I have to admit that I've been in hibernation for a little while now.  Cold weather tends to do that to me, and I do apologise!

However I haven't been totally lazy.  One of the great things about a career as an opera singer is the amount of spare time one has, often in new and wonderful environments.  I have always taken a camera of some sort with me at all times, and am proud to say that I now have an exhibition of photographs ongoing at the Bücherei Bischofsheim (opening times here) until April.  I have to admit that it's a little scary, venturing out into new artistic pastures at this point, but the fear is inextricably linked to the excitement, and actually I SO loved taking these photos, I'm very much enjoying showing them to others.  For anyone who is interested, the new (very basic, to be built upon) website is here.

Meanwhile, I am having a hell of a time trying to pack for my next venture.  Two weeks in Germany at the coldest time of the year, followed by a week of Oman in February (the statistics seem to me to be PERFECT!) with the proviso that tops should be long in the arm, mustn't be figure-hugging, yet still capable of managing desert heats . . .  (absolutely the opposite of every single bit of kit in my wardrobe); yes, this is . . . interesting.  Still, I'm very much looking forward to it.  Two weeks' rehearsal in Cologne for Oper Köln as Mrs Higgins in this English-speaking version of their production, then a week out in Oman for performances!  

I must say that the Royal Opera House in Muscat looks glorious and I can't wait to step out on stage there!  I'll try to keep my camera and my wits about me during the tour, and I am currently just praying that I can find the requisite "sensible shoes" for any possible trip into the desert.

I am SO drawn by the thought of a trip into the desert - but I really don't DO sensible shoes!!

A singer in transit...

I admit I usually post pretty random photographs, mostly unrelated to whatever I am going on about; this time however I was mid-flight from Geneva to Madrid, en route to a concert, when I looked down at the tray in front of me and thought, oh that could only belong to a singer travelling to a gig.  That made me giggle, so I thought I'd bung up a photo and write about it.

Firstly, of course, there's the sheet music.  Before a gig, I'll often use the time in transit to check and re-check everything I have learned.  Silently, of course (an aeroplane is really not an appropriate place for vocalising!).  The pencil is there in case I notice anything slightly awry and need to make a note.

On the left there is a little rectangular thingumajig.  That's my MP3 player.  It's a marvellous bit of kit, even if it freaked me out when I first got it by rummaging around in my computer and grabbing not only all the recordings, but also all the photos it could find (I didn't know until I was looking for something else that it was even interested in photos!).  Saved in a folder are the recordings of my coachings of the songs / roles I will be performing, and (if needed), me on my own bashing out the odd harmonic change or notes to listen out for, singing the phrases, and counting out loud where the timing is trickiest.  Plugged into this are noise-reducing headphones.  Normal earbuds really don't seem to work for me (they are hellishly uncomfortable in my ear canals) although they would of course take up less room.  I was VERY glad of the noise-reducing capabilities of these little darlings when waiting at Geneva for my ongoing flight - I'd naively thought I could find a nice quiet area to study in - NOOOO!!  For those who might be considering a similar thing, be warned that Geneva airport is plagued by tinny Musak.  Even in the Meditation Room I could hear it twanging away (although it was nice to see a Christian and a Muslim praying separately but in the same space).  Noise-cancelling headphones came in bloody useful, even though they're a little uncomfortable (I sort of inherited them from my father's Collection of Exciting Gadgets, but the foam padding on the ear bits had rotted.  I keep meaning to bodge something together with the feet of defunct stockings or something, but it's been summer so I haven't been wearing stockings... I shall have to try and remember, now that it's turned so definitively to autumn).  (Oh, and that's not just meanness; I tried to buy new foam coverings but was told that because each headset is different, they don't make all-purpose replacements....!!).

Next along is a slightly odd-looking device; a mask made of soft, transparent plastic, which fits over my nose and mouth and leaves me with interesting but short-term weals across my cheekbones from the elastic.  It's not really necessary on short hops, but since using it, my incidence of getting miserable colds approximately two days after each flight has decreased dramatically.  All it does is recycle your own moist breath so that the sensitive tissues of your nose, mouth and throat don't dry out - and I FEEL the oxygen and moisture being leached from the air as the aeroplane starts up! - not rocket science, but it really works.  For long-haul flights I would say it's a must for singers (unless you're one of those irritating cast-iron singers who never gets ill!).   Pretty cheap too.  It's called a Humidiflyer.  If you want one, the link is here.  Yes, it ships from Australia, but the customer service was, in my experience, wonderful.

Half-eaten sandwich - um, wonderful!  You get served up some pretty weird stuff on some of these short-haul flights (return Madrid to Zurich was a small tub of caramel ice-cream...).  I had a home-made ham baguette stuffed into my hand luggage just in case - well, I was due to spend a few hours in a Swiss airport.  Switzerland is many lovely things but cheap isn't one of them.

Finally, a glass of water - of course, as a singer, you need to keep hydrated.  I have a nifty flat-packable plastic water bottle which clips onto my handbag or hand luggage.  Nowadays you can't take your own huge bottle of water through to the plane - fair enough, given the threat of terrorism, but the prices most airports charge for a bit of water are EXTORTIONATE, so I prefer to take my chances with filling my own bottle from the taps in the airport.  Haven't succumbed to any odd diseases from doing this yet.

What?  Ahem, yes, well the wine was slightly accidental. I mean, what's a girl to do when they have run out of tomato juice (my usual drink of choice when flying, complete with accompaniments if available; I read somewhere that your tastebuds are compromised by being so far above the earth; this would of course explain the tastelessness of airline food the world over).  I am pleased to report that I reacted gracefully to this setback and enjoyed the wine a lot!

Safe travels everyone!

I was vaguely playing in my mind with starting this post along the lines of "Last week I found myself in Spain..." (I write pretty much everything mentally first, and only when it's polished and shiny do I actually head for the computer.  This can lead to problems when I perfect an email, for example, then forget to actually send it.)  Firstly, though, it sounded a bit disingenuous.  I mean, I admit to travelling with the absolute minimum of planning and organisation - in this case, I don't actually speak Spanish, nor did I know exactly where the airport was, nor the ins and outs of getting from thence to Toledo, but I had actually booked the flights a few weeks beforehand and had a rough idea of where I should be heading, so I can't really claim to have "found" myself there, as it were.  The second thing was, I got to thinking about the phrase "I found myself..." and realised (after a couple of days there) that I had actually rediscovered a part of myself that has somehow got lost here in Germany.  I have no idea what it was - the light? - but the urge to paint was incredibly strong, indeed almost overpowering.  I realised only then that my paints had been gathering dust ever since I came to Germany.  Strange.  I'm not a particularly good painter, I simply like the process, and find it really helps when appreciating great art (shout out to El Greco's hand of Christ, as seen in the eponymous museum in Toledo, top left...).  I have tended to photograph rather than paint whilst I've been over here.  Must have simply been a different energy, a different vibe, as it were;  I returned on fire with artistic inspiration (I also fitted in a visit to the Prado whilst I was in Madrid for the weekend - what marvels!),  but strangely, whilst I have managed to prep a couple of canvases and even do a few preliminary sketches, the urgency, the necessity even, has evaporated.  Hmmm.

At least I have more to concentrate on than simply the audition.  I know singers for whom the audition is the be-all and end-all; I honestly can't do that.  Yes, if concentration is necessary, I concentrate.  But if there's the slightest chance to investigate the marvellous places I find myself when auditioning, I certainly take it.  I adored Toledo (I was there chasing down a Spanish touring company.  Totally normal to be squished between two sopranos in audition, therefore simply wandering onto stage, grinning out into the auditorium to an conductor whom I hadn't actually met, singing for, oh, three, four minutes, then sauntering off . . .  had I not a train to catch in order to paint Madrid red with a friend whom I'd previously only known online, it might well have seemed a long way to come for such a short audition opportunity.)

