks. It is convenient for me, only a … Continue reading →
It’s carnival season German style. Colorful garb, musical cacophonies, flying candy and fist fulls of confetti tossed not only prettily into the air above the heads of parade viewers, nay … sometimes this vile paper pretty is tossed directly, deliberately into the faces of the public, sometimes even savagely massaged into the hair and down the necks of the now hapless parade visitors. Some of these are even dragged from the relative obscurity of the side of the route into the middle of the action where they are ganged upon by members of the carnival cliques and suffer unspeakable carnival mayhem.
This being Rose Montag (Rose Monday), revelers take to the carnivalized streets celebrating something I understand little about. Here in Baden Wuertemberg is it also known as Fastnacht.
This little village I live in posted signage last week announcing road/street closures for today and when I asksed I was told about the carnival parade. The day is also taken off by many of the celebrants. I too had it off.
Warm up music blasted through and between the buildings of this downtown village style neighborhood and that made any sane calm thought to naught. So I decided to join the curious and hangers on. And now I have a badge as proof of my admission payment of 2Euros. I paid to be entertainingly molested by noise, color and bands of wild celebrants, most comfortably anonymous behind carved wooden masks or cheaper yet convincing synthetic copies of these cultural works of art and ancient master pieces of the season.
Below is a selection of todays ribald and raucous celebrations played out by seasoned characters, long versed and immersed in the local customs of the various cliques, groups of celebrants.
It’s a Friday afternoon when the urge to see something on a screen bigger than the smallish TV we have strikes. Lets say it’s … oh, 16:00 or thereabouts. This urge does not strike too often thank goodness, given the admission prices at most movie theaters and really good films/movies are few and far between. So I generally avoid the rubbish.
I check local theaters on-line and find something worth the price of admission, a French flick that I initially mistake as something German.
Paulette, French Film
Ok, honest mistake I insist, even if the name Paulette does not have that Teutonic ‘Klang’ at all. Instead of reasonable start times that I am used to from the North American movie entertainment palaces, I find myself struggling with the odd menu offerings where this film is shown then but not later, or that one later and not earlier. And I find it a bit constricting in terms of an impromptu movie binge.
The constraints don’t stop there. Oh no, it gets better. In fact it is very organized this movie viewing thing. You see you just can’t just buy a ticket for a certain show and simply wander past the ticket taker and into the theater and pick whatever seat suits your fancy at the moment. No, you must choose a seat via screen at the time of ticket purchase. Meaning that you buy your specific seat. Perhaps that is so because most theaters around here are fit into existing buildings instead of the mega entertainment mecca’s that consume valuable acreage in or around most fair sized towns and cities elsewhere. It’s more discreet here. You can even pre order/reserve seats online or via phone if you so choose.
Ok, so we (I didn’t go alone) bought our tickets and selected our seats from the available slots onscreen and settled in for the pre-show. The place was nearly empty, not bad for a 200 seat room. Most of those taken were behind us and I was enjoying the leg and elbow room when to my right I spied a group of four studiously comparing the fine text on their tickets to seat row numbering and then narrowing in on the row we were seated in. “Come on” I thought … “this can’t be”. It was. They edged their collective way past us and much to my surprised dismay they sat down in the seats right next to my left elbow. “Damned” was my next thought. Row upon empty row before us, and more empty seats further along this row. I had to smile because somehow that sense of German efficiency had calculated that someone would choose exactly those seats; and not be swayed to move a few seats over so as to give some ‘personal space’, even after it became apparent that no other movie gowers would occupy any other of the empty seats. I even chuckled, cause the guy who got to sit next to me never even once tried to rest his right elbow on the arm rest between us; I having laid claim to it by rights of having sat down first. Weirdness indeed.
The movie was worth the experience and we laughed at all the right places. Well enjoyed indeed. Check it out if you get a chance.
It’s a Sunday morning. Well, outside anyways. Inside I’m still in bed, my head full of dreamy bits, my body asleep and relaxed. It’s not early, it’s not late. A relatively quiet time. Even asleep I can sense the quieter Sunday morning solitude and I enjoy the abbreviated traffic noises from the main road that cuts through this village through the open window of my bedroom.
On weekdays the traffic noises begin to build around 04:30 and I’m certain most of that early morning rush is bakers on their way to their trades but on Saturdays and Sundays it is relatively calm out there.
What the hell am I writing about? I’ll tell you. It’s the Kandertalbahn. Go look it up on Facebook if you want. They have a page. It is an old steam driven railway line that runs the same stretch back and forth every Sunday for tourists, the curious and hobbyists from the first day of May all the way through the 20th day of October.
Yes it’s quaint, it’ pretty, it’s historic, it’s old, it’s in working condition, it brings in money and tourists, but it also is loud and irritating to many who live along its iron line.
Sure, it’s lovely to see something from days gone by, watch something like that chugging back and forth, forwards and backwards along track through a picturesque, lush and fertile bucolic valley landscape of farm fields, small quaint villages that lie 2 or so kilometers apart from the next and green capped forested hills. What’s not to like about that?
Bucolic southern German landscape
No argument there, but sorry no, I’ve not ridden it yet; not when I lived here as a teen nor since I’ve been back. In fact I was planning to do that this summer but that urge shrivels on my ‘things to do’ list every time that shrieking noise makes me cringe, six times every Sunday. And the worst of it is that sometimes I wish that I could somehow prevent that blasted whistle from issuing it’s evil sound. No surprise though that if I lived further away from the tracks I wouldn’t really give a rats ass what kind of noise that train made but what I’m afraid of is that if I were to visit somewhere else and heard such a whistle, I might believe it to be sunday.
What gets me and what I can’t get my head around is that this is Germany after all, a peace and quiet loving folk. They are known to enforce the Sabbath strickly where naught is done around the house if it makes any kind o f ‘working’ noise on the Lords day; one does that on Saturday. It’s not like N. America, not at all. But that damned infernal noise is apparently ok. Go figure.
I just heard the last shrill whistle blast of the day, for this whistle stop.
Now I get to listen to the receding if still muffled and audible whistle blasts as the loathsome Chanderli chuggs its metal way back to Kandern to await for its next weekends annoying assault on many ears. Frustratingly I just now realize that I still have two months of Sundays to get through. Grrrr …