Highstrung or Unbalanced? Who's at Fault when a Marionette doesn't Walk Properly?

I must tell you about my new obsession with marionettes. There are names. Important names. They influence the view of the builder, manipulator, actor, spectator. Tony Sarg and Bil Baird are two of them. Puppetry has its own language. I just read the article “My Own Private Püterschein” in Puppetry International. Ronnie Burkett – himself a famous puppeteer – talks about a Sarg knee joint and a Baird turnbuckle. Burkett is a Püterschein defender – Püterschein Authority seems to be an inside joke, having to do with the Dwiggins theory of counterbalanced marionette construction. And though I am a bit confused, I am learning lots of new terms.

Marionette Masters seem to have been seduced by puppet theater around the age of seven or eight and have started their own shows at eleven or twelve. I myself owned a set of hand puppets and have played with marionettes as child, but I preferred small dolls for which I sewed clothes and decorated shoebox houses.

The phrase, “marionettes are the hardest to control” has crossed my recent path more than once. “You’re a fool,” it mocks me. You are about 60 years too old for this.”

Hey, I know. That’s why I ordered a marionette kit after I chopped up a teddy bear for string manipulation, but was unable to manipulate him. I had already named him, before he began to turn and twist on his airplane controls. He wouldn’t walk – his legs dangled in the air and spun around. I had named him P.K. Pudels Kern.

Pudels Kern is not about truth; it is about balance, or in P.K.s case about the lack of it. Seeking balance is more important than imparting truth to a manipulated object. At any rate, it is the more realistically appropriate concern for now. Not that I should consider appropriateness over truthful transfer of information when reasoning myself into puppet play, but all my endeavors are subjective; they start with my interpretation. My truth. But apparently not always with my balance.

So! Well! Before I interpret I need a balanced puppet. It arrived on Saturday, January 29. A properly balanced, loosely jointed marionette skeleton with red, blue, yellow, and green strings and its own stand. I immediately began to drape and wrap and cover to establish a connection. After two days of testing we decided on black cotton for a dress and a red wig for the bald, wooden head. She required Walter Keane eyes to become the slightly melancholy wild child she decided to be. I am working on a purple scarf but don’t know yet if she will accept it. Her sad face and bright hair make me happy. I hope she is still in balance when she is completed. Maybe I am too impatient to be a puppeteer. Let’s see who is in control.

Regards,

Gisela

           

Thank You!

A Rose in Winter for Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

On Sale - 50 % Off

     Good Day Johann Wolfgang von Goethe!

How much is the girl in the window?

There's always a last day sale. I gathered a few of my favorite windows to display while I get ready to travel home. I will be in touch with you soon again.
Bis bald,
Gisela

My favorite models in Heidelberg in the spotlight

Dichtung und Wahrheit (Fiction and Fact)

Good Morning Herr Goethe!

These are my last hours in Weimar. The apartment is cleaned up, suitcase packed. All back to neutral. I only have a few minutes before I lock the door and leave ..... what to say? I found a few words of yours on a wall somewhere in Weimar (your words are everywhere in this town) and would like to use them as my farewell for now. 

Das wirkliche Leben verliert oft dargestalt seinen Glanz,

dass man es manchmal mit dem Firnis der Fiktion wieder 

auffrischen muss.

                                                          Dichtung und Wahrheit

                                                        J.  W. v. Goethe

My translation: Real life often loses its luster and has to be refreshed with the varnish of fiction.

Here nature has taken over the job of refreshing life

Blitzeis. Neuschnee. Permanence.

Good Evening Herr Goethe!

                It is Christmas Eve; Blitzeis and Neuschnee blanket the air waves and demand patience from those who are waiting to move forward on a one hundred kilometer stretch of Autobahn. Blitzeis is the kind of ice that forms when very cold rain hits the ground. I think it is the same as black ice, the phenomenon we are warned against in California when we prepare for a drive through the Santa Cruz Mountains on a freezing cold winter day.

                Are the weather patterns changing, Herr Goethe? Are our problems caused by society’s crowding of nature? We build, we alter, we invade, we are often very careless with the demands we place on our resources. Nothing lasts forever, we like to philosophize, but we act as if we expect permanence from the world around us. A Christmas greeting from my daughter in Koh Kong, Cambodia, reminded me of accounts I have read of the jungle, which in the end always triumphs over manmade glory. And I received a letter from home which featured the word permatize. A family member wanted to know how to permatize a video message captured on an iPhone. (Good luck with understanding this one, Mr. G. The digital world is an ever-growing tangle of possibilities.) The answer came from her brother, who explained the transfer of data via USB cable to a memory stick.

