Category Archives: Language

Goethe Institut, Lüneburg

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It’s the oddest thing: looking at this snapshot, taken 30 years ago this month, I can remember the name of only one person in the picture besides me, but I remember almost everyone’s nationality. Then again, the grundstufe 1 class at the Goethe Institut in Lüneburg, West Germany, in the summer of ’83 was a motley one, representing four continents and at least 10 countries. That must have made an impression on a lad traveling outside of his country for the first time.

I was traveling that summer with college friends Rich and Steve. It was their idea to study German in Germany, the better to read philosophy. My interest in 19th-century continental philosophers wasn’t as keen as theirs, but I thought spending five or so weeks in one place, taking classes in the morning and knocking around the rest of the time, would be a good idea. And so it was.

How they picked Lüneburg, I don’t remember, but it’s a fine Lower Saxony town near Hamburg. I ought to ask them sometime. They might not remember either. Rich and Steve knew some German already, so were in a higher class. I was in the beginner class, grundstufe 1. One day, the class went outside an lined up for a photo.

On the upper row, beginning on the left, are three Americans. The fellow on the farthest left was nicknamed Howdy Doody (by the other Americans) for his red hair, small stature, and childishness. Fourth on the left was Herr Witt, our teacher. A fitting name, since he was a lively, entertaining teacher. Next, and to the back, a Japanese fellow. Then me. Next to me, a Finn, who was something of a celebrity on Finnish children’s TV, if I remember right. I ought to remember his name, since he lived in the same building as I did, and we spoke fairly often, but I don’t. Behind him, a Frenchman, and then a South American whose nation I forgot. At the end is an Italian woman.

On the lower row, beginning on the left, two Italian girls; Howdy Doody in particular was fond of flirting with the girl second to left, and she was fond of brushing him off. The black fellow was from Canada. Next to him, another Japanese guy. I ran into him one day at the Lüneburg McDonald’s, and we had lunch together. Next to him, a Venezuelan, and finally a Hungarian, our only classmate from behind the Iron Curtain.

A Collaborationist Shower

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I ran across the term “Vichy shower” the other day in a press release. It was touted as an amenity in a new condo property, which are being developed again in some markets, such as Miami-Dade. Vichy shower? I wondered. One that collaborates with the enemy? And what would the enemy of a shower be, anyway? BO? Dirt?

No, the Scotsdale Resort & Athletic Club web site says, “A Vichy shower includes five to seven shower heads that are placed in a row over a cushioned table. During the treatment, a client lies on a cushioned table while water showers the body. The origin of the shower came from Vichy, a town in central France known for its natural mineral springs, and for its puppet government… [I added that, of course.] Instead of jumping into a shower to rinse off after their treatment, the guest can simply lay and relax while enjoying the therapeutic benefits of the water raining down on them.”

Vichy’s city fathers are probably irritated by the lingering collaborationist association. After all, it was 70 years ago, and the city probably didn’t ask for the distinction anyway. Maybe the French don’t care anymore, but somehow I doubt that. Certainly “Vichy France” would get blank reactions on this side of the Atlantic: So why did Capt. Renault kick that bottle of Vichy Water?

Got an idea for a Scandinavian version: The Quisling Shower.

Cooking With Gas

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A summer-like day, as predicted, to kick off May. The grass is green, early-greening trees are budding, and a few insects are braving the cool evenings to do whatever it is that insects do.

The other day I went to a certain big box retailer at which I have an account, to pay the bill. The clerk, a woman about 10 years my senior, spent a while inputting the information on the payment, apologizing that the computer was running slow. It wasn’t that slow, and after about a minute it starting processing the payment.

“You’re golden now,” she said. “You’re cooking with gas.”

I can’t remember the last time I heard anyone say “cooking with gas.” I’m not sure I ever heard anyone say that, except on TV, and old TV at that.

Later I queried the rest of my family about it. No one had ever heard the phrase before. I can’t imagine it has much life left in it, and it’s quietly headed to that elephants’ graveyard where old idioms go.

Thursday Salmagundi

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While working on an article the other day, I came across a press release that said in part: “Seminole Classic Casino, the first Native American Casino in the country, today celebrated its grand re-opening…. Seminole Gaming CEO Jim Allen provided welcoming remarks and historical background of the casino, while Good Times television personality Jimmie ‘J.J.’ Walker warmed-up the crowd with Tribal and 1970s trivia.”

Jimmie Walker. Now there’s a name I hadn’t heard in a long time. I hope the Seminoles paid him a reasonable amount. Even has-beens have to make some kind of living. 1970s trivia? Such as, “What was Jimmie Walker’s catchphrase?” I’m not going to repeat it here. If you know it, you know it. If not, leave it be.

Snippet of recent conversation:

Ann: “Lance Armstrong, he’s the one who went to the Moon?”

Me: “No, that was Neil Armstrong. He was a test pilot, astronaut and explorer. Lance Armstrong is a guy who can stand riding a bicycle for hours and hours.” (Link includes salty George Carlin language.) (And if you’re going to sit on a bike for that long, maybe you need the drugs.)

I was toying with the idea of reading only books that I already own this year. Got a fair number on the shelves that I haven’t gotten around to, after all. But I was at the library the other day and that notion flew out the window. I was looking for The River of Doubt: Theodore Roosevelt’s Darkest Journey  (Candice Millard), which is about TR’s expedition to one of the remotest of the Amazon’s tributaries in 1914, but it was checked out, so I checked out 1920: The Year of Six Presidents by David Pietrusza.

Not that there were six serving U.S. presidents in 1920, unlike the four emperors of AD 69. Just one: Wilson, a shadow of his former self by then. But the book promises to track TR (odd, since he was dead by 1920), Harding, Coolidge, Hoover and FDR and their involvement in the 1920 election. I’ve only read a few chapters. So far, not bad, but Pietrusza has a few annoying writing tics, and I’ve spotted a couple of small errors. The Armistice did not, for example, take place at 11:11 am.

I’m going to stick with it for now, because 1920 was a pretty interesting year in this country, besides for the election of Warren Harding and Calvin Coolidge: the last of the Palmer raids and the Red Scare, the beginning of Prohibition, the Wall Street bombing, the final push to secure women’s suffrage, and the first commercial radio station on the air, whose first broadcast concerned the results of the election. Among other things.

I just looked up salmagundi, long a favorite word. Never looked into its origin before. I’d have guessed it was one of those words the English language picked up in British India. Sounds like it, doesn’t it? “Sahib, the salmagundi is served.”

But no. My American Heritage New College Dictionary tells me it’s from French, salmigondis, and before that, origin obscure. Just another one of the French food words, then. Maybe next time I’ll call a jumble like this a gallimaufry, another good word that needs more use, also with a Frenchy origin.