Cincinnati Occasional Papers in German American Studies
No. 11, 2005
I'm Not a Tourist in My Native Land
and
Iceland's Foggy Nights
By Christiane Seiler
Translated by Jeanette Clausen, Andrea Engels, Jerry Glenn, and Silke Schade
Edited by Jerry Glenn and Anna Heran
Click here to print this in booklet form in Adobe PDF
I’m Not a Tourist in My Native Land 1
(Recorded in the fall of 1986, West Germany)
When I pressed the door handle down
for the first time in seven years
didn't need to turn a doorknob
something clicked in me and
bliss, sheer bliss
ran through my veins, so
boisterously that I
threw camera and film
out of screenless windows
just like that,
hitting walking-stick-carrying pedestrians on the head.
They snapped at me, had
I completely lost my senses,
they snorted something like
you idiot!
Pardon me, I called,
with sleight of hand, for
I’m not a tourist in my native land.
When I was eating fresh rolls at a snack bar,
for the first time in seven years
no liverwurst sandwich piled high with ketchup,
something clicked in me and
bliss, sheer bliss
ran through my veins, so
boisterously that I
ripped up all my postcards, threw them
under the café table
just like that,
hitting a pastry-eater on the foot.
She screamed at me, hadn’t
my parents taught me any manners.
Ma'am, you have every right to be upset, I said
with sleight of hand, for
I’m not a tourist in my native land.
When I rode comfortably southward in my Express Train window seat,
for the first time in seven years
not in my rusty VW on
I-69, speed limit 65,
it came to me:
I am at home.
Fellow travelers screamed at me, would
I kindly shut the window,
they didn't want to catch their death.
An added please would have been nice,
so I ignored them.
But then some guy got up, and, right under my nose,
with a snort, pushed the window back up.
All that fit perfectly into my plans.
Thank you sir, I sang,
with sleight of hand, for
I’m not a tourist in my native land.
When I went shopping in the late afternoon,
for the first time in seven years
had to pay attention to closing time,
I knew:
I am at home.
Not only did the butcher’s wife
sweep a black muck at my feet,
so that I almost slipped and fell.
She screamed at me, had
I no respect for closing time.
And it wasn't even half past yet.
I insisted on my customer's rights.
But she ordered me to leave
What do you mean your rights, you
impudent, rude thing!
Don't people like us got any rights?
Why dontcha go somewhere else and see if
somebody'll still wait on someone like you.
I went to the train station and did my shopping.
I can manage after all,
I thought triumphantly,
sleight of hand, for
I’m not a tourist in my native land.
When in Düsseldorf’s city station,
for the first time in seven years
I looked around in vain for the powder room,
I finally found it outside the station
since the station was under construction.
(Construction everywhere!)
Anxiously I entered a shack
—you really never know—
it reeked of stew and decaf,
smells vying with each other in a sort of chamber
right next door where a husky woman
was reading a supermarket tabloid.
The lady did not look up
yet nothing escaped her.
I didn’t have any change.
With thanks I took the coin-operated door
that someone, leaving, held open for me.
A savior in a time of need.
The bathroom attendant,
ignoring stew, coffee, and tabloid
as if she just knew
planted herself clumsily in front of me.
She screamed:
“You shameless, impudent thing,
out to cheat the poor.
Just get outa here,
whatcha take this fer, a welfare agency?
Go on, beat it!”
At this she whistled her dog over,
a disgusting black mutt that till now
had not moved a muscle.
Was this beast supposed to scare me?
Even bite me?
It growled, but toothless as it was
it retreated, its tail between its legs.
God, did that woman have a fit!
Before I knew what was happening, she gave
me the boot, to kick me out,
while I was still struggling to get in.
Just about then I lost it.
I kicked her back
—imagine that—
throwing dignity to the winds, I decided
to return fire with fire.
“I’ll file a complaint,”
I threatened, making a dash for freedom,
sleight of hand, for
I’m not a tourist in my native land.
When I went to the public swimming pool,
for the first time in seven years
entering on foot an indoor pool in the old part of town,
the fear of bathroom attendants was still deeply ingrained.
Anxiously I stepped into the dressing room,
and promptly someone shouted:
Leave your shoes outside!
Cantcha read?
An old, familiar fragrance from school swimming lessons
of coffee, chlorine, urine, and sweat
wafted around the nag, who
red and stout,
swinging the scrub-brush,
stood in the doorframe of her cubicle,
barely concealing enameled coffeepots.
Cake crumbs clung to her
overly-red lipsticked mouth, which
shouted on as she chewed.
Out! and right now,
she had just wiped the floors.
She wasn't about to slave away twice.
She shook her fist in my face.
Oh my, oh my, I shrunk back
in total disbelief!
Affluence stops at nothing:
even cleaning ladies aren't afraid of losing their jobs.
I finally got a word in edgewise:
Where did it say that about the shoes?
Where you came in, where else, or maybe
I couldn't read?
No!
I looked down at her red feet.
No!
Do you know why?
She stared stupidly at me.
I live in America.
What, you come from over there?
How’d that ever happen?
My cousin, ya know, he
lives back there too somewhere,
I think in Dallas,
ya know, like in the movie.
Man! It must be nice there!
Where do you come from over there?
(She stood there a changed woman.)
From Indiana.
What, you come from down there?
From real Indians?
Man-o-man! Go ahead and swim and
just leave your shoes here with me.
And later you can tell me what it's like over there.
My cousin, ya know, my mother's
sister, her oldest, he . . .
and he never writes!
You gotta tell me all about it.
"With pleasure," I beamed in English
into her dumbfounded face.
"With pleasure," I beamed, more brightly
sleight of hand, for
I’m not a tourist in my native land.
When I was invited to visit
old friends
for the first time in seven years
for Kaffeklatsch with champagne and wine
—nobody likes a tightwad—
the initial thrill of being together was pleasant.
But when that faded,
they started in on the problems.
They intended to enlighten me,
me, who's been away so long.
Fascinated, I listened to the complaints,
how bad things were for them,
how expensive everything was,
how precarious their situation,
they of all people were caught in the middle,
at the mercy of the superpowers.
How repulsive the presence of
punks and other parasites, like
Turks, Greeks, those vermin
who ruin decent citizens.
We over there had it much better.
Oh yeah?
And what makes you so sure?
Never having been there.
We're well informed, you know,
we read the paper
we watch TV,
we get business reports, too.
But what do you know of us?
Loudly I began to laugh,
in my mind I saw
Dallas, Denver, Dynasty.
Why don't you show me your furs!
My furs I'll show you . . .
Gerda, keen on mink,
used to be quite nice, seemed
especially irritated by my laugh,
retired early,
vacation home on the ocean, in the south,
owns her apartment at home on the Rhine,
constantly under stress,
she screamed at me
—the poor woman was stressed out—
she could remember,
how I,
on a visit years ago,
supported Willy Brandt.2
Oh yeah?
Her brother, a happy fat cat,
stressed out like her,
stood by her, babbling something about leftists.
Surprise! Surprise!
Before I could turn around,
I was red.
Red! Not black 3 or
green,4 no, red.
Perplexed at so much impertinence I was still
ready for rational conversation.
Rationality, that they were missing;
they continued, stupid
know-it-alls getting worked up.
The gods themselves battle in vain with stupidity.
With the affluent society even more so!
Foreseeing the results, I grabbed
—unnoticed in the confusion—
the phone in the vestibule.
Ten more minutes, the doorbell rings:
Taxi echoes through the stairwell.
Oh God, my train, I have to go!
I snatched my coat and disappeared,
a thank you for the pleasant evening hanging on my lips,
well-mannered and
sleight of hand, for
I’m not a tourist in my native land.
When I swam in the thermal baths in Wiesbaden
I decided
to try the sauna.
I climbed out of the warm pool,
threw on my bathrobe, and strode
up the stairs that led to the sauna.
Arriving there, I followed an arrow.
It ended at a door,
closed and painted white.
Energetically I opened the door,
looking for the ladies’-sauna sign.
No one stopped me.
Through there, I thought
the ladies’ sauna must be.
Why must?
Where on earth was the men’s sauna?
Men’s?
My thoughts were spinning like a top.
A naked man, a second one, a third . . .
under the ice-cold streams of the shower
almost touching . . .
. . . reddened shoulders of stark naked women
under the ice-cold stream of the shower.
I collected myself, breathed deeply,
when I saw a terrace ahead.
Lying there, in sync with the German summer,
shapes of both sexes
up to their chins in warm blankets.
Resolutely I covered myself even tighter
in my bathrobe.
But what on earth was that?
I had missed the pool
where one swam without a suit.
Vaguely still hoping for a miracle,
I went into the entrance room of the sauna.
It was empty, but only for a second . . .
two women, just like God created them,
looked me up and down
(never before had I felt so ashamed of being dressed)
flabbergasted they yelled at me:
“Just what’s the matter with you?
Where are you from?”
“Um, I’m just visiting.
I live in the U. S.”
The words floated in space
and I knew what was coming,
and it did:
“In the U.S.?
Well how come you’re so modest?
We all thought you poor thing came from some eastern-block country.
But from the U.S.?
We’ve learned everything from them.
They don’t have any morals at all.”
I’d had it.
Without a word I slipped through the sauna door,
threw off robe and decency,
climbed over bodies onto a board,
taking care not to step on anyone.
I threw modesty to the winds,
I’ll sweat it off in an instant.
Who knows me here anyway?
In no time lobster-red like the rest of them,
I closed my eyes, sleight of hand, for
I’m not a tourist in my native land.
When I took my key of remembrance
for the first time in seven years
and opened the eighth chamber of memories,
King Thrushbeard5 was already dead, thank God.
Yet my fairy tale had just begun,
for the very first time in all those years
I could wander on soft paths
an ancient farmhouse was near.
On the way I spied some sickly trees,
but no sickly people, not a one.
The aged farmer's wife didn't scream at me.
She invited me in for bread and cider
of pears, which I guzzled down.
The cider went to my head.
Already I felt light,
free, unencumbered.
I wasn't drunk.
Just excited, and
more enraptured still when
the woman showed me her little house,
with seven rooms and her stable.
Then she led me into the stable,
to introduce me to her sheep.
They bleated happily.
One was still a baby,
white with black spots.
The old woman laid it in my arms.
The little lamb looked at me for a long time and spoke:
Don't you know me?
Just think a little harder!
Drink another glass of cider,
then surely your mind will clear.
The woman got me another glass,
I drank it down in a single gulp.
I hadn’t felt so good in ages,
suddenly it all became clear.
Oh, it's you!
Finally you're here!
I’ve missed you for a long time.
And I’ve missed you, answered the baby lamb.
It's been much longer than seven years
since I lost you.
Where have you been for all that time?
And after all those years, here again,
you are trying much too hard
to feel at home . . .
You can't do that.
But soon you’ll find that all is well.
In the stable, relieved, I fell asleep,
the baby lamb next to me.
In the morning, when I was thirsty for coffee,
the farmer's wife brought me into the house.
I washed, had breakfast and
knew it wasn't a dream that I,
during an intoxicated night, had dreamed.
I wanted to see the little lamb,
but it was already with the others on the meadow.
It had left me a greeting, though.
I was to look in the mirror.
This I did.
On my forehead I saw, written in green, a sentence:
To lead you on your way,
forget
the stress
forget
the sleights of hand, for
you are a tourist in your native land.
Translated by Silke Schade and Jeanette Clausen
1 Rhine-Ruhr area. (Author’s note)
2 Willy Brandt was the chancellor of Germany from 1969 to 1974. He sought closer ties between the Federal Republic of Germany and the communist countries of Eastern Europe, especially the German Democratic Republic. (Translator’s note)
3 Black is the color of the Christian Democratic Party in Germany. (Translator’s note)
4 This refers to the German Green Party. (Translator’s note)
5 König Drosselbart is a king from the Grimms’ fairy tale of the same name. (Translator’s note)
Iceland Impressions
I
I flew back and took Iceland's light nights
home with me,
their spectral silence,
their changing silhouettes
above the upland,
the fields of lava,
the fjords, the sea,
the fog's resting place
above the empty eyes of the dead
in their graves surrounding the old village church
with the most beautiful treasures from the western world.
A few meters from our inn.
When the fogs were well rested
they'd vanish behind the snow-covered mountains,
remaining there until the eloquent
dark quiet of the graves
invited them anew to sleep.
In the nightly-light dead silence
I climbed out of bed,
put on a thin gown,
dived into the cool daylight night,
steadfastly staggered up the stony path to
the graveyard's protective wall of basalt,
opened the slightly creaking small gate,
slipped by the tall slender belfry
and followed the will-o'-the-wisp towards graves
whose stones radiated a ghostly gleam.
Beneath one rested the old native
Johannes Thorfinnsson,
born the year Goethe died,
died the year my father was born,
Goethe's admirer who read him
to us children from the time we were small.
Did this Johannes know Goethe's “Ein Gleiches”?
A will-o'-the-wisp showed me the way
to the grave of Sigurthur Torvaldsson,
an Icelander, who in 1990,
at the age of 106,
passed away.
The old man outlived his wife, Gudrun,
born the same year as my mother,
by two decades;
my mother by three.
Selflessly she nursed my terminally ill father,
to whom we daughters read,
when he was hardly able
to recognize his sovereign poet;
later she lovingly tended his grave.
The fogs found rest on top of Torvaldsson's double grave,
graced with fresh pansies.
Had the old man provided
and planted them for his wife?
Who then cared for the widowed old man?
I continued to wander from grave to grave
striving to decipher weathered inscriptions.
Today, on my sister's birthday,
a child died exactly one hundred years ago.
Who might have mourned,
who might have been the child's parents, siblings?
The will-o'-the-wisp showed me the way back.
I carefully opened the door to the inn,
looked at eight in the morning
— after a short deep sleep — out of the window,
caught a glimpse of the graves,
tended and untended,
without their foggy veil,
chastely expecting the warmth
of the first shy ray of sun.Eternal resting places of names
lacking faces and life stories,
coincidental dates on a foreign island.
People like us, separated
from my roots through
culture, language, and time.
In essence: the same.
The faraway fogless grave
of my parents, my sister,
dateless their beloved names chiseled in stone,
tended by a cemetery gardener.
II
"Back to Iceland?
There's nothing but snow and ice."
…."What do you think you know
from your bird's-eye view?"
It draws me back,
I want to see the bright nights again,
the familiar graves at the old cemetery,
the grave of Sigurthur Torvaldsson,
the Icelander,
who died at the age of one-hundred-and-six
and was buried next to his wife Gudrun,
whom he outlived by two decades,
in the shadow of the slim belfry,
constructed in honor of Jon Arasons,
Iceland's last Catholic bishop.
Would like to know who is now taking care of the grave.
Back to the fjords,
the thermal springs,
which might have warmed the old man,
the meadows he owned
with their sheep and lambs,
timeless in their woolen robe,
their bleating melody,
warning the young of the arctic fox.
Back to the pale snow on the mountains,
in front of the caves of the bird cliffs,
down to the stern women and men,
to meet them in their seclusion,
seeing with their eyes
the glass-hard shimmer of the island,
which blindness perceives
as an ice-field alone.
Back to the wild horses,
the eerily abandoned farms
where bench, table, cooking and resting place squeezed
through the smallest doorway into the living room,
never-ending doorway to the past,
through time in its impenetrability,
gliding from Nordic mythology
into a modern awareness of life,
from the Vikings' language,
this national language rich in tradition
I would like to learn in its purity
as a stranger who does not belong.
Stillness of winter,
white canvas on the wooden belfry,
the silent graves around the village church,
late baroque,
wherein, so I imagine,
Sigurthur was once married to his Gudrun,
and where, within
the stones of cemetery and church,
sculpted from ancient volcanic rocks,
ages merge.
Many an inscription
a bridge to the world.
Many a date
an echo within me.
III
“Palli, little boy, tender, mild,
a single wish I have for you today,
that your life be like a fairytale,
and always sunshine as you make your way.”
(Grandfather’s wish at Palli’s birth)
A fjord, a fishing village,
a red tub on rough gravel,
the tavern at the steep path,
cozy wood-paneled lounge,
bare benches around tables
with alcoholic beverages.
The bar, a colorful array.
In the evenings a reading by poets
who, far from the city noise,
finish their work in humble houses.
On stools, steps, benches
we are awaiting one of the greats
of Icelandic literature:
Einar Mar Gudmundsson.
He read from his novel
translated into English
as Angel of the Universe,
with a soft, slight accent.
A new world opened up!
The world of his dead brother,
to whom the book was dedicated.
From his grave,
Pall, who tells the story himself,
describes his dreadful fairytale.
His tale of woe.
He, for whom — as a promising young man —
the border between sanity and madness
melts away, dives into
a world of fog, in which
— regardless of age —
the sun never shines and
the song of the angels dies away.
Good Friday
in the guarded Kleppur Express
admitted to Kleppur,
Iceland’s insane asylum,
called by the locals the “castle on the sea,”
shunned by humankind,
painted blood-red by an artist friend.
Drugged so that he couldn’t scream.
Drugged so that he learns to succumb,
smears himself with paint,
green and yellow.
He believes he is van Gogh’s incarnation.
Dull horror of the final destination,
which he approaches almost knowingly.
Shudder at the fellow moaning
under the raging keepers with their brute strength
and little empathy.
Desperate efforts
trying to get a grasp again on everyday life.
Escape!
Caught!
Suicide jump through a half-barred window
into the abyss of eternity.
He sees the tears of his parents, his grandfather.
Forlorn, his mother cries herself to sleep.
When she wakes up
a rainbow glows over Kleppur,
the dreary “castle on the sea,”
in which a beloved son met his death.
Kleppur,
labor of mourning for a dead brother.
Kleppur,
ghost world that accuses.
Insane asylum, government supported,
in which such people simply belong.
It’s what society demands.
Translated by Andrea Engels and Jerry Glenn