Our Parallel Universe: Hospital II

As I write, it is day four of Jack and my hospital stay for the surgery on his eardrum. I know this because I have chiseled four slashes into the wall. Well, it’s not THAT bad but it does have a feeling of being in exile. Even though we have a private room, there is still no shower or internet. I can’t decide which is worse. Fortunately, my iPhone is keeping me somewhat connected. Gary was able to be here for the surgery but duty called in London. Nora is staying with good friends so Jack and I have built our own cocoon here.

Yesterday, my friend Megan cheerily texted me from her holiday in Cyprus only to find me desperate on the other end. “I really want a shower.” I had already asked our wonderful babysitter Olga to come but she was without a car. My friend Feri had also kindly offered to help but was having trouble juggling this in the middle of caring for her own children. That’s ok because, in a jiffy, Megan had her favorite babysitter on the way to us. When she arrived, I tried not to sprint out the door. Then, a couple hours later, I came back to the hospital a new woman. Thank you, Megan!

Our days in the hospital have developed a certain rhythm: Jack’s breakfast is delivered at 7:00am. Breakfast here is not worth waking up for so we say “danke” and roll over for more sleep. Sometime after 8:00, a nurse bursts through the door telling us the surgeon needs to see us NOW in the next building. It would be awfully nice if they could give us some warning, like an appointment. I haul Jack out of bed and help us both into our clothes. The nurse returns 2 minutes later to tell us “schnelle!” (hurry up!). Jack and I then argue about how many toys he can bring with him. Then we stumble out the door and onward to the surgeon.

Afterward, we go to the hospital café where I get tea and Jack gets an eyeful of graphic sex on the German television. (I thought those shows were just for evening hours??) Then we go for a frog hunt. We have one particular frog in mind: he is the one that lives in the courtyard our windows face, who croaks ALL NIGHT LONG. There is no air-conditioning so we must keep the windows open because summer has finally arrived. After many nighttime hours listening to him, this is the only way I can describe his croak: He sounds like a goat, imitating a bullfrog, but with a chicken accent, and using a megaphone. I hate this frog. And, with typical German fondness for all things natural, the hospital has a special swamp habitat for him in the center of the courtyard. All nicely fenced in with many tall reeds where he can hide. Jack and I have not found him yet. But we bring Jack’s new bow and arrow set with us every time, just in case.

After our frog hunt we usually return to the room to rest a bit. Today was no different–Jack was watching a movie and I was reading—until I saw a face peer into the window that is on our door. Not just any face, a clown. A German clown. And, he had a buddy. Pretending I didn’t see them only worked for another minute as they periodically pressed their scary faces on the window. So, I gave up the pretense and invited them in and, actually, they were funny. It was nice of them to come. Let’s give clowns a chance, people! By the way, I saw them later, sitting in the hospital café, still in full costume. They were drinking espresso and having a serious conversation. Somehow, that was even more amusing.

After 2 meals in a row of Jack being served 2 slices of bread, cheese, and a radish, we’ve been spent most of our mealtimes foraging through the hospital café. Success has been limited so I think we’ve been slowly starving to death. So, for today’s lunch, I decided to follow our noses and find the employee cafeteria. I hadn’t bothered with it before because that’s where all of Jack’s sumptuous meals had come from. But, hunger and the smells of potentially good food overcame us as we entered–surprise!–Nirvana with a salad bar. Jack chose a big piece of chicken with fries and I piled up a salad. We were so happy. When the cashier rang up our total she nodded toward what looked like a place where I should scan a card. I pulled out a wad of cash, hoping I could throw money at the problem, but she shook her head and sighed. As I put my tray aside to go hunt for a card to buy in the main lobby, the cashier told me to stop and called her manager over. We used her card and I paid her in cash. God bless her. This situation seems symbolic to my life in Germany so far: When I can’t get by on smarts, pity (theirs) and humility (mine) save the day. P.S. Jack is doing well!

Love and Kisses

My friend Ilka, who is German, asked me recently if there was another way in English to say “you’re welcome” after someone says thank you.  ”It just sounds strange to me,” she said. And, I agreed the German all-purpose “Bitte” is nicer in most situations.  So, I thought about it for a moment, and came up with these substitutes: Sure, Anytime, My pleasure, etc.  

