Vanderlust, Wanderlust: English in the Old Country

29 July 2010

Camp Thursday Number 5

Thursday is the day that the word discipline just doesn't matter. I've yelled at the childrean already. If they don't listen, at this point, who cares.

Thursday you already have your favorite kids and then the kid you can't even stand for more than 10 seconds at a time. All week you've tried to hide the fact that this kid is ANNOYING, but Thursday...oh, Thursday.

Free time, kids? You want free time? Surrrrre.

You're not going to listen to me, kiddos? Well, I'm just going to sit here until you do. No yelling. No clapping. No "Eyes on me. One, two three". Just sitting. Waiting.

Because I've lost it. I've reached the stage where 5 weeks of children 5 days a week for 8 hours a day is enough to make me crrraaazy. That point where you can't stop laughing once you start, that's Thursday. The whole day. Just silly. How else can you make it through?

With the exception of my one little red-headed annoyance my kids are wonderful this week. Really can't complain. I feel like I could do this in my sleep. Oh wait, probably will tomorrow.

25 July 2010

From Hipsterville

I'm tempted to start this entry by describing where I'm sitting right now. But I realize I've started many an entry this way. So instead of trying to depict the ripening tomato plants outside my window and the best coffee place in Berlin outside my front door, I'll find another way to begin:

As I was making myself gnocchi with homemade tomato pesto sauce, simultaneously staring out into Berlin's posh neighborhood of Prenzlauer Berg, I couldn't help but think life really couldn't get much better.

Funny, there I was only a few days ago: livid, sweaty and confused. And here I am, after-explosion: peachy. I'm living in, what I have deemed, the coolest neighborhood in Berlin, Prenzlauer Berg. I am being graciously hosted by the couple who runs the Yo Yo Dance Camp, Jean Marc and Katelyn. Their apartment is incredible: Two stories with a balcony upstairs and garden downstairs. I have my own bedroom with these enormous German windows where hipster Germans and non-Germans alike sip cappuccinos directly outside. If I really wanted to (which I probably will) I could open my window and knock one of those fedora-wearing-cigarette-smoking-hipsters out cold.

I love Berlin. I love Berlin. I love Berlin.

I also love Dresden. I went this weekend for a little holiday with co-counselors Sally and Carmen.

But back to Berlin. What else can I say, other then: next time I feel like running away it will probably be to Berlin and not Paris.

22 July 2010

Enough Is Enough Is Enough

Where am I now, you ask?

I'm at an internet cafe in the sticks of Berlin.

Where was I 4 hours ago? Same cafe. But it was full. No internet now, sorry.

Where was I 2 1/2 hours ago? Same cafe. But it was full. No internet now, sorry.

Where was I 25 minutes ago? Same damn cafe. But it was full. No internet now, sorry.

Don't worry, some rude German cut me in line when ONE COMPUTER FINALLY OPENED UP.

But that's just the preface to the day that exploded: today.

This could be my last week doing this job. I've about had it. I travel every week to some different campsite with a suitcase of old supplies. Broken markers, water-stained paper, broken pencils. Where I play the same worn out game of Capture the Flag on dry, yellowing fields littered with broken beer bottles and cigarrette butts. I spend 8, long hours with bratty German children who have no desire to learn English. No respect. None. No "thank you" for the delicious icecream. Can't be bothered to do anything. "Oh, I don't want to play that game." "Must I play with?" Oh, for heaven's sake go sit at home and watch television.

The kids don't listen. They don't listen. Say it in English, they don't listen. Say it in German, they don't listen. Act it out, they don't pay attention. I would like to use a lot of choice words here to describe these children, but I won't. I will say, they don't give a flying fishstick though. Don't want to learn English. Don't want to eat this for lunch. Don't want to play this game now. Don't want to write in their journals. Don't want to act in this play. They just can't be bothered.

"No children, I'm eating right now and I can't get you some apple juice."
"No children, I can't listen to 3 people at the same time."
"No children, I can't let you eat the last sausage when 4 counselors haven't even eaten yet."
"No children, I don't want to spend any more time than I have to with you."

Just so none of you think I'm legitimately insane for accepting this job position I would like to make note of a couple things. To do this, I will be organized (unlike this camp) and write a concise list.

"Things I Was Told Before I Got This Miserable Job":

- You will have an awesome apartment right in the middle of Berlin.
- All of the counselors will be together on the weekends in Berlin and we'll go out and party.
- You get to go kayaking and canoeing and rock climbing at the over night camps. They are all right on the lake.
- You will get paid 1270 Euros a month (this is actually written on my contract).

This next list is entitled,

"A Response to Aforementioned List":

- Bull shit.
- Bull shit.
- Bull shit.
- Bull shit.

Here's the thing, I bitch and moan and someone tells me, "Just make it through. Just do it."

No. I'm sorry, but that's not the point. I am doing it. And, I'm doing a damn good job. I'm great at it, really. I can do it. And I can do it well. For what? For snotty kids who can't say thank you? For arrogant parents who only want to be rid of their children for 8 hours a day? For $300 a week? For a boss who can't even say "good job" or "well done", only, "I think you may be doing a good job. Kids, they are happy." For a life of chaos, nasty food, sleeping bags and spiders?

So you tell me, what's the point? This job is underpaid, unappreciated, and poorly accommodated.

Currently, I'm living in a tiny Boy Scout house with daddy long legs and moths everywhere. It's damp, dark and smells like an old shoe. And I'm getting treated like poo on the bottom of the old shoe I'm living in.

When is enough enough? I'd say it's pretty darn close.

If my next entry is from Paris don't be surprised.

18 July 2010

An Interview

“What is it like working for YoYo Camps?”

“What is it like? It’s like: being a turtle, crawling around with all of my possessions on my back, with only two of my five sense in tact: taste and smell, all while being asked to navigate my way through a dirty ashtray seething with melodramatic middle schoolers.

But seriously.

I wake up. I’ve just been dreaming about the children, as I do every night. Somehow they’ve infiltrated my subconscious and I wake up feeling uneasy and worried that I’m not cut out for this job.

But I get up. I blink my eyes and I’m leading the Banana Song in Morning Circle. Three other people are singing: the two other counselors and the one, eager camper none of the other kids like.

Eight hours and four days later it’s the Big Finish. I’ve made it to the end. Smile, speak English, shake the children’s hands.

Clean up. Someone from YoYo Camps comes and all of a sudden I’m in a huge hurry to get on a train somewhere else. ‘Where?’ I don’t know. ‘What time?’ I don’t know. Just hurry. Don’t eat anything. Don’t shower. Don’t forget anything. Get in the car. Get on the train. And don’t miss the stop.

Five hours later and hundreds of miles from the Banana Song and the Big Finish I’m in the east. Always, East to west, friendly to unfriendly, Nudity to swim suits, bad haircuts to bad haircuts.

Twenty-four hours “off” and I’m doing it all over again. ‘Where?’ I don’t know. ‘For how long?’ Not sure. ‘When can I talk to you?’ On the phone? Never. ‘Skype?’ Ha. ‘Where will you be next week?’ Nobody knows, and if anybody does know, I’m at the end of “To Be Informed” list.

I know where I am now. That’s all.

“Well, that’s pretty thorough I suppose. But I still don’t really feel like I understand what it is you’re doing over there.”

Well, that makes two of us.