Should anyone be contemplating a visit to Toledo, I can thoroughly recommend my little hotel, La Posada de Manolo (website here).  Probably not for those who absolutely require trouser presses and international cable channels - I spend a lot of time trying to avoid such things when choosing hotels - but central, charming, quiet, clean, inexpensive.  Let me see if I can insert a video taken from the breakfast room in the morning, looking over the city.  It had been wonderfully quiet until I turned the camera on - cue delivery lorry below and random helicopter above!!  Not to mention, I left my bag there whilst spending the day trotting around the place, returning shortly before my audition to grab my stuff.  The lady on reception grinned whilst handing back my bag and coat, and presented me with an envelope.  I explained (well hopefully, as I said, my Spanish is not wonderful) that I'd already paid, and had simply left my excess stuff.  She said this was a present from the staff, because they loved my singing!  (All I'd done was test the voice out in the shower after breakfast.  I'd been rather ill due to a spot of nasty gastric flu, and hadn't sung for a week...).  They had presented me with a lovely necklace, engraved with a bird, in typical Toledan style.  Now if that isn't a good omen...

 Ohh.  I'd honestly forgotten how much Paris plays tricks with time.  I don't think there's another city in the world in which one can lose track in such a delightful way.

I was there for a couple of days this week for an audition.  Unsuccessful, as it turned out, but not for lack of trying.  It's a part I would love to sing, so learning excerpts was something that should pay off one day.  I know it suits my voice.  And the surreal experience of waiting to audition, surrounded by at least six other hopefuls, all looking very much like me but on a 4/5ths reduced scale in all dimensions... priceless!!  I know the French are very body-conscious, but this was ridiculous.  A whole room full of "mini-me"s...

Still, having the entire day to myself yesterday was an utter pleasure.  I had vaguely thought of bringing my return train journey forwards, since I woke early and was scheduled to leave just after 7 p.m. - but in the end I simply gave in and wandered around fairly aimlessly despite grey skies and rain.

I delighted in a crêpe with crème de marrons (sweet chestnut purée), much to the amusement of the stallholder.  I had to explain that whilst the Germans do produce crêpes, they never have that particular filling, and so for me it has become somehow a peculiarly French pleasure.  

The bookshops around the Sorbonne, with their tempting displays of cheap treasure, appear not to have lost any of their appeal.  Somehow my small rucksack (I pride myself on travelling light) became filled with bargains (blasted places also have rooms full of second-hand CDs.  Shouldn't be allowed.)

And lunch.... ohhhhh, lunch!  I was craving proper French onion soup.  After tearing myself away from the bookshops  (my feet had started to hurt from carrying so much and marching around), I found a little restaurant in the Latin Quarter which had this on the fixed-price lunch menu and ordered entrecôte to follow.  And naturally a small pichet of red wine, despite the waiter trying to entice me into ordering a large one (damn - I used to order those without thinking - this time I didn't even finish the entire jug!), and some sparkling water (bejewelled San Pellegrino - same as I had in Berlin recently.  Evidently not made its way to the provinces yet!).  It was simply amazing how long I lingered over that meal.  Didn't even mean to - my plan for the afternoon was to visit the Rodin museum - but it felt too pleasant, sipping wine redolent of cherries and savouring exquisite food, flicking idly through a novel in French I'd picked up at the bookshop...

I made my train by the skin of my teeth.  I'd even managed to make the Rodin museum, interestingly by way of an authentic Parisian street demo (only place on earth where asking for directions gets you the full and flirtatious attention of SIX riot police in full gear, I reckon...).

Photo taken in the rain near Odéon, just as night began to fall.  What a beautiful city!!!

An unexpected view of Cologne cathedral there on the right. Unexpected not from the point of view of photography, but because I hadn't thought I would be there on that evening to photograph it. In point of fact I shouldn't have been doing even that, as I had the last train home to catch - made it by a (rather sweaty) whisker - but I couldn't resist the way it loomed up so high and imposing against the cooling night sky. My resistance was lowered from having enjoyed great company, sought out on a last-minute whim, and not a few elementally delicious little golden ice-cold beers, a Cologne speciality, apparently...

I had decided it would be a great idea to break a long train journey, and indeed it was. Although just before getting off, I was on such a flat, tired adrenalin-reaction that I nearly didn't make it off the train... it wasn't so much the audition itself; I was exhausted from the logistics beforehand.  I left messages and spoke to several people at the state agency (bearing in mind that I HATE making phone calls!) before finally being told I was barking up the wrong tree and should be asking quite another body... aaargh!  I also had huge difficulty getting hold of a hotel room; the city was basically fully booked.  I was still trying to juggle finding a room somewhere along the train route when a nice lady from one of the hotels I'd called in desperation took pity on me and rang me back when a guest unexpectedly left.  This was half an hour before I set off for the station, still unsure whether any of my travel costs would be refunded...

Add to that the self-made panic of realising at the last minute that my passport and credit card were not where they were meant to be (a bit of deep breathing revealed that they were still squirrelled away in my money-belt, last used in Rome), and I was, to put it mildly, somewhat less than perfectly composed when I threw myself on the train with twenty seconds to spare...

I've no idea how the audition went - as I reported back to the agent who sent me afterwards, I haven't a clue about such things.  Unless you've obviously made a total mess of things, I find that the demeanour of the auditioners means precisely nothing in the long run.  Sometimes they smile and tap their feet and look ecstatic, and you never hear a thing; other times you slink off disconsolately, mentally beating yourself up, only to bag a nice contract.  Sing then forget.  

I was glad of the advice of a good friend, though, who reminded me when I was feeling flat as a pancake afterwards that there is a backlash to adrenalin - it's taking time to settle.  Hence I believe my idea of hopping off for a round of laughter and cold beer was beautifully timed.

So, first audition of the season under my belt, and a FAR better understanding of the bureaucracy involved - now I'm ready for more!!  (Fingers crossed...)

I have discovered where German buses come to die and be reborn into another life.  Transylvania, fittingly enough.  Nearly cost me at least another hour of standing by the road in scorching sunshine by "Not-Dracula's Castle" peering at oncoming traffic... I'd been lurking there hoping for a bus back to the beautiful city of Braşov, but given that there were no actual timetables, or even a bus stop, things were a little uncertain.  I'd leaped off the bus there and asked where to get the bus back, and was rewarded with a grin and a gesture towards the other side of the road.  It didn't occur to me that the vehicle in question would turn up disguised as a German school bus, meaning I automatically turned away and thought about something else, until at the very last moment I registered the possiblity of a cunning disguise and peered at it more closely.  Naturally, it makes sense to simply stuff a little cardboard notice in the front window of a recycled bus, rather than going to all the unnecessary expense of respraying the bus, but just sometimes one can see the point of all those corporate rebrandings etc...

Sorry about the photo.  It's really not possible to do Dracula-like atmosphere when the sun is beating down like no-one's business.  Especially funny when the main reason I headed out there was because it was so horribly grey and rainy in Bucharest.  There, I couldn't see more than a metre when I was looking for a restaurant, and the rain was so hard that there was at least an inch of water over every single bit of pavement in the city.  I was fascinated by the story of Queen Marie of Romania however - definitely novel fodder!

Apologies for recent radio silence.  It's been one of those "glamorous" weeks.  Glamorous in the sense that many people unconnected with the arts think that these rootless, restless travels are somewhat more enjoyable than they often appear from the inside.  As an example, I have stuck a picture of beautiful Munich up there.  Yes, it does look like an ice floe.  Because that's what I was concentrating on whilst trying to cross the road, rather than looking up at the fabulous architecture.  Seriously.  The snow was melting and many of the streets were inches deep in running water mixed with ice.  Not easy to find a decent crossing place, bearing in mind that frozen paws are NOT going to add to one's performance at an audition, on the whole.

I will admit, however, to succumbing, occasionally and in giggles, to the "oh lord, it's Tuesday, is this Düsseldorf?" syndrome.  Thank goodness for online calendars and for good friends around the world who put up with me when travelling!

While I think about it, a few pointers for those embarking on similar journeys:

• modern phones are terrible wimps when it comes to running out of juice.   Chargers are a MUST when travelling.
• saving copies of all your arias in PDF format on a gmail account or similar is a life-saver.  Unexpected auditions can be hellishly stressful without the additional worry of not being able to find copies of your (in my case) non-standard repertoire for the pianist.
• the effect of repeated journeys will be to concertina the time you have available to do stuff like, say, Christmas shopping.  You will suddenly and heart-stoppingly realise that you only have two hours to buy thoughtful and individual presents for all your loved ones... and you're in the middle of nowhere and what's more, all the darned shops are shut because it's Sunday.
• whilst wearing all your clothes on a Ryanair flight saves hand-luggage weight and sticks one in the eye of the Irish cheapskate, if you are then seated next to a sweaty drunkard on the flight, following a four-hour delay in which he's taken full advantage of the bar, you will spend a horribly uncomfortable flight worrying about when he will vomit over every single item of clothing (bar underwear) you have brought with you.  Leave one dress in the case!!  (It didn't happen, by the way.  Phew.)
• slithering sideways to a half-hour Thai massage on impulse is never a bad thing.  Especially relaxing when one's masseuse has a terribly talkative stomach, causing her first to apologise and later to fall flat over one in a fit of giggles, which are naturally catching...

Like most situations in life, I suppose, the thing that helps the most when one is belting around like a mad thing is to retain one's sense of humour.  I am hanging on to mine with scratched and bloody nails, but it hasn't got away yet...

Schlechtes Wetter (lousy weather - a beautiful song by Strauss; also, the conditions prevailing during my first trip back to the UK since moving out here).

The day after that last performance, I was hoping the weather would warm up a bit. During the day, wandering slowly and very carefully around town with my parents, it was bearable, although I was surprised the pavements were not properly gritted and salted, even in the town centre. (A surprising proportion of men were whizzing past with manic grins, having a whale of a time but unfortunately thereby creating ice slides...)

I wanted the parents to experience the Christmas market in darkness - the lights are absolutely beautiful then, it's very atmospheric. As soon as night fell, therefore, we headed over for a mug of glühwein and a wander round, only to find that we were absolutely freezing. The temperature was minus fifteen degrees Celsius, and falling. The wine was hastily chucked down our gullets, and we separated, me to take my bike home and the parents to take a taxi to their hotel, where I would later join them. Well, on the way home I have NEVER felt so cold. I lost all feeling in my left hand, despite good leather gloves, and had to awkwardly coax the blood back into it whilst pushing the bike with my right hand (it was too cold to stop) and trying not to slip on the treacherously icy pavements. The unstoppable tears of pain as circulation was restored actually froze on my cheeks as I walked... these were definitely not normal conditions!

The next day we were due to fly from Frankfurt airport to Manchester (northern England, sort of on the left, for anyone whose geography is as bad as mine). We had high hopes, having managed to get to the train station in one piece, catching a train on time, and arriving and checking in even before the appointed hour. Ha HA. As we watched, the departures board started being dotted with red, as flight after flight was delayed and then cancelled - those into France and northern Italy first, spreading out throughout Europe. Our flight stayed valiantly on the board, getting further and further delayed, but possessed, we fervently hoped, of stolid northern grit and determined to fly, however late. After several hours of queuing and lack of information, however, the beleaguered lady behind the desk eventually admitted that the flight was cancelled, and we were trundled off to a (rather decent, actually) business hotel in the centre of Frankfurt for what remained of the night. My father and I took the opportunity to have a wander along the river in the snow, and it has to be said that Frankfurt looks a lot better dark and snowbound than it does normally!

Next day's start was horribly early, and not helped by there being no breakfast available. At the airport we queued again, hoped again, were disappointed, boarded a plane, sat there for two hours on the runway, got chucked off again, queued, cursed Manchester airport for not getting their brooms out and sweeping (apparently the problem was now at their end) and eventually, late in the day and pretty exhausted, managed to get back to England all on the same flight (this took sharp elbows in the queue, and rather a lot of charm, as we'd booked separately). Our baggage, unfortunately, had other ideas, which we did not discover until we'd waited an hour and a half by the baggage carousel. By this point, however, we thought, oh sod it, less to unpack, and trundled off to my parents' car, which was in the airport car park.

The drive back to East Yorkshire (going right, straight across the country, basically) should have been pretty straightforward. Despite heavy snowfall, the motorways were clear and all I had to do was find the M62 and point the car's nose eastwards. Traffic reports on the radio, however, reported a spilled load of dogs* between junctions 29 and 30, closing this section, and therefore we had to find an alternative route. Between the parents squabbling like children over the navigation, fighting over maps, torches and GPS systems; finding my own way over the moors in the snowy dark; the windows repeatedly steaming up, and the windscreen washer jets packing up, it was an... interesting... drive, and my shoulders were up by my ears when we finally reached my parents' house.

The next couple of days were slightly marred, from a relaxation point of view, by firstly trying unsuccessfully to get someone to tell us when our luggage might appear (ended up with a massive amount of phone numbers, none of which were answered, and of course the annoying requirement that at least one person stay in the house at all times in case (ha ha) the couriers turned up) and secondly, by all my spare wool, intended for the finishing of Christmas presents (mainly rather mad hats), having gone AWOL with my case. Luckily we managed a couple of nice meals (if anyone is in Beverley, East Yorkshire, I recommend the Westwood's rib of beef!) and some good company.

Setting off on Christmas Eve was again complicated by being unable to reliably inform the courier company that we were no longer at that address. By this time we no longer cared; Christmas was spent most comfortably at my sister's lovely new house in Cheshire, Boxing Day saw an opulent feast at my cousin's place near Solihull (even the table water was designer - Paul Smith for Evian, apparently!), and a good time was had by all.

I was even fairly relaxed when travelling back. Naturally, despite having left extremely clear messages on Christmas Eve, when we'd detoured into the airport to pick up our bags, only to have our hopes dashed once more as apparently a consignment of two thousand cases had just arrived, and there was only the one man in charge of sorting the whole lot and answering the phone (separate company in charge; airport information unable to do a thing; had the airport manager called and was terribly, terribly polite in conveying our disappointment... grr!), when we arrived early to pick up cases, sort stuff and go our separate ways, we were rudely barred from the case pick-up room by a hard-faced blonde, and I had to check in for my flight back with my original luggage in limbo. Various friends have since suggested I should have bought sapient pearwood (a glorious Terry Pratchett reference); mine appears to be following me around but has as yet been unsuccessful! My flight back was also delayed - this time it was personal, obviously, as all the other flights were working just fine.

So last night, I unlocked the door of my small apartment here with much relief, relished the peace and quiet, and thought to myself, thank goodness I'm home.

* this was probably, rather more prosaically, a load of logs, but at least it provided a moment's surreal comedy.

A trip across the border

I have just returned from visiting dear friends in Alsace, whom I'd been threatening to drop in on since I moved here. It's only a matter of about two and a half hours by car, so I thought it would be reasonably simple to figure out some affordable way of tootling down and bothering them.

It's not quite as simple as that! For a start, I had to ask the man in charge of organising all the music rehearsals if it would be OK to disappear for a few days (as we only know the schedule for any given day at half past one the previous day, this can't be taken for granted). Permission gracefully granted, I had to fill in an absence slip, because I was going further than 50 kilometres from the theatre; this to be signed and double-countersigned...

Relieved I'd got the bureacratic bit over with, I settled down to browse the internet for cunning ways to get from A to B for as little money as possible. I pride myself on being a bit of an internet devil, and certainly, travelling within England and flying from England to various destinations, I've always been able to sniff out the best prices. I wasn't particularly in a hurry this time, and was indifferent to the means of transport.

It totally foxed me! Going by train was pretty blasted expensive, and the Deutsche Bahn (German railway) site had kittens every time I shyly suggested I might want to cross over into France - wouldn't give me timetables, refused to give ticket costs, etc etc. Sure, I could get to Strasbourg, for a hefty fee, but I didn't want to go quite as far as that, and Deutsche Bahn did not wish to help me get anywhere else. Fine, thought I, I'll see about coaches. Nope. Now it's quite possible I'm simply unable to navigate these sites properly as yet, but it would appear that the national coach network is (a) not set up to go the way I really wanted to, and (b) nearly as expensive as the train. They don't appear to have a cheap alternative, as we do in Britain. The expat forums suggest that the only way to travel without shelling out too much is to carshare, and I couldn't find a female driver going anywhere near on the dates I wanted to travel. Much frustration ensued! Eventually I chose the least-worst option and started to book a return to Saarbrücken, being the nearest border town to my friends, they having kindly offered to pick me up.

Well, firstly, the cheaper options available turned out not to be quite as available as I thought, not being available to print out online - they had to be posted and required quite a few days' notice. Hmm. Never mind. I chose the bog-standard return fare and pressed "pay now". It then wanted me to sign up; well, fine, I thought, I'll be making more trips throughout the year - no harm in storing my details. So I did. These included the number of my bank card and my German address, and I tried to proceed to payment. It wasn't playing ball. Despite having taken my debit card details, it also required a credit card for payment. (What?? Why?)

Of course I don't have a credit card in Germany, and if I had put in the details of one of my English ones, gathering dust at the bottom of my handbag and only used for emergencies, the computer would doubtless have jibbed at the mismatching addresses and probably arrested me on the spot. I banged my head hard on the desk and took myself off to the station. The ticket machine there eventually dispensed what I needed, but I resented having to make the unnecessary trip. I did ask one of the helpful ladies at the travel centre why, if the machines at the station would take my money happily from my debit card, the online site would not. If there was a coherent explanation, however, I'm afraid I didn't understand it!!

After all that, of course, I had a lovely time at my friends' place, throwing myself into family life and bottles of light, fresh Gewürtztraminer with a vengeance. I cleaned out rabbit hutches, helped with French homework, was fed royally, reciprocated with a rabbit dish with spätzle (egg noodles) with a tomato sauce thickened with dark chocolate (not the same rabbit, I hasten to add, and I had some nifty lying to do to the younger girls at the last minute...), and generally had a ball. We even managed to fit in a supermarket trip, where I stocked up rather desperately on everything I find lacking in German shops. I returned bent almost double under the weight of my purchases, but it was worth it!

An interesting occurrence in the supermarket - evidently the German is worming its way into my consciousness, but it was jolly embarrassing! We'd bumped into an extremely voluble French friend and her daughter, and had joined them for coffee in the supermarket coffee shop (I was impressed to note the variety of alcohol on offer!). I was happily nattering away in French, and at some point the conversation moved to cross-border travel. I was explaining the above complications, but as soon as I hit the word "Saarbrücken", my tongue flipped immediately into German. I started to apologise - aargh, it was still in German!! I took a deep breath, started again in French - and the same thing happened - TWICE!- when I hit the German place name. I was mortified; the others, naturally, were in stitches...

A last, slightly surreal note. Returning, I realised I could get a train from their village to Saarbrücken (this had not been at all obvious from my internet searches, due to the dratted border being in between). This was an unmanned station, so I went to the ticket machine to buy my ticket. It wouldn't let me buy a ticket to my destination!! I wondered about getting on anyway and buying a ticket from the inspector, but thought it prudent to at least get a ticket for the last station on the French side. French ticket inspectors are notoriously strict about such matters; you have to definitely get their attention before they try to get yours, otherwise you're fined within an inch of your life for trying to travel ticketless.

Not the ones I met!! The first one strolled along, grinned, and said he hoped I didn't have any ticket problems as his mate with the machine thought I was too good-looking to talk to and had skedaddled to the other half of the train. I started to say I hadn't a ticket to my actual destination; he laughed and whistled for the other guard, and I had to explain about the errant ticket machine to a background of toothless flirting on the one side and crimson-faced and silent embarrassment on the other. They had a look at my ticket, then explained that, as they were employed by the Alsace railways, they couldn't issue a ticket for the German bit either. Perplexed, I asked what I needed to do. Oh, said the voluble one, and winked, don't worry love, you're fine. Which I was, thankfully, saving eight euros; but I have to say, I reckon that's a slightly atypical brush with French bureaucracy!!

This is the start of an attempt to paint the occasional vague image of my new life here in Germany (obviously, before I forget, myself, what I have been up to!). Last week I was in deep cover as a grey and downcast London commuter; this week the world is sunny and alive with possibilities and the recognition that the German language is going to be a jolly hard nut to crack, unlike others I know and love.

I arrived yesterday, somewhat less fresh than I would have hoped after the journey (OK, I blame myself - although I booked a posh BA flight, I have been brainwashed repeatedly by Ryanair, and automatically wore all the clothes I had with me to save baggage weight; fine in miserable London, somewhat embarrassing over here where the temperatures were rising, rising... I wore all red for courage, and unfortunately ended up with coordinated cheeks.

Still, my new (albeit temporary) abode is lovely. Any place that comes with full-size lioness on the sofa (unfortunately not real) and pigeon sitting on two eggs in a plant pot in the corner of the balcony (all too real; don't know who was more shocked, of the two of us, when we made our mutual discovery), not to mention flowers on the wall and candles, me for the use of, has my vote. I settled in in no time.

I was happy to come across this rather lovely display of flowers in front of my new block of flats.

Bis bald,

Katy