Would Emily Clarke and her dance partner please take to the floor.

This week, I dipped my toe into the sea that is ballroom dancing. Why not? I am an avid Strictly Come Dancing fan, and every year promise myself that this will be in the year in which I learn to dance. Flavia Cacace though I am not, I thought it would be something good to try. After all (here comes my mantra for this year…) I will only get this chance once.

So I signed up for beginners' salsa classes. And, thanks to one very helpful student from one of my year 11 groups, the worries about signing myself up etc. were all taken out of my hands. There was one teensy weensy little flaw in my plan, that being that the class I signed up for was a couple's class. Being a singleton, I did not have a willing other half to take with me. However, I was assured that this was not a problem; a dance partner would be fetched from somewhere to help me, and I found myself excitedly anticipating my first dance lesson. I had visions of myself gliding around the floor like a pro, dancing with someone bearing a startling resemblance to Artem Chigvintsev, who would quite literally sweep me off my feet, and all the while having Bruce Forsyth tell me that I was his favourite. I couldn’t wait!

In my head, this was totally what I looked like

That was until I got there. On arriving at the designated dance class, though the manager seemed to eventually twig who I was, no mysterious dance partner appeared. The other couples in the room gave me very odd looks as I walked through the waiting room, perhaps wondering to themselves if the other half of my couple was hiding under an invisibility cloak, waiting for the opportune moment to spring out at everyone, yelling “Ta-dahh!” As it was, no one appeared from under an invisibility cloak, and neither did anyone who looked like they might be the poor person designated to dance with me.

So instead I took a seat right at the back of the waiting room, and busied myself with my phone, trying to pretend that the other couples weren’t still giving me puzzled glances. In actual fact, a lot of thoughts were running through my head simultaneously. Oh my days. FML. Why am I here? What possessed me to think this would be a good idea? Why do these things always seem to happen to me?! I felt like standing up in the middle of the room and saying, ‘Let’s get a few things straight, shall we? No, I do not have a boyfriend. No, I did not bring anyone else with me. Yes, I am aware this is a couple’s class. Yes, I shall be taking part anyway. I’m breaking the mould, people! I’m living life on the edge.’

We were taken through into the proper dance studio, where, yes you’ve guessed it, still no mystery dance partner. I made a mental bargain with myself that I would give it five minutes and if I was still the loner in the back corner after that time, then I would run for the hills. I don’t deal very well with awkward situations, so this seemed like the best option. I would never have to see these people again; none of them knew who I was. All would be well.  

“Right,” said the teacher (in German, obviously) “we’re going to start with a move known as the pancetta.” At least, that is what it sounded like to my amateur ears. Oh God, here we go, I thought. I’m going to spend the next hour learning a dance with the same name as some form of Italian bacon; a bit of a far cry from the exotic, Latin American party-dance I had in mind. The moves we began with were fine; getting you used to the steps of moving side-to-side and forwards and backwards. Things were going smoothly; you didn’t need your partner. This is plain sailing, I thought.

I knew it couldn’t last. “Ok, now grab your partner and get into hold.” Holy shit. The game was up. I was left standing in the middle of the room, amidst a sea of middle aged, smug couples, all still looking at me strangely, wondering why I was still there. “It’s ok dear, your partner will be with you in a minute. In the meantime, you can try the hold position on your own, if you want.” Hmmmm, thanks, but no thanks. I don’t think I’ll add insult to injury by pretending I have a dance partner, when in actual fact I look like the biggest wally to ever walk through the doors of your dance school.

So instead, I stood there like a complete wombat, hoping against hope that my supposed dance partner would get a bloody move on. Fancy having other things to do whilst I was standing there dying a thousand deaths. Eventually, as it turned out, the young guy who works at the dance school, and was helping the teacher demonstrate some of the moves was to be my partner. He came to my rescue just as I was preparing to make a run for it, so it was my turn to look smugly round the room, realising that being the loner in a situation like this does have its advantages. I got a dashing, young dance teacher teaching me to salsa.  The likelihood of my feet getting trodden on was also greatly reduced, though it did expose just how uncoordinated I am.