                “The youngest of your progeny will be more than able to do it,” he pointed out.

                Because I am temporarily living in the town of Dichter und Denker – of poets and thinkers - (what an odd expression – one certainly does not exclude the other.) I had to add my rather pretentious thoughts regarding the word permatize. Forgive me, Herr Goethe, philosophizing seems to come with the territory. Here is, in part, what I wrote:

Must I point out that permatizing an iPhone video via memory stick makes it no more permanent than recording a Christmas carol on a CD, if it is not played back, carried forward, retained in the memory of family and friends. It is the memory of my mother, her ways of instilling  curiosity about the world and the desire to learn more every day, that brought me to this place where permanence takes on a whole new meaning. And while my mother neglected to shield me from some of the evils of the world, she never hesitated to sharpen my understanding of its bizarre connections. I met a woman yesterday, the owner of a rock shop in Weimar; her husband is a geologist. She let me hold her pet named Hermann. I didn’t know then what kind of bug I watched crawl across my hand. Looking around I suddenly became aware of the tiny bit of permanence embedded in a rock shop. I bought a specimen from the area. She wrapped it into a page of an old telephone book. It is under my Christmas vase of tree branches. My present to myself.

Frau Gensel, holding Hermann.

                

           I later googled the bug Frau Gensel had called a Kakerlake. It is a giant Madagascar cockroach. I held a shiny, huge cockroach in my hands, Herr Goethe. Frau Gensel was very informative. She allowed me a closer look at her “Kakerlaken Hotel” and shared some of her knowledge about fossils and minerals. Then she jokingly suggested I tell my friends that the 210 million year old Ceratites specimen I bought for a mere three Euros had once been in your vast collection. I envy her entertaining nature and the ease with which she answers questions from the many tourists who enter her shop on Schillerstrasse. 

                Schillerstrasse, I learned yesterday, had once been the Esplanade. I visited your friend, Herr Schiller’s house on the Esplanade. It is very different from your home. Most of the furnishings are gathered in lieu of the originals. The rooms are more elaborate in decorations. Wallpaper in every room; this seems to have been the emerging style of the time. As in your house, I was given a map and an audio device which guided me from one spot to the next. Herr Schiller’s work room and sleeping facilities are in the uppermost room, as you know, separate from his wife’s rooms and the area where guests were entertained. Both of you, it came to my attention, took your last breaths in your own bedrooms. You fell asleep in your armchair while Herr Schiller, after a very long illness, passed away in his bed. The audio guide tells me that he died in the arms of his servant, though I’ve read that his wife, Charlotte, held his hand and that his sister-in-law and his physician stood at the end of the bed. 

Backside of Schiller Haus 

Front side of Schiller Haus on former Esplanade

                I wish I had more time to devote to your friend, but I came to Weimar to have a conversation with you. And the place where I am closest to you is the Park by your garden house. It is there, too, where I had decided to leave behind a white rose, after I was informed that your burial grounds are not accessible due to renovation of the building. In my backpack I carried my little companion, the bear, dressed in her Christmas outfit, and she carried a long-stemmed rose, wrapped in tissue paper. It snowed heavily all day and I hid my face behind a scarf and under a cap and the hood of my jacket. But we did it - we stuck the pink-edged rose into the snow and I meditated for some time before we continued our walk through the park. This was, I think, the highlight of my journey, Herr Goethe. 

Christmas rose in the park

Continuing the walk through Ilm Park

                

            And now - it is Christmas Eve after all – a time to share with family, I will devote a couple of hours to watching interviews given by my ex-mother-in-law, recorded before I left home. A gift from my ex-husband of more than 40 years. How much more permanent can a relationship be? I will heat up potato soup, snack on chocolate mousse and almond cookies, sit by the window and watch snow flurries disappear into the early onset of darkness. I will think about permanence and change and the great benefits of long-sleeved-and-legged thermal underwear.

Christmas Eve in Weimar

Shoppen, Schlemmern, Schlafen, Schauen

Good Evening Herr Goethe!

Slush in Weimar

                The above -  Shoppen, Schlemmen,Schlafen, Schauen – are the four categories in the brochure in my backpack, put together by city advertising experts. My shopping is limited by the size of my suitcase, eating tries to follow at least some of the constraints of medical advice; the sleeping arrangement was predetermined by a reservation at the Appartements am Theater; looking at as many new sights as possible is my daily goal; though I must admit, I’m slowed down by the schtompen (my word) that has not been mentioned in the brochure. Schtompen happens as l try to adjust to daily weather conditions. From the very beginning walking has not been the careless act of putting one foot in front of the other that it is in California, where the territory demands only minor attention. Sidewalk, creekwalk, woodwalk –solid ground, no problem. But here, my goodness, the television news reporter says that the hospitals are filled to capacity with ankle fractures and broken hips. Even the natives are challenged by snow and sleet and slush. Especially the old ones. I think that they are using the wrong method for dealing with the Unwetter. (The word Unwetter does not mean un-weather; it means bad weather.) The old ones shrink into themselves in their long dark coats. Eyes to the ground they walk in straight lines, take ordinary steps, rush from butcher to baker to ……. the hospital in an ambulance.  

Old lady walking in the snow. Weimar

                I, on the other hand, schtomp like a madwoman. Blown to balloon size by several layers of clothing, blinded by an oversized cap that tends to fall over my eyes, limited to half turns by a long, thick  scarf that I have wound around my neck twice, bent under the weight of my backpack, booted into my size 10, waffle-gritted footwear, I look ahead. I sway to the side. I stop, stand still like a lamp post – to the consternation of those behind me who try to avoid a collision. I negotiate each step in the half-knowledge of its consequences. Falling snow flakes cover slippery stone. Heavy layers of snow necessitate deep emersion and require slow extraction. Slushy mixtures are good, though wet, when continued rainfall keeps them from freezing over. Should the temperature be on the down trend, they can be treacherous. Very slick and uneven. Better navigate to the side. Which side? Big decision.

                “Ooops. Sorry!”

Tell me,Herr Goethe, what kind of shoes did you wear ?

                 I’m new here. I’m from California. I’m not used to the snow. I see that I am talking to myself again. Did Mr. G have a problem walking in winter?

                “Hey! Herr Goethe? What kind of shoes did you wear?”

                 I bought forty Euros worth of books about you yesterday and none tell me what kind of shoes you wore. In “Die 101 Wichtigsten Fragen” (101 Most Important Questions) the author, Gero von Wilpert, tells, in detail, of your aversion to spectacles. They irritated you, he writes, because they give the wearer an advantage. But of your shoes he only mentions what you yourself said in “Dichtung und Wahrheit,” Clean leather and big silvery buckles. That can’t have been your snow gear.

Last lunch at the Christmas Market

Me, ready for snow

                Forty Euros for books and 2.50 for lunch. That seems to be my trend in spending. Or shoppen and schlemmern as the brochure calls it. My schlafen is minimal; I don’t want to miss anything. Schauen depends on the schtompen time I use up. I’ve schtomped more than 40 miles in thirteen days. And there is more to come.

The Lack of Wutbuerger in My Life and the Joy of the Women in Your Life.

Good Evening Herr Goethe!

Tyana J LittleString in Weimar

                Today I will introduce you to the German word of the year 2010: Wutbuerger. This is not far from the phrase of the year for the English-speaking world: Anger and Rage. I find it interesting that Germany narrows the definition while the English version rests on a broader base. In Deutschland it is not Wutmensch, but Wutbuerger; it is not the private person but the citizen who is angry. In America anger and rage seem to have crawled into the soul of the nation on a generic wave of hatred. Wait, they already gave the wave a name: Teaparty.

                A typical Wutbuerger, according to Spiegel magazine, is well off, conservative, no longer young. He boos, screams , hates. A Wutbuerger is against change and is not a global citizen. I haven’t found any Wutbuerger yet in Weimar, but then, a week is not a long stay. I know that the city harbors Neonazis – I’ve read about protests at the foot of the Goethe/Schiller memorial and beatings of people with alternative lifestyles. I’ve seen the mark of Antifa, the anti-faschist movement, on houses in the neighborhood. Maybe the holiday season hides anger; who can give and be angry at the same time? But it does seem to be in wide use; just to show you, I’ll give you the top ten German words of 2010.

