The way to the supermarket is through a relatively lower class neighborhood. Although I have seen people of different nationalities on campus, this area is far more cosmopolitan. In particular there is a Turkish presence, which seems to often sell itself as Greek, so that the pizza joint is called Rhodos. A mini-market has an appetizing display of fresh fruit and vegetables in the entrance, and sells nice thick white pita bread, but otherwise it is stocked with produce I have never seen before in packages marked with letters I cannot decipher, and it does not carry what I consider to be basics – fresh milk, butter or instant coffee.
* * *
There are hordes of bikes on the street, especially in breaks between classes. The bike lanes are closer to the road than the pedestrians. They seem to have a right of way, and it takes me a while till I get accustomed to looking left and right before crossing. Once I saw an accident; a girl was lying on the lane next to her bike surrounded by friends, but she got up and was okay.
* * *
There is an apotheke (pharmacy) on almost every street corner.
* * *
At work one addresses the support staff with more formal respect than one’s academic colleagues. It is alright to call a professor by her first name, but if it is a secretary or a librarian you should address her with Frau. Nonetheless, I sometimes hear my colleagues addressing each other with Herr and Frau.
* * *
The bus runs on time, to the minute, according to a stop by stop schedule that is kept punctually. At the No. 8 bus stop on Beyerstrasse near the dorm, there is a photo-poster of a little boy with a bandaged leg in a wheel chair. He has thick straight dark hair and squinting eyes. The context is semitic. He is being wheeled by a man dressed in a long white kaftan and a brown-grey wool waistcoat. In the small letters that acknowledge the photographer, I see this is from Afghanistan. But I do not understand the caption. I see the same poster at Munich, when changing trains for Innsbruck. And when I return there is a new one at the bus stop, about AIDS in Africa.
* * *
Different places have different rules nowadays for sorting garbage. Here one separates paper, glass, organic, and food wrapping. At the railway station, and even on the train itself, there are separate bins for trash. I gather that the people here even wash empty food and drink containers before disposing of them, since the government ships this synthetic wastage for recycling to Norway where it is burned and transformed into energy.
* * *
The bus runs on time, to the minute, according to a stop by stop schedule that is kept punctually. At the No. 8 bus stop on Beyerstrasse near the dorm, there is a photo-poster of a little boy with a bandaged leg in a wheel chair. He has thick straight dark hair and squinting eyes. The context is semitic. He is being wheeled by a man dressed in a long white kaftan and a brown-grey wool waistcoat. In the small letters that acknowledge the photographer, I see this is from Afghanistan. But I do not understand the caption. I see the same poster at Munich, when changing trains for Innsbruck. And when I return there is a new one at the bus stop, about AIDS in Africa.
* * *
Different places have different rules nowadays for sorting garbage. Here one separates paper, glass, organic, and food wrapping. At the railway station, and even on the train itself, there are separate bins for trash. I gather that the people here even wash empty food and drink containers before disposing of them, since the government ships this synthetic wastage for recycling to Norway where it is burned and transformed into energy.