In terms of the actual dancing, surprisingly enough I wasn’t too bad. There were a few couples that had clearly had dancing lessons before, and got really into it and others that came from Stompsville of Stompstown of Stompshire. I’d say I was fairly in the middle. For any Strictly fans out there, I was definitely not an Alesha Dixon, but neither was I an Anne Widdecombe. If Len Goodman had been in the room, I think he would have given me a resounding “sev-ennn.” Aside from the fact that the poor chap that got lumbered dancing with me was very tall, meaning I had to stay on my tiptoes for most of the time in order to reach his shoulder, (next week I’m going in heels,) I found the whole thing quite relaxing. Luckily enough for me, the steps were fairly basic, so I soon found that I stopped worrying about my feet so much and instead enjoyed chatting to my partner about all the different types of dances that you can learn.

Once I had recovered from the shame of arriving as the only partner-less person in a partner’s dance class, I found the whole thing rather good fun. Though I doubt that I was ‘born to dance,’ and though I have a very long way to go before I can move with the elegance of Flavia Cacace, this was another exciting experience to jot down on the list of ones I am compiling this year. I said I would give everything a go, and so far, I am fulfilling that promise to myself.

Until next time

Emily

I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles...

…pretty bubbles in the air.

The beginning of that song is full of soapy, washing-up liquid-y, bubble bath-y hope, (whichever your preferred method of blowing bubbles may be). I sometimes feel like I am floating around in a German bubble; I’m lucky enough that I live in a cosy, little German town that feels like home, I’ve met some people who I think are definite friends for life, and I am working in a school that I feel I completely belong in.

…They fly so high, nearly reach the sky, when just like my dreams they fade and die.

Well that’s a cheery end! That’s the tragic thing about bubbles; you know that as pretty and ethereal as they may be, sooner or later the end will be nigh, and they burst. In not quite  as such a dramatic fashion, that’s what has happened to me this week. I was merrily floating around in my German bubble, when WHAM – someone came along and burst it. 

I will warn you now, I’m about to rant. Feel free to stop reading here.

No, still with me? Well here goes…

The bursting of my bubble came about because I was trying to pay for some chocolates in a shop on my card, and the woman behind the till was trying to explain that this particular shop didn’t accept Maestros or MasterCard’s (seriously, this is 2013, what’s all that about?!). Seeing as I had no other method of payment on me at the time, I was attempting to ask how else I was expected to pay, when the man behind me let out a disgruntled sigh, followed by the words “eugh… f***ing Immigrante. Sie sollten besser deutsch können, wenn Sie in Deutschland leben wollen.” (The general gist of this is ‘eugh...immigrants. You should learn to speak better German if you’re going to live here.’) Perhaps unsurprisingly, I was really quite insulted at this. It wasn’t even that he’d pulled me up on my far-from-perfect German; I know it’s still got a long way to go. It was the term that he so harshly and unashamedly used to describe me. I was ready to round on this man, all raised-eyebrows and flabbergasted expressions. “An immigrant?! Moi?! I’ll have you know that I am British.”  But I didn’t round on him with raised-eyebrows and flabbergasted expressions, mainly because he was a lot bigger than me, I go redder than a tomato with sunburn when faced with confrontation, and I didn’t know the German for ‘pompous douchebag.’ Also, the reason that he was so rude in the first place, was because my German wasn’t good enough to effectively disguise me as a native. If I’d have started an argument with him using my stilted German, I would have epitomised exactly what he seemed to dislike about foreign people.

So instead I swallowed my words (and some tears that were threatening to escape), gave the woman behind the till an apologetic smile and trudged off. And as I walked home, trying to pick my wounded pride up off the floor, I tried to pin-point what had hurt so much about what he said. Yes, he was a grumpy old, xenophobic bugger, clearly unable to see the benefits of multiculturalism and European integration, but the reason I was so mortified was because he had called me an ‘immigrant.’ If we’re being technical, I fit the description of an immigrant. I have left my homeland, and am living and working in another country. True, I’m only here for another four and a half months, so this isn’t a permanent thing, but if I were to choose to live abroad once I graduate, then it may well be. The term ‘immigrant’ in the UK is also used by many people in a derogative sense. Though it may be unjust and unfair, the fact remains that there is a huge stigma attached to the word nowadays, and it was hurtful and humiliating to think that this man associated me with these connotations as well.

I am proud to be British. I love my country and the nation I belong to. Bensheim isn’t exactly crawling with people from all walks of life, so when people suss out that I’m not German, all of a sudden I find myself having to explain where I come from, what I’m doing in Germany, how long I’m here for etc. I must admit, it’s nice to be the interesting one with something to say and stories to tell for once. And though the Queen, the Pound and English tea will always have a special place in my heart, I have also been enjoying what it is like to embrace all things German; to 'do as ze Germans do.' 99.9% of the people I have come across so far have been helping me do this; they have been friendly, welcoming, accommodating and helpful. They are appreciative of the fact that they can learn from me, and I from them. It just goes to show, however, that all it takes is one grumpy man armed with one very powerful, three-syllabled word to come along and, quick as a flash, burst that oh-my-gosh-I-feel-so-German bubble that I’ve become so used to.

Though I may have been brought back down to earth with a bump, don’t worry, I won’t let that cast a shadow on the rest of my time here. Unfortunately, it’s one of those sad facts of life that you find people like that wherever you go. I can now fully appreciate just how much of an inferiority-complex that one word can give you. If I ever saw that man again, I would tell him: multiculturalism is definitely something to be celebrated, not down-trodden. One of the reasons I love studying languages so much is because they are a means of breaking down cultural barriers, allowing people to integrate; something that should undoubtedly be encouraged – what kind of society would we be if we couldn’t appreciate other cultures and customs? I want to be a woman of the world – someone who can build up a wealth of experience from all the different places she sees, languages she speaks and amazing people she meets on her journeys.

Just look at me, getting all liberal! I’ll be voting for Nick Clegg next.

In the spirit of embracing German culture, I should ask if there would be an obviously ‘German’ way of dealing with a situation like that. But, just today, I think I’ll opt for the coping mechanism I know best. Like a true Brit, I am going to keep calm and carry on.

Fortune's always hiding, I've looked everywhere,

I'm forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air.

Emily 

Facing the New Year...Bring it, 2013!

So I have left the green, green grass of home, and am back in Germany, ready to face the New Year with renewed vigour. I had three fabulous weeks at home back in good old Blighty; a chance to relax, catch-up with everyone, and regale anyone who would listen with many-a tale of life in the heart of Europe.

I must admit, though, I did have a few reservations about what going home would be like. A lot has changed since the last time I was on English soil, and I wondered whether life back at home would have moved on without me. These reservations were unnecessary, however, as I quickly established that Queen, country, family and friends were just the same as ever, and it felt as if I had never been away. That’s a very comforting feeling! It appears that you really can always go home again.

Three weeks is actually quite a long time, so I had many grand ideas of how productive I would be during my time off; how many books I would read in preparation for next year at uni, how much time I would dedicate to researching possible dissertation ideas and how much French and German grammar practice I could get done in that time. In actual fact, these plans kind of went out the window, replaced instead by 21 days of doing...nothing. But hey, sometimes a girl needs to spend her time on the sofa, eating miniature heroes and watching an entire season of ‘Homeland’ all in one day! I wasn’t a couch-potato for the entire holiday, though. There was still plenty of time to catch-up with old school friends, many-a visit to and from family, and even a cheeky trip up to Leamington to visit some uni friends and remind myself of what it feels like to be a student.

NYE 

Students, eh?!

And as the holidays began to draw to a close, I found I was really excited to pack up my stuff again and head back to the Bergstraβe. I’m really, really looking forward to the next few months over here, and all the exciting adventures they may hold. Sitting on the train on my way home from the airport yesterday, I couldn’t help remembering how I felt on the day when I arrived in Bensheim for the first time way back in August. Stepping off the train then was a massive leap in to the unknown – a scary one at that – but my journey home yesterday couldn’t have been more different. Bensheim, too, was just the same, everything the way I left it, and it felt as if I had never left there, either! I guess it proves that you can take a little bit of home with you, wherever you go. That’s why I hope that whatever I end up doing as a career, (I was going to say ‘in later life,’ but potentially that’s only a couple of years away –ahhhh!), has an international dimension to it; living abroad has definitely given me the travelling-bug!!

So, my alarm is set, ready to wake me up at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning, my watch is finally back on German time - I envy you British people with your extra hour - and it is back to school in the morning. Genuinely, I can’t wait!

Here’s to a great term.

Emily