Salzburg

Saturday July 28^th – Tuesday July 31^st

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We stayed in Salzburg for four days, but, really, each day was much the same as the other, so I will just describe for you a typical day in Salzburg.

10:00 am

Wake to the sound of our dorm-mate(s) getting out of bed. Exchange pleasantries with said dorm-mate(s). Head to shower, to discover that shower (and toilets) are being cleaned and unavailable. Go upstairs to kitchen in pyjamas and have breakfast, then kicked out of kitchen, as it is now being cleaned. Back to bathroom. Shower, clean teeth. Progress is being made.

11:45 am

Finally ready to start the day – but tired from effort required to have breakfast and get clean. Back to dorm room to surf the interwebs for a while. Remember that urgent washing related chore needs doing, either washing, drying or collecting laundry, and complete said chore. Start to feel hungry. Ignore hunger, instead spend a few hours on internet, or reading.

2:00 pm

Finally, hunger wins out over laziness, and we catch a bus into town to a restaurant that has clearly labeled gluten free options (it’s vegetarian too… a bit of a hippy place really). Lunch is followed by gluten free cake. Eating is tiring, and so we soon find ourselves back at the hostel, for a little well deserved rest. The Sound of Music DVD is playing in the common room of the hostel, so I spend a few hours watching that while Stim tries to get through one of the five novels he brought on the trip.

7:00 pm

Back to the hippy restaurant for dinner, where they start to give us strange looks, but continue to serve us delicious food. More cake. Walk around town a bit and pretend that we’re actually being proper tourists.

9:30 pm

Back at hostel, talk to a few other travelers, but every discussion leaves us feeling guilty for lack of tourist behaviour in Salzburg. Decide to make more of our time the next day – I try but fail to get Stim to commit to the “Sound of Music” bus tour. Surf the web until close to midnight, before falling asleep, lulled by our dorm-mate’s snoring.

Prague

Monday July 16^th – Wednesday July 18^th

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Let’s go back in time to a world where students were required to hand-write assignments. To a world that existed before word  processors and MSN Messenger had diminished typing accuracy and increased speed. Consider, in fact, the nemesis of my illustrious academic history – weekly spelling lists in Year Three. In 1991, students in Mrs Picker’s class knew that the number of spelling words learned each week varied between students, depending on past performance. Some students only had ten words to learn, but every time a budding speller had every word correct on the test at the end of the week, more words would be added to their personal list. After a few months of this, my supposed brilliance had resulted in me gaining the prestigious position of having 50 words to learn each week.

Of course the really smart kids would always make sure they got at least one word wrong.

One week the mega list contained a doozie; a word that even now, because of its difficulty, and my conscientious but misguided struggle to learn it, has become engraved on my brain with 10 foot letters of fire. When I am 95 with dementia, I will not know my own name, but I will still be able to spell this word. Unfortunately, however, the word is completely useless now, unless perhaps in certain discussions of European history.

The word? Czechoslovakia.

A lot was changing for the Czechs in the early 90’s and now, close to 20 years later, I had somehow failed to realize that as well as a name change, the entire political, social and economic state of the region had moved on since then. As recently as four years ago I still viewed Eastern Europe as an ATAAAC, or “Area To Avoid At All Costs”. In the case of the Czech Republic, my attitude was obviously misinformed, but not entirely surprising, given the country’s recent and not-so-recent history of occupation and oppression, most of which seemed to culminate in violence and often defenestration. Times have changed, however, and it has been many years since the need to protest a regime, or throw someone out a window onto a manure pile has gripped the people of Prague. These days, Prague is a beautiful, vibrant city where the biggest worry a tourist might have is the high chance of being caught without a ticket on the excellent public transport system.

Luckily for us, we knew a lot of people who just happened to be in the city. Gander and Goose were the first, but we also had the chance to catch up with Grubby, another Q floor boy from Union College. We’d said a preliminary goodbye to Petra, Sara and Chris in June when we left Tianjin, but we’d known that we’d be seeing each other in Prague. It was good to see them again so soon, but sad to have to say a proper, final, farewell. We’d been enjoying our international lifestyle, but it was refreshing to connect with some people who knew us.

Prague was more than a city to appreciate as a tourist, it was a place to meet up with old friends, to share stories and reminisce about old times. It was a city with so much going for it! Inexpensive, leafy, friendly – with beer gardens overlooking the river and a restaurant that served exclusively gluten-free food. It was a great place to visit, and would be an amazing place to live.

Cesky Krumlov Rafting Adventures

Friday July 13th – Sunday July 15th

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Act One

Scene One

Two tired travelers (Dodi and Stim) disembark from a train which has travelled overnight from Copenhagen. They are shocked to be greeted by an unknown Australian man in a battered Akubra and plastic thongs (flipflops, jandals, not g-banger), who introduces himself as “Goose”. Goose leads the disoriented couple via the metro to an apartment in Prague. They are soon joined by “Gander”, brother of Goose, and good friend of the couple. Gander eats a sandwich and returns to work.

Scene Two

The four will go rafting this weekend, but have limited supplies. Dodi and Stim rush around the local supermarket and the apartment in an attempt to purchase and pack everything necessary for the trip. Gander returns from work. He has purchased a sleeping bag. The four gather their possessions and rush to the bus stop.

Scene Three

The bus is full of drunk Czech youths bound for the river. They gracefully offer our heroes some local wine, which appears to be sold in PET bottles. Though refused, they do not take offense, and proceed to have a lively conversation with the Australians. Several hours pass, which gives plenty of time for Dodi, Stim, Gander and Goose to observe top notch drunk bus behaviour and erratic driving. Finally our four adventurers arrive at their destination and check into the guesthouse.

Act Two

Scene One

Well rested, our four heroes negotiate the hire of an inflatable raft, two barrels, and four oars. They set off down the river at a leisurely pace, the calm broken only occasionally by matrimonial rows and brotherly spats. An oar interchange is negotiated at a hire shop on the river as Dodi’s oar is not short enough for a “little girl”. A series of weirs are negotiated by the crew, with mixed results, many spins, but no shipwreck. A fine misty rain sets in for the day, but the four adventurers revive their spirits by stopping in at a mojito bar or two. Late in the afternoon they spy the campsite they have booked for the night and pull into the shore.

Scene Two

Once at the campsite, they manage to acquire a cabin. Dodi, on the verge of hypothermia, attempts to warm up with a shower, but there is no hot water (or shower cubicles!) in the women’s bathroom. After dinner the four turn in for the night, Gander in his sleeping bag, Dodi and Stim having rented bedding from the campsite, and Goose wrapped in the only bedding he had brought in the rush to be ready on time – a single fitted sheet.

Act Three

Scene One

The next day, rain threatens, and so more of a determined attitude is called for in the paddling department. Some challenging weirs present themselves, including one that necessitates the lifting and carrying of the vessel across a rocky stretch. Amid the excitement of watching canoes capsize, the crew becomes slightly disoriented. They pull into a boat-hire depot downriver of “Chesty Krumlov” in pouring rain and wait for the skies to clear.

Scene Two

The skies clear and the four adventurers walk into the main township of Cesky Krumlov, and climb its tower. Later, they drink coffee by the river and watch boats more unfortunate than them capsize over the weirs. In the evening, they board a bus bound for Prague, tired but happy.

Special thanks to Gander (Sam) and Goose (Greg) for showing us such a great time in the Czech wilderness!

Copenhagen

Wednesday July 11th – Thursday July 12th

Three things I now know about Copenhagen…

ONE

The little mermaid statue is actually pretty disappointing. Actually, it is not even to scale – obviously the sculptor had never even seen a real mermaid! The people of Copenhagen must agree with my negative appraisal, as the statue has suffered several amputations and beheadings over the years.

TWO

King Christian X during the war.

During WWII Denmark was somewhere between being an ally of the Nazis and being occupied by the Nazis. I think something like 9 Danish soldiers died when Denmark was invaded – the king soon surrendered (wisely, it seems), and life became somewhat normal again for most people. However, many people weren’t happy about their new bff’s and participated in organised resistance, aided in part by the British. It was very “Tomorrow When the War Began” – a lot of the rebels were young schoolkids, blowing stuff up. The king did his bit and rode his horse through the streets everyday – the rest of Copenhagen joined him as a show of solidarity. I’m not sure what the horse riding was meant to symbolise, but it was definately something. Something rebellious and kingly.

Anyway Copenhagen has a great museum that documents the resistance, and it’s very moving. I actually had to leave because I was starting to shake with the effort to hold in the sobs that were threatening to break free. The source of these (incredibly uncharacteristic – I never would have cried during a black and white movie in our English class in grade 10 for instance) sobs was several letters written by captured resistance fighters to their families prior to their execution. Anyway – it’s a good museum, I recommend it.

THREE

The only photo I have of Christiania.

Part of Copenhagen has declared itself to be a separate country – Christiania. They even have their own currency! It all sounds good in theory (as all commune-type ideas do) but in its history has had a shady relationship with drugs. Excellent mismanagement by the government of Copenhagen has resulted in bikie gangs moving in, and they now control the drug trade. There’s only three laws in Christiania – no photos, no running, and have fun! If you break any of them, you will soon be answering to a set of brass knuckles. With Amsterdam’s new drug laws coming in soon Copenhagen may well have a surge in tourist dollars in the near future. Just remember to follow the rules!

Lazy…

After meeting a lawyer, I am unlikely to say to her “Oh, well, your job is all just shouting out ‘I object!’ in the courtroom occasionally.”

I’m unlikely to tell an engineer that he is a 40 hour a week slacker, because he’s been promoted to the title of manager, and therefore just has to tell other people to do the work for him.

I don’t know what their jobs are like, because I am not a member of their profession.

Why then, do people feel that they know exactly how little work is involved in my job? How can they feel justified in telling me how easy it is?

I could rant on about lesson planning, curriculum documents, marking, actual face to face teaching time, after school activities, committees, lunchtime duty and the like, but the thing is – I shouldn’t have to.

Sure – doctors, lawyers, and some other professionals do more hours a week, and have less time off a year than teachers. They are also remunerated in a far better manner. Some professionals are paid less and work even harder.* But if your job is that much harder than teaching, and you think the 9am to 3pm day**, and 40 week work year*** would be more your style, then what’s stopping you from changing profession and joining the teaching game?

* They also tend to be in either health or education related jobs traditionally favored by women.

** A lie – my last job had base hours of 7:30am – 4pm

*** Somewhat a lie.

50 Shades of… meh.

I fought it for as long as I could. In the end, though, I had to find out what all the fuss was about, and so, when given the opportunity to pick up a few free books for our trip at the camper van rental place, I included 50 Shades of Grey in my selection.

And, frankly, I’m shocked. Not by the graphic sex, not by the abusive relationship, not by the bad writing, not by the flagrant product placement, but by the hype that has somehow been generated by something so ordinary.

Firstly, there are those who are critical of the book because they feel it glorifies abusive relationships and misrepresents the sexual practice of domination. I see where these people are coming from – controlling behaviour does constitute emotional abuse, and there is a lot of controlling behaviour in this book. However, a very subtle fact is often overlooked in the tirade of criticism that is heaped on Ms James for glorifying relationships of this type. This is a novel about a situation that will not ever occur. In fact, the sum of the events in the book make it, though devoid of goblins and elves, a fantasy novel. Readers don’t want to be part of that world – but the novel allows them to imagine what it might be like if they were, while still safe in their sun-room, bubble-bath or rocking chair on the front porch*.

Then there’s the people who are describing this book as being at the forefront of a sexual revolution for women. It’s not. It’s a book about people having a lot of sex. These are not exactly rare. Most Mills and Boon novels of your choice will contain a clueless woman being seduced by a sexy guy, with detailed account of her sexual awakening. Sure, it’s generally not a BDSM themed awakening, but there are still plenty of paragraphs packed to the brim with “shaft” and other clever pseudonyms for genitals.

50 Shades of Grey has been represented by some as “pornography for women”, but graphic sex scenes in novels are not a rare phenomenon. The Clan of the Cave Bear and its progeny spring to mind, but there are countless authors producing entertaining books, with a real plot, that happen to contain sex – and, like late night French movies on SBS, sometimes you can even feel a bit cultured after consumption. There exist, too, well written novels with BDSM themes.

But, I think I get it – the people financing Ms James’ early retirement are not the “readers” of the world. They are, ironically, the non-readers. Not everyone’s an avid reader – but when a book comes along and hits a publicity goldmine the way 50 Shades has, even these people will sit up, switch off Jersey Shore, and dust off their reading glasses. Really, EL James has followed in the footsteps of Dan Brown and JK Rowling**. She has not done anything special – likewise, books had been written about secret societies and child wizards before – but she has been clever, and lucky. Her book is now a talking point whenever women people get together, and if you haven’t read it, you soon will feel compelled to do so just so you can contribute to the conversation.

I guess my point should be clarified. 50 Shades of Grey is not horrendous. It is not amazing. It is not a breakthrough for women, nor is it sending them back to the dark ages. It’s just a bit of a diversion from reality for a few hours. I don’t feel particularly strongly about it. But, just as I read the Harry Potter series to the bitter (and somewhat predictable) end, and barely waited an hour between The Da Vinci Code and Angels and Demons, I will finish this series.

I guess Ms James must be doing something right then.

* If you haven’t read the book then you might be assuming I am saying that BDSM relationships don’t exist. I am not. I am saying that the individual situation that develops in the book is so unlikely that it is basically fantastical.

** I’ve nothing against JK Rowling, she has just been amazingly successful with non-readers.

Stupid…

When I announced to my friends and family that I was going into teaching, I encountered a lot of well-meaning praise along the following lines. “Oh, that’s great! All the current teachers are dumb – asses, you are basically performing an act of martyrdom!” People seemed to hold several notions about teachers and teaching, which, as a teacher, I can see are frankly untrue. These include “teachers = stupid” and “good at performing in an exam based school system = good teacher”.

There are several different reasons used to argue that teachers are stupid.

Argument Number 1: Anyone clever enough to study anything else, would.

This is what it has come to – teaching is so poorly regarded as a profession that it is seen as a last resort, perhaps slightly better than telemarketing, but probably worse than mucking out pigsties. In a way, the lack of respect afforded teachers is a self perpetuating stereotype.

 

The problem with this stereotype is, that while it seems to make sense, it just isn’t my experience. In my seven years as a teacher, in public, private and international schools, I have always been surrounded by many intelligent people who wanted to be teachers for reasons other than “well, I couldn’t get into any other course.” I’m not saying these people don’t exist, but I am saying that I doubt many of them made it through university, and if they did, I doubt they would last very long as teachers.

Argument Number 2: Teaching can be done by anyone (see above), and does not require any special skills. 

What does it mean to be intelligent? To be stupid? Is it automatically to be assumed that people who can perform well in exams that require a lot of memorization are intelligent? Are those who excel at art, or sport, or languages, but struggle with calculations stupid?

Teaching does require special skills and depending on the children and the subjects you teach, those skills will vary. Teachers do need to understand, or have the capacity to understand, the principles of the subjects they teach, but this is really just the very beginning of what it means to be a good teacher. In fact, knowledge of the actual material that is being delivered is, in a way, the least important focus when we think about what we mean by a good teacher. Delivery of this material, the ability to connect with students, to make learning engaging and relevant – this is where good teachers shine. In fact, some of the best maths teachers I know struggled to understand maths when they were at school. Some very knowledgeable physicists I know would most likely have difficulty teaching even basic algebra to year 8 students.

So even if sometimes teachers are people who have failed to achieve great grades at high school, the people who become teachers are by no means “stupid” or “unskilled”. Teaching is not a profession that “just anyone” can do. Teachers do definitely require special skills… which brings us to…

Argument Number 3: “When I was in third grade my teacher told me that the sky was blue because of the reflection from the sea, and I just found out that’s not true. What a dumb-ass!”

Yes, your teacher has either

a) made something up on the spur of the moment because they fear saying the three most dreaded words of past-teacherdom “I don’t know”.

or

b) repeated a “fact” they have gleaned from nonsense sources without checking it.

These are both poor teaching practices. In my classroom, I would first ask other students if they knew, and then look up the answer on the internet, displaying it on the digital projector, taking the time to read it carefully and explain any nuances the student had missed. Or, if we didn’t have time, I might set it as homework to find out. Or I would tell the students I’d find out, and then report back to them the next day. But, your third grade teacher didn’t have the internet 20, 30, 40 years ago, and if this was their only transgression they may be forgiven for not knowing all there is to know about the visible light spectrum.

If your third grade teacher pulled these kinds of stunts all the time, taught you to measure distances with your ruler starting at the one instead of the zero, said Sydney was the capital of Australia and that nouns were describing words, then I understand your anger at that particular teacher. But it is still not fair to take that anger and transform it into a lasting disrespect for the entire profession.

One last lament…

When I was in year 9, Mr Williams told our class that we had to study hard and do well in our exams, or else we would end up as a teacher like him. Even then, at the age of 14, I viewed his urging not as an incentive to do well but as a sad reminder that teaching is so badly respected that even Mr Williams, my favourite teacher, had no respect for the job he was doing.

Anyway, thanks for reading my rantings, at the very least it’s helping me to calm down. If you would like to comment below please feel free to do so. I trust you’ll use small words that are sure to be understood by my teacher’s brain.

An Introduction

In 1995 I started high school in a small town on the Mid North Coast of New South Wales. Though my four years there are mostly a blur of teen angst and secret crushes on boys who had no idea I existed, I do still remember the efforts that many teachers made to make learning relevant and engaging. I could name several educators who impressed me with their enthusiasm for both their subject and their students. In particular, though, two teachers had a major impact on me. Their names were Mr Williams and Mr O’Dell.

Mr Williams taught Mathematics, and he taught it well. Though I was a competent student of mathematics entering year 9, I didn’t really like the subject. Mr Williams wasn’t a fancy teacher, he didn’t sing us songs based on the quadratic formula or make up actions to demonstrate function transformations. As far as I remember, he never lead us in anything so crass as application of mathematical principles to real world situations. Lessons mainly consisted of chalk and talk followed by drill and practice. But, despite his lack of revolutionary pedagogy, Mr Williams was an excellent teacher and changed my apathy for mathematics into a lifelong enthusiasm.

Across the school, in the English staffroom, was the desk of Mr O’Dell. Mr O’Dell seemed to do much as he liked when it came to the teaching of English. Sure, there were some boring topics that needed covering, like analysis of advertising. Once done though, we thoroughly explored the English language, its intricacies, subtleties and nuances. We read Shakespeare and Tolkien and Austin – listened spellbound as Mr O’Dell pulled it all to pieces and gave it meaning we’d missed. We wrote extra verses to epic poems by Tennyson, and read them aloud to a room full of trust and free of criticism. Mr O’Dell was also an excellent teacher who proved to me that the study of English could be so much more than reading mediocre teen fiction.

What was the common link between these two people? It was not their methodology, nor their personalities, nor their pedagogical leanings. Mr Williams and Mr O’Dell were excellent teachers because they were student focused and enthusiastic about their subjects.

So, with my description of these two people who have been so influential in my life in mind, here’s a few questions to lead into my next “teachers” post.

Does a teacher need to know absolutely everything there is to know about their subject in order to be an excellent teacher?

If we examine two teachers, and one of them achieved better grades at school than the other, does that mean that they will be a better teacher than the other?

Why is there a perception in some societies (certainly in Australia, the US and the UK) that “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.”?

Sorry Edgar…

Walking in Austria
Saturday July 21st – Friday July 27th

 

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Though we set off bright and cheery, soon we floundered, pained and weary,
And we pulled ourselves up mountains and around a blue lake’s shore.
On we plodded, our strength sapping, lightning flashing, thunder clapping,
As we wrestled with the mapping, mapping of these trails galore.
From Bad Ischl to Attersee, hiking on these trails galore.
The next day there would be more.

Day two started; I remember tired legs and frazzled temper,
Feeling like I might dismember he who made me walk some more.
Though I was not close to sorrow, I wished vainly for tomorrow,
Or I hoped that I could borrow – borrow legs and back less sore.
I’d barely started walking and I wished I was less sore.
The next day would there be more?

Stimmy’s feet had started hurtin’, but despite this we were certain
That we’d find him boots for hiking on St Wolfgang’s shining shore.
But the search it was defeating, and by noon, when we were eating,
Swiftly I began entreating, “Can we rest a little more?”
We couldn’t find him boots so we could rest a little more.
For at least a day – for sure.

Tasty ice cream made us stronger; and we soon began to long, Ah!
For a place atop a mountain with a view that we’d adore;
And according to the mapping, steam trains trundled up the tracking,
Chugging, hissing, hooting, clapping – to the summit from the shore.
‘Twas a most exciting journey to the summit from the shore.
Though it did make us quite poor.

From atop the mountain, peering down into a massive clearing,
We on a plateau distant spied a hut we’d been before.
Parp! The magic broken – the train’s whistle loudly spoke ‘n’,
Interrupted our fine jokin’ – sent us swift to a shoe store.
Returning to Bad Ischl to locate a good shoe store.
Turned out to be quite a chore.

The fourth day – a harsh returning to the pain of muscles burning,
As we tried to tackle mountains that we hadn’t climbed before.
It was tough going – that is – ’twas no time to dally, chat, kiss,
Or laze upon our mattress – ’twas no time to sleep and snore.
When you’re walking for 8 hours there’s no time to sleep and snore.
Instead, swiftly! Out the door!

The fifth morning I did utter, as I opened up the shutter,
“I hope today is better, can you tell me what’s in store.”
“Dodi, my fine lady,” said Stim, as our bill paid he,
“Exciting does today be, we’re seeing a salt mine of yore!”
And we walked to Hallstat salt mine, like the old miners of yore.
What a treat we had in store!

As a group we started piling in the mountain, our guide smiling,
Though the scene was reminiscent of a movie I once saw.
But Stim and I were brave ‘n soon we both were ravin’
“While we rather like this cavin’ we like the robot miners more!”
The slides were fun, but, well, we liked the robot miners more.
We’re pretty hard to bore.

Though we had thought that mainly we’d be hiking daily, plainly
We had little time for trekking with so much else to explore.
The sixth day, our swift agreeing resulted in us being
Suspended over mountains viewing glaciers galore,
And walking through an ice cave viewing stalactites galore.
We’d only one day more!

Next day, the path was lonely – for we joined it briefly only
To walk to a nearby bus stop – it was all we could endure.
“Bad Ischl mate?” I uttered as up the steps we fluttered,
And I thought I heard a muttered, “Chumps! You should have walked some more!”
I knew deep down we’d chickened out and should have walked some more.
But we were just so sore.

And now we’ve stopped our flitting, we are sitting, still are sitting,
Our energy so lacking we can scarcely close the door.
And our faces, they are beaming – of this day we’d both been dreaming,
Down our faces tears are streaming – of joy, though we are sore.
And my blistered feet that far surpass title of merely ‘sore’.
Shall be lifted – nevermore!

It seemed like a good idea when I started, and then I had to continue due to bloody mindedness…

Apologies, and congratulations if you have made it to the end.

Extra points if you contribute one of the missing verses.

Stupid Slackers

Living as an Expat in a Chinese city caused everything around me to take on an element of the bizarre. Life was infinitely easier and unimaginably harder than it ever was in Australia. A new reality emerged, one in which housework was no longer my concern, I had a driver take me to work each day, I argued over sums of money approximating a total of $0.30, I was often illiterate and unable to communicate and usually greeted with curious stares whenever I ventured out of doors. I acknowledged these changes and, if I didn’t exactly take them all in my stride, I learned to define a new version of normal. “Tianjin Normal” if you will.

However, there are other, more subversive elements to living in a tightly knit community of teachers that I did not notice while caught in the swirling fury of a school year. Tendrils of fantastical imaginings merged imperceptibly with everyday life, undetected  by me, a fledgling, uninitiated, would be, spotter of the unreal. Reality became a distant dream, maybe a story someone once told me once, but so different from my current life that I couldn’t believe it true. I forgot the truth readily and began to fill the gap it left with a new false reality.

What I forgot, after my three years cocooned inside the protective chrysalis of an international school was this: in the real world, no one respects teachers. There are, in fact, two simple principles regarding teachers which society holds to be true. They are as follows;

1. Teachers are stupid.

2. Teachers are lazy.

I’ll be expanding on these ideas in the future, but in the meantime, I’d just like you to think about them. Have you heard people talk like this before? Why do you think this happens? Are these stereotypes justified?

Perhaps you could try to explain it to me.

But then again, maybe I’m just too stupid and lazy to understand.