1.       Wutbuerger (angry citizen)

2.       Stuttgart 21 (train station project)

3.       Sarrazin Gen (genetic theory by Thilo Sarrazin)

4.       Cyberkrieg (cyber war)

5.       Wikileaks (leak of secret documents on the Internet)

6.       Schottern (Castor schottern: to remove gravel from underneath rails to sabotage transport)

7.       Aschewolke (ash cloud)

8.       Vuvuzela (instrument used at soccer games in S Africa)

9.       Femitainment (debate between feminists about generational views of gender roles)

10.   Unter den Eurorettungsschirm schluepfen (to be rescued during economic crisis)

                All of the above have negative connotations. Be it noted that I think the Vuvuzela is much fun.

                A look at the English Words of the year is not much different, though a bit of humor is shining through, or is it Hollywood sprinkling 3-D charm on the Jersey Shore base camp?

1.       Spillcam

2.       Vuvuzela

3.       The Narrative (of political nature)

4.       Refudiate

5.       Guido and Guidette

6.       Deficit

7.       Snowmagedden

8.       3-D

9.       Shellacking (Poor Mr. President, I don’t think he deserved it.)

10.   Simplexity

                The Anglo world has added phrases of the year; my assumption is that Anglos can’t express themselves in one word. The top ones are:

1.       Anger and Rage

2.       Climate Change

3.       The Great Recession

4.       Teachable Moment

5.       Tea Party

6.       Ambush Marketing

7.       Lady Gaga

8.       Man Up

9.       Pass the bill to be able to see what’s in it.

10.   Obamamania

                Ha! Lady Gaga is no Anna Amalia, but your friend the Duchess would have gotten a kick out of the American pop singer. Taking things to the next level seems to be her signature contribution to the world of entertainment.

                Langenscheidt in cooperation with the youth magazine Spiesser brings us “creative new words of the year among teenagers”  (www.youthword.de), which I find much more interesting: Niveaulimbo, for instance, referring to the sinking standards of entertainment formats. The list goes on with Arschfax and egosurfen; one points to the underwear label hanging from the back of pants, the other to the googling of one’s name.

                Mein lieber Herr Goethe, how do I get side-tracked? I had intended to tell you that I had learned a couple of things about you, but this word of the year business kept standing squarely in front of you.

Theater im Gewoelbe in Weimar

                You do remember the Cranach Haus am Marktplatz, don’t you? It is the Renaissance building from 1547 that used to house Lucas Cranach the Older and his son, Lucas Cranach the Younger. It is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site like so many others in Weimar, and it became known to me as the place with a small theatrical stage: Theater im Gewoelbe. A perfectly intimate setting for intimate chat about “Christiane und Goethe” and “Goethe und die Frauen.” I had made reservations well in advance and was treated with great respect and friendly attention. Row one. Directly in front of the stage. As Close to the players as one can get. Free drink. A free program brochure. It reminded me of the Zimmer Theater of my youth, Heidelberg’s cozy avant-garde entertainment, one of the oldest privately owned theaters in Germany. With its now close to 100 seats, twice the size of the Theater im Gewoelbe, its performances once inspired awe in me as my eyes were glued to its leader and actor Karl-Heinz Walther. I think most  of us girls from the Hoelderlin Gymnasium were in love with Karl Heinz Walther.

                “Christiane und Goethe” was, as the title says, about you and Christiane. The two actors read from letters, discussed you, reenacted scenes from your life. “The Vulpius spoiled everything” says the brochure. Was the duke jealous? I know you met Christiane Vulpius right after you came back from Italy. You were ready, I think, for a little romance of your own. That Christiane was from a lower class, that her education was limited, that she liked wine and song, did not deter you; on the contrary, you liked the witty, detailed letters you received from her, you liked her style. You were happy in your little Garten Haus by the Ilm.

                I know now that you did not handle illness well, neither your own nor that of those around you;  you did not stay at Christiane’s side when she was deathly ill - you are not the only man who feels and acts this way -, but you did love your wife. I quote from your daybook 6.6.1816: “Nahes Ende meiner Frau. Letzter fuerchterlicher Kampf ihrer Natur. Sie verschied gegen Mittag. Leere und Totenstille in und ausser mir.” (My translation: My wife’s end is near. Last terrible fight of her nature. She departed toward midday. Emptiness and deathly silence in and outside of me.)

                Yes, I believe you loved Christiane Vulpius very much. Eva-Maria Ortmann and Frederik Beyer brought this across to me in their sophisticated yet down to earth portrayal of you and your wife.

                The second show I saw was “Goethe und die Frauen.” Five dramatic presentations of five of the women in your life: Anna Amalia, Charlotte von Stein, Christiane Vulpius, Luise von Goechhausen, and Johanna Schopenhauer. I knew of Anna Amalia, Charlotte, and Christiane, but Luise and Johanna were not familiar to me. Their portraits added to the understanding I had of you. You did love women for their intellect. Bravo. Heike Meyer and Ute Wieckhorst were funny, inspirational, sad at times, and oh so human in each of the women they showed me. I didn’t want the evening to end   Two performances at the Theater im Gewoelbe brought me closer to you, Herr Goethe. The picture of you as poet is enhanced by the picture of you as man. Gradually the image I had in my mind, your Knecht Ruprecht with the switch to Santa’s jolly hohoho, is changing. You are becoming more human, more likeable. I have lost the bitterness I felt, remembering the words on the wall “Die Tat ist alles, nichts der Ruhm.” (The deed is everything, nothing the glory.) I’ve lost the childish and regained the child.

Sending emails and updating my facebook status in Weimar

                This morning I told the virtual world (Facebook) what you had to say in Faust 1, verse 212: “Das Alter macht nicht kindisch, wie man spricht,es finded uns nur noch als wahre Kinder.” (Old age does not make us childish, as they say, it only finds us to be true children.) I do feel like a child when I walk in your footsteps. When I stomp through Weimar in my winter boots, I no longer have the need for historical sites; I see you in the tree branches that are laden with snow and on the steps of ordinary homes. I see you at the cemetery even though the Fuerstengruft, where you rest, is closed to the public. I see you, Herr Goethe, near the Ilm, as you look up into the calmness of the morning landscape.

Guten Spaziergang, my friend. Have a good walk.

G.

Goethe Gartenhaus, Ilm Park, Weimar

Cemetery, Weimar

Goethe and Schiller at Fuerstengruft. Weimar

Ilm near Goethe's Gartenhaus in Weimar

G. and T. inserted into a postcard of Weimar at the Weimar Haus.

               

Santa, Lentil Soup Friends, and my Personal Amusement Parlor.

Fireman, taking two kids to see Santa at window #19

Here we come, Santa

We're here Santa

Ho Ho Ho

Show me, Mr. Fireman

See you later

Good Evening Herr Goethe!

                Some of my days here are consumed with history, with reading and writing, with the past. With you, Herr Goethe. Yesterday was not one of them. Though I should have made today – Monday – my day of rest, since the museums are closed, I decided on Sunday. Well, I didn’t really decide, just didn’t get dressed until afternoon. Sat on my bed knitting, watching Christmas shows on television. And after I had draped myself with all the layers of clothing that I could carry before toppling over, I just walked the nearby streets for a couple of hours.

                At three in the afternoon – 1500 hours – every day during the Advent season Santa appears at a window of city hall and gives gifts to a couple of children selected from the crowd. The windows of city hall are like the windows in an Advent’s calendar – numbered and decorated; when the window of the day opens Santa appears, chats with the child, then sits on the window sill for a few moments, waving to the crowd at the Christmas Market below. What makes some of these windows more interesting than others is the location. Dec. 19^th is on the second floor. Punctually – ah these Germans and their punctuality – at  1500 hours – a fire engine  lifted a child, accompanied by a fireman, to the window. I heard a few hohohos, there might have been bell ringing, but that could have been in my imagination, (I’ll have to go back, maybe on Dec 24, to pay closer attention.) From the ground I watched what must have been gift giving, and questioning, and other Santa-like maneuvering, until it was time to bring the earthlings back to earth. What fascinated me was the young fireman’s attention to the little boy in his charge. He talked with him, showed him various parts of the fire engine and then, with the mother’s consent (I heard her ask where to) he lifted the boy into the cab and after he had seated himself, took him on his lap, and the driver slowly drove away; I assume just up the street a bit, around the corner. It was, I think, what makes for good relationships and good memories for both, child and man.

                At that point, for me, it was time to pay a visit to my lentil soup friends for a late lunch. I had been craving hot soup since I had arrived in Weimar. Twice before I had stopped at the edge of the Christmas Market where two young men ladle soup with a smile and the willingness to engage in a friendly, touristy conversation. “Where are you from?” “ I love your accent.” (One of them had spent some time in London.) “Your soup hits the spot.” “Yes, we do have napkins.”  They give you real china soup plates if you want to eat at the stand, right there. I crowded in with a frowning, elderly, male slurper, a young woman in designer clothing, who missed her mouth and had to engage three napkins to clean up her act, teenagers in love – one plate, one spoon. I was waiting for them to feed each other, but had to be satisfied watching them take turns spooning. The most fun was a young couple with a little boy in a stroller. At least I thought the child to be a boy; it is hard to tell with all the bundling. The parents ate quickly, comforting the unhappy child between each hasty spoon full. I don’t know if the child was hungry, or cold, or uncomfortable, or spoiled, but even though the parents spoke a language I didn’t recognize, their concern was familiar to me; the scene reminded me of my early parenting  years, when my son had to endure similar outings because “fresh air is good for the child.” And, by the way, note to my young lentil friends, “Your soup - high sodium content and all – is delicious.”

My Lentil Soup Friends

                Carefully folding my almost unused pale yellow napkin, letting it disappear into my backpack, I continued my walk. Ah yes, napkins are a rarity in Germany, still. I remember years ago, when I took my granddaughter to the places of my youth and we broke into hysterical laughter at the sight of a half napkin at the bottom of a basket. We both reached for it before the waitress took away the remains of a hard roll. I do, generally, appreciate the frugality and sense of environmental protection, but my mouth has not yet learned to internalize all of my food groups, especially the whip cream covered ones and the soupy ones; my tongue sweeps across my upper lip, periodically – like a windshield wiper at its slowest speed – in an effort to minimize waste and/or achieve cleanliness.

Santa chats with passer-by

                My next victim was Santa. A Santa. This one I met in front of Hotel Elephant. His helper guarded the stash of candy he handed out. Every once in a while Santa returned to the bag and filled his pockets with chocolates. I don’t think he saw me as a friend; he turned his back toward me whenever I tried to take a photograph.  I followed him for a while, noting his antics as those of a townsman who, during the off-season, was just an ordinary citizen. People seemed to know him. I even expected him to indulge in a glass of hot wine with the customers at one of the many Stand Bars. I made the word up, Herr Goethe. We writers tend to do that, don’t we? I fashioned it after the expression for the coffee stops everywhere, those tiny tables on poles, at which one stands to drink coffee. Stand Café is the name. (I still haven’t found the Umlaut symbols and the  accents on my laptop, but the spell checker knew how to correct this one for café.) 

Santa takes a stroll through the Christmas Market

C'est moi

                When Santa disappeared into the Sunday afternoon crowd I asked a passer by to take my picture, then I warmed myself at a public fire, listening to Posaunen, trombones that blew Christmas carols. My only embarrassing moment of the day came when I tried to drop money into the instrument case that stood, open, at the edge of the Buehne (good grief, I’m having senior moments in my language salad; what is the English word for Buehne? Ah yes, it is stage.) I only had 50 cents in change and expected the container to be strewn with Euros. As I bent forward I realized that the trombone case was totally empty. I almost withdrew without dropping the coin, but I felt all trombone eyes on me and let go of the puny offering. Well, either I was the only one who even gave a few cents, or I was the only one who mistook the open instrument case as depository for charitable giving. I walked away quickly.

The Band

A place to warm my feet

                 The last event of the darkening afternoon was a stop at the Weimar Haus, the place with the Disney version of a walk through history behind closed doors. I did not take the walk again, but I planted myself in front of a photo automat. Jay Leno has some cute sketches with people in photo booth that talk. They make me laugh. “Please touch the tip of your nose.” I almost expected this machine to say: “ Why do you look like a bag of potatoes?” I was prepared to answer: “Because I am wearing all the clothes from my suitcase.” But this isn’t actually a booth. You stand in front of it while it takes several photos of you. Then you pick a design you like, add a caption, throw 3 Euros into the money slot, and it prints out a postcard with your face in the middle. I was wearing my new red cap, picked an image of the famous faces of Weimar, added “Dichter und Denker in Weimar! (Poets and Thinkers of Weimar) then tried to make small talk with the serious clerk at the counter. She did not find me very amusing. However, I had had a wonderful afternoon, and when I saw ME to the right of YOU, Herr Goethe, I declared it a perfect afternoon.

G.

And here we are Herr Goethe - Face to Face :)

P.S. How do you like my new red cap, Mr. G.?