But then Ilka said, “And what about I love you? Americans use that in such a casual way.” For example, she said “I would never tell a friend that I love her. That would just be bizarre.”  I mentioned that I have a handful of girlfriends that I love and sometimes we tell each other that very thing.  ”You know,” I said, “it’s not looooooove, smoochy smoochy, blech. It’s just a strong friendship love.” Ilka sent a resigned gaze at me and countered: “My parents and I don’t even tell each other I love you.” Then it was my turn for disbelief. “Really?! Is that normal in Germany?”  ”Yes, it is.  In families, we all know we love each other.  We don’t have to say it,” Ilka responded.  

So, yes, I agree “love” is not a casual concept to throw around but just as I started thinking no Germans ever say I love you, Ilka mentioned a couple important things:  ”The love that is spoken about is only romantic love and there are many types.” She then went on to tell me there’s an expression for each level of love from the initial stages of puppy love (Ich habe dich gerne) , to commitment (Ich liebe dich), and on down the line.

Now, onto the kisses.  Everyone knows that in Europe the double-kiss-on-the cheeks greeting can be common among friends but it’s usually female to female, or female to male. With my friend Gabi, it is three cheek kisses because she is Swiss. In America, the most affectionate of friends will give each other a hug and maybe a kiss on one cheek.  Other Americans guard their personal space and prefer a wave, nod, handshake, fistbump, etc. And, of course, If any Americans ever attempt the double kiss while on American soil, they are labeled as pretentious Eurotrash.

I figure, when in Rome, do as the Romans, so I am fine with the double kiss greeting, particularly with good friends that I don’t see regularly. But among my closest group of American friends we’ve come to an informal agreement.  It all started when our friend Renee asked “Do we all have to practically make out every time we see each other?” That is vintage Renee (I love her–ha ha).  So, no, we don’t.  Although some of us are still more huggy-kissy than others.  

There is one more greeting that I see here that always fascinates me.  Every morning when I bring Jack to the kindergarten, we are usually sprinting from the car to the building at 8:54 and 43 seconds.  The doors to the kindergarten lock precisely at 8:55 and I’ve already had the pleasure of being locked out and literally begging for the door to be unlocked.  (A city manager happened to be there and just shook his head at me and walked away. Don’t worry, I eventually got in after ringing the bell 4 more times and going through the charade again and again.) Anyway, I’ve mentioned before there are several Korean families at the kindergarten. They all wear Western style clothing (and my friend Eum Zee is seriously chic). When they see each other in the morning, they stop in their tracks and bow at the waist. Even though it’s not in American DNA to bow to anyone, it is a serene snapshot to keep in my head while the rest of us dash by each other calling “Morgen.” 

 

 

Be Prepared

A common trait among Germans is to be prepared for all situations. Sure, most Americans like to be prepared as well, but Germans take it to a whole new level. I’ve never heard a German say “Let’s wing it” in any situation.  Having to act without forethought is considered unwise and our natural inclination to take a leap is met with hesitation or outright refusal from a German. Of course, from person to person, this can vary.  I have many German friends that have a more relaxed approach. But, I have also run across many who cannot veer from the predetermined course and get quite nervous, upset or even angry. Das Geht nicht! (It does not work!) is the battle cry for those who refuse to bend.

It’s not all bad to have solid principles and rules to keep the world moving nicely. It can just get comical or frustrating at times, especially when this same society does not queue!!! I just returned from the grocery store which is the sorest point for me and many Americans–it’s every man for himself.  I have to put my game face on there or I will be crushed by some old lady. So, today at the grocery, I noticed a bright red First Aid Kit and I thought of the dwindling collection of band aids and ointment that I keep in my handbag.  So, with a nod to German preparedness, I purchased it to keep in my car for life’s little emergencies.  Unfortunately, the German idea of preparedness is different from what I had in mind.  I opened up the package to find a reflecting orange vest, 17 (really) types of bandages, and…….forceps.  No antibiotic ointment, no burn cream, no ibuprofin, no antiseptic solution, etc.  The good news is that we now have enough gauze if Nora or Jack wants to be a mummy for Halloween. And, perhaps with the forceps, I could start an amateur surgery in my car, while I wear the orange vest, of course. Don’t worry, I have watched “ER” and “Scrubs” many times so I know just what it takes to act like a surgeon.

 

Hello Hospital

The last couple weeks, Jack and I have spent a fair amount of time in and out of a large hospital in the area. Not a crisis, but chronic ear infections have led to the need for an adenoidectomy and, later, in a couple months, a tympanoplasty to patch a hole in one eardrum. I mention this only because it has given me time to observe the workings of a German hospital. This one is not plush, like many of the U.S. hospitals have gotten to be. Maybe there are plush ones in Germany but this one is old, the TV in the room didn’t work, and the hallways upstairs were empty, with unmarked doors, giving the feeling of a Stephen King novel.

Why would I choose such a place for Jack? Because his doctor is the Chief ENT surgeon and is located there. And, the care we received from all the doctors, nurses, and other staff was as kind, helpful, and professional as you would want your child to have. It is considered a routine surgery but nothing is routine to me or Gary seeing Jack carried away in the arms of a doctor to the surgery theater. His arms and legs dangled loosely because of the preliminary anesthesia. Recovery isn’t easy either. As I rubbed Jack’s back, listening to his moans, and speaking softly to wake him, I watched other mothers (only one parent was allowed) periodically enter after their children were wheeled in from surgery. While most of these mothers walked briskly into the room, anxious to see their children, one mother of an infant ran in.

I hope they all have happy endings, as Jack did. After 4 rough hours, he was ready to have something to eat and drink. So, I ventured to the downstairs cafe and discovered one major difference between a European hospital and an American one: they sell beer and cigarettes. It shouldn’t have surprised me at this point but it did. Come to think of it, being in Europe, this hospital probably also has a disco, casino, AND Cathedral inside. I’ll have to do a little more exploring when Jack and I return.

From Cisterns to the Commissary

For the last few weeks, words like “Bosphorous, Hagia Sophia, and Suleiman” have floated through my head. It’s because I’m looking forward to a trip to Istanbul this weekend with girlfriends. There are many Turkish immigrants here so Turkey may not seem so exotic to Germans. But, to me, Turkey’s ancient history and their balance between East and West has always been intriguing.

My friends and I are able to do this because our husbands are willing to survive a weekend on their own with the children. I try not to look at it as payback but they all have had many solo ventures of their own to far flung places like Singapore, Hong Kong, Seoul, Buenos Aires, Mumbai, Johannesburg, Hanoi, and on and on. I know, it’s for work, not leisure. (Gary’s done this for the last 10 years–it’s hard on him and not easy for those of us back home.) But these places still beckon me. Right now, however, I am very happy with Istanbul.

I am nearly just as excited for another journey I’m taking: to the commissary on the U.S. military base in Weisbaden. A friend of mine here who is connected to U.S. Consulate in Frankfurt has access and is taking me along next week. Just how exciting is this? Well, ever since Nora heard about it, she’s been leaving me notes all over the house listing American items that she misses: Goldfish, Pirate Booty, Nutrigrain bars, etc. My list could only be exciting to a person who wants to cook and bake with American recipes: chicken broth, rolled oats, Nestle chocolate chips, Domino brown sugar, etc.

It was surprising, no actually shocking to me that you can’t just go to a grocery store here and buy a quart of chicken broth. I can only suspect the worst possible reason for this: Germans make it from scratch at home. Who has time for that?? When my Father and Stepmother, Mary, visited a few months ago, Mary learned that finding a quart of chicken broth here was like finding a lost treasure. She then did the most unexpected and wonderful thing: she spent half a day making chicken broth, placing it in individual packets and put them in the extra freezer in the basement. How is that for a blue-ribbon houseguest?! Just thinking about it now reminds me of all the other ways our family and friends help us when they visit or when we go back. The list is so, so long. Thank you.

No English Spoken Here

I’ve gotten by these 2.5 years with a basic sense of the language here but since our stay in Germany has been extended to at least 5 years, it’s time I learn more German. My friend Maria decided the timing is good for her too so we’ve enrolled in a group course. Studying a foreign language in the home country of that language is different than doing it in the U.S. There is no English spoken to supplement understanding the material because everyone in the class is from all over the world. So, all is in German.

My resolve to study every night is not happening yet but I like to think (maybe dream) I could get to the stage my friend Kristin has. While we were on a road trip a few months ago, I witnessed a difficult but necessary phone conversation she had with a German consultant. Their disagreement stretched at least 10 minutes and she not only held her own, she won the argument, with great poise. Bravo, Kristin!!

Obsession or Necessity?

When I moved here two years ago, I remember a new friend telling me something along the lines of “Just wait, you won’t believe how many different coats you end up with.” I believed the perceived necessity but didn’t think I would really need to amass anything more than 2 or 3 coats and jackets while I was here.

Well, now it’s official, my coat collection is stretching the limits of our closets. And, the thing is, I use every single one of them, all 14 of them. There, I said it. And, that doesn’t even count the exponential number of sweaters for all 4 seasons. Oh, and the boots–wow, another collection. And, get ready, all of this still doesn’t seem like enough.

Part of the reason is I moved here from a climate that had 2 seasons: hot and not-so-hot. The only collection you needed was flip-flops for every occasion–designer, playground, exercise, beach, pool, etc. Once a year, there would be a little snow and the whole place would collapse in utter helplessness.

Now I live in a climate that can celebrate all 4 seasons in one day, in 10 minute increments. But, just to add some monotony to the process, it has the potential to rain 12 days straight. So, if you decide to put off that excursion until nice weather, you may wait a very long time. That’s why you just put on the right coat, sweater, and boots and get to it. Pretty soon, you’ll be sitting in a hail storm sipping tea on a friend’s patio and having a lovely morning.

Here for the Party and So Much More

The new year came loudly and I’m still finding remnants in our garden and inside the house from the fireworks. Yes, I said inside. Our friend Helge introduced us to the concept of indoor fireworks that pop and give off a lot of smoke. The kids loved that. Then, there’s also the German New Year’s tradition of melting small pieces of lead in a spoon and the shape it forms predicts your future for the next year. Could the prediction just be….lead poisoning?? I love the New Year’s traditions here but I try to avoid that one.

After all the festivities were over and the kids were back in school, life interrupted with an injury. A visiting parent of a good friend of mine ended up in surgery just a couple days before the planned departure back home. Those of us who have lived here for a while recognize that even our most traveled family and friends become a little more needy when they visit, than what they are in normal life. So, we knew our highly capable friend was still going to need a hand while she was busy being the health advocate for her parents.

My inclination was to set up dinners for the next couple weeks and everyone asked responded with all the usual enthusiasm and then some. I’m hardly a hero–if I hadn’t done it someone else would have. It’s just one of the ways we know as Americans to take care of each other whether here or back at home.

I remember exactly 2 years ago, the stomach flu took over my body one day, in the middle of a blizzard and Gary was away on business. The children were 3 and 6 and quickly becoming feral while I alternated between vomiting and trying to lay as still as possible. I finally got a shot of energy to dial mayday to a friend. The end result was Angela, a friendly acquaintance at that point, who walked through the blizzard nearly a mile to collect my kids, pulling them on sleds to her house to let me suffer alone. It was heaven. My dear friend Michele in Raleigh also rescued me in similar circumstances, minus the blizzard. I will never forget their kindness!

I thought this was common practice everywhere until I spoke with a German friend about it. She had also been recently asked to help another American friend in the same way. She read all the email exchanges to get things sorted and was left stunned. She took a seat at home so that she could think about it for a moment and was overwhelmed. She remembered a while back being ill and alone and still having to take care of her young child.

I asked her why this mutual care isn’t as embedded in Germany as it is in some other cultures. (I know America is not the only place where this is done.) She said part of it may be that their state social welfare system is complex. But, the other reason may be that Germans are very private. People like me who have a blog might be considered too open or even reckless with personal information. I understand the concept of Too Much Information and I truly hope I don’t violate it! But, I do not like the alternative of not sharing joys or suffering alone.

This same German friend had remarked to me some months earlier how much she reveled in just having fun with the group, whether it was a playdate or a girl’s night out. The primary objective is always to laugh and she found that very special and not common enough among her German counterparts. Now she knows the whole story. For us, it’s not just for the laughs. We are here for the good times and for the tough ones too.

These Things Can Only Happen Here

When I went to the gym today, it occurred to me that I’ve had a few extra things to smile about lately because of Germany. It all started with a “Don’t Hassle the Hoff” t-shirt I spotted on another woman who was working out. Although he still has some devoted fans here, most Germans roll their eyes if asked about their country’s brief fling with David Hasselhoff around the time the Berlin Wall came down. Now I don’t want to pile on the mean remarks about him because he actually seems to be a good sport about his public persona. And, I’m not going to run out and buy the t-shirt but, Hoff, here’s a salute to your enduring fame, prost! http://www.davidhasselhoff.com/photo/89-1?context=latest

My thoughts then wandered to a something that had to be seen to be believed. When I picked up Jack from his Kindergarten the other day I saw two boys in one of the playrooms, busily working with a saw, and sledge hammer with nails. No, not toys, the real thing all scaled down to child-size. Mind you, German Kindergarten is from age 3-6. These 3 and 4 year old boys looked like Santa’s busiest elves as they sawed wood and pounded nails into it. No adult was nervously hovering over their work or offering advice. In fact, the teacher was on the other side of the room, working on a craft project. To Germans, this is nothing unusual but in America this is unbelievable that dangerous tools would be in a classroom. Rather than being alarmed by it, I actually think it’s great they let kids do interesting things and parents aren’t threatening lawsuits. It was also nice to see that all their little fingers weren’t sawed off.

Speaking of the Kindergarten, it’s old news that Jack is fluent in German. He corrects my German often. But, he is also speaking quite a bit of Korean and, now also Italian. This is because two of his best friends arrived from their home countries without a word of German in their heads, much like Jack when he started Kindergarten. So, he takes it upon himself to show the new kids the ropes. In return, my little Renaissance man is learning their languages and shouting things like “molto bene” from the bathtub. It’s hard to keep up with him though and I’m pretty sure the lessons begin with “let’s play” and move along to identifying all the terms for the butt.

And that is a perfect segue to a current issue I have at the Kindergarten. One morning at drop-off, I felt a smack on my rear end. I turned to see the culprit who is one of Jack’s buddies. We all got a good laugh at it. Then another morning, I felt it again. I turned around and it was the same little imp laughing and pointing at me. Amusing. But, since then, he’s done it at least a dozen more times. Now I just want revenge. But, it’s actually quite difficult to think of creative yet harmless payback to a 5-year-old. If you think of something, let me know.

Food has been another delight, living here in Germany. No, I’m not a big fan of schnitzel and spätzle. It’s other specialties from the Expat community that now seem commonplace, such as, every school party has homemade sushi. It all looks very professional and tastes amazing. I also look forward to things like homemade anzac cookies from the Australians. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for one of my favorite foods, peanut butter. Several of Nora’s friends from other countries have asked to try it at our house. The taste-testing usually goes like this: excitement, take a bite, surprise, revulsion, then I pass a napkin over and they spit it out.

7 Fishes and a Silvester

During the Christmas break from school, most Expat families go home, go skiing, or someplace warm. But, this year is different for us in that we are staying in Germany for the holidays. 6 of my friends have also decided to stay here so our parties are planned for Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve.

Our friend Maria is hosting the crew Christmas Eve with a Feast of the Seven Fishes dinner, something I’ve never heard of but is traditional in her home. Maria comes from the part of America where the fictional Sopranos lived. Just ask her to say “coffee” and “tournament” and you will adore her. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Feast_of_the_Seven_Fishes

I volunteered to host New Year’s Eve and am wondering if we should just roll up the carpets and paint Delta Tau Chi on the outside. http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0077975/ There will be 18 adults (including some grandparents) and 12 children and lots of fireworks. New Year’s Eve, known as “Silvester” in Germany, is a huge celebration here. http://www.thelocal.de/society/20101231-16425.html It is the only day of the year where fireworks are allowed, technically only from midnight to 1:00am. But, when we were here two years ago, the fireworks continued until past 2:00am. Our friend Charlene’s house provided a great view of the enormous glow stretching across Frankfurt.

Another memorable moment from that New Year’s included the craziest Jack Russell Terrior I’ve ever seen. He lives across the street from Charlene and around the corner from us. We started shooting off fireworks in the street around 9 pm, thinking the children would all fall asleep before midnight. Naturally, they all stayed up the whole night. Anyway, out comes an angry lady and her Jack Russell. She pointed out we were breaking the rules by shooting off fireworks before midnight. We did our best to politely ignore her but she and her dog wouldn’t hear of it. The dog started attacking the fireworks as soon as they were lit. Then, when he chomped down and ran away with one of those loud, glowing, spinning ones, the lady shrieked but somehow the Jack Russell survived the explosion intact. And now he has moved on to bigger things. Last Spring, he killed a baby deer in another neighbors garden. I love dogs but this one just might have an M80 with his name on it. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M-80_(explosive)

Keeping the Magic

As I type, there is a shoe laid out for each one of us near the fireplace, awaiting tonight’s arrival of Sankt Nikolaus, according to Jack, and Sinter Klaus, according to Nora. There are also cookies, apple slices, and a shotglass full of milk (Nora’s touch.) And, there is one more thing….an elaborately gift-wrapped cactus. It has been Nora’s cactus and he is named Freddy. Nora’s note to Sinter Klaus comes complete with cactus care instructions and a plea at the end to “please keep Freddy!”

And, so it goes, yet another challenge this year to keep the spirit of Christmas alive with an ever-inquisitive, maturing 8 year old. I still haven’t decided what I’m going to do about this cactus. I have visions of running down the street at midnight tonight, chucking it into a neighbor’s garbage bin, and likely setting off someone’s alarm system. I HAVE actually set off a neighbor’s alarm here before, while they were on holiday no less. Maybe I’ll tell that story some other time.

We are staying in Germany for Christmas this year which is far easier to handle than going back to America, which we did last year. I have presents hidden all over this house, camouflaged to fool little detectives. Letters to Santa are written and posted. Nora has high hopes for an American Girl doll and Jack wants a Harry Potter wand “that really works.” He already has a Harry Potter wand which he sleeps with along with a Nerf gun, and 3 swords. And, his bunny, of course.

Nora is right at that age where the magic could disappear in an instant and I want to delay that as long as possible. She is suspicious because the tooth fairy forgot one time. And, she notices that Santa’s gifts all come with brand names like The Gap, Apple, and Disney. “Does Santa just go around stealing this stuff from stores?” she recently asked me. So then I launched into an impromptu explanation about how Santa and the elves have an extensive network of toy-making partners and now that Steve Jobs is dead he’ll ride around with Santa in his sleigh. Is that so wrong?

Anyway, that is a much better image of Santa than I got the other day while at the shopping mall, Main Taunus Zentrum. I was hurrying from the parking garage, trying to squeeze in 3 errands in 30 minutes, when I saw him, Methadone Santa. His frame was gaunt, no jolly belly under the red and white suit. A long grey ponytail hung out from under his white wig. He hung close to the wall, taking slow, ambling steps, stopping on occasion. I slowed down and tried to make eye contact but he looked away quickly. He was clutching something in his arms and I looked closer–and what before my wondering eyes should appear? A brochure for large kitchen knives. Naturally. Then he scurried away to who knows where and I remain forever haunted.

Keeping the Magic (Part Deux)

Every morning for the last several, I’ve listened for the rain before I opened my eyes. The sound is still there, day after day. Someone, somewhere in Germany must be building an Ark.

But this past weekend, I was determined to make it festive no matter what the weather. Gary was in the midst of an India-Singapore business trip but I had the weekend nicely packed with activities: Our village Christmas market one day and a backwoods Christmas tree-cutting party the next. I love Christmas here in Germany and couldn’t wait to get started.

On Saturday, we mucked our way down into the village and made our way along the rather lonely wooden vendor booths. The rain was relentless but Jack still wanted to ride on the carousel. He was the only one on there and Nora and I had to stand a few feet away so we weren’t splashed by the turning wheel on top. Somehow we made a couple hours of it at the market and slopped our way home.

That night I attended a beautiful good-bye dinner for my friend Donna and her husband Wes who are returning to Australia. It was a great evening but since I will miss my friend dearly and the rain still didn’t cease, a little melancholy set in by the time I went to bed.

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of rain but I was set on making it a good day. A recruiting company that Gary uses here in Frankfurt was hosting a Christmas party in the woods. Now that may sound awful but, from experience, I know that if Germans are going to host a party in the woods, it’s going to be good.

We were going to be in a higher altitude so I packed all the cold and wet weather gear I could find and the three of us took off. And, I drove and drove, higher and higher until we reached a tiny, ancient half-timber village. I parked the car and someone pointed us in the right direction. So, we walked and walked up the mountain (old mountains like Virginia and West Virginia) and it rained and rained. Then it started raining sideways and I had to move the umbrella to brace against it. In my head I was chanting, why oh why do I do these things? I hate breaking a commitment and I know that Germans take it even more to heart. So we trudged on, at least 2 kilometers. Then, finally, an oasis. Someone was belting out “Tequila Sunrise” from a karaoke machine and we entered a paradise in the forest.

An Old World Santa strolled the grounds with a sack full of goodies in one hand and a rute in the other. The rute is a small branch from a tree or bush and is used on the naughty ones. This is Germany, after all. Fortunately, this Santa was all good cheer. Unfortunately it was expected that we were all supposed to saw down our own Christmas tree. But the Polish gentlemen bundling the trees took pity on me and sawed ours down. After bratwursts, gluewein (for me), and lots of cookies, we roasted bread over an open fire. It was basically a croissant on a stick and really good. And, the Karaoke rolled on.

As we started walking down the road back to the car, a fog rolled in and it started getting dark. No one else was around and, by the way, it was still raining. A few minutes into our trek, the world’s oldest VW Golf pulled up beside us. It was the Polish guys who helped with our tree (which was waiting at the bottom of the hill/mountain). We piled in the car and shortly later picked up another guest making his way down. Then we got really lost, taking a wrong turn or two. I hope they don’t regret picking us up!!

When we finally reached our cars, the other hitchhiker helped me stuff our tree into the car. In his seat, Jack was overcome by the tree but I put a blanket on him and plied him with some chocolate. On the drive home, Nora declared this “the best weekend ever” and I nearly drove off the road in shock. I’m glad to have made the effort and, finally today, it stopped raining and started snowing. Then the sun came out.

Life and Loss

When special American holidays roll up on the calendar, it always feels strange being here. Even when it’s Independence Day, Thanksgiving or, Memorial Day in America, it’s just another day here in Germany. Today feels especially strange. September 11 is a day of mourning and remembrance. On this day, every American thinks about where they were and what they were doing at that moment they learned the world might just be falling apart.

For me, I didn’t suffer any direct losses of family or friends. On a professional basis, I did know someone who was on the plane that slammed into the Pentagon. I had spent time on Capitol Hill working with Barbara Olson when Congress was investigating another tragic loss of innocent lives, this one in Waco, Texas. Whether you agreed with her or not, Barbara was smart, hard-working and had a lot of guts, such a rare combination in politics. Her death was not only a horrendous loss for her husband and family, it mattered to people like me too. (sorry hyperlinks not working. To learn more about Barbara Olson cut and paste this into your browser: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barbara_Olson)

But another loss started that day and I’ve never felt comfortable sharing it, daring to compare my loss with the epic loss of others. But, by doing that I’ve missed the opportunity to talk about a good friend. So, on September 11, 2001, I was in Albuquerque, New Mexico with Gary. We had just left California and were moving to North Carolina. On the way, we detoured to Albuquerque, where we had once lived. It was just an opportunity to visit with old friends and load up on green chile.

At the top of my friends-to-see list was Charlie Young. Some years before, When I had moved to New Mexico, I had a rough start at my new job. In any state, people in politics are predisposed to dislike/distrust outsiders, and in New Mexico that was definitely the case. I don’t know which was worse, the fact that I came from Washington, DC or that I was a Republican. Either way, I was a bit of a target.

One person in particular saw my arrival as an absolute threat to her livelihood and I needed to be destroyed. I soon learned tales of my arrogance, incompetence and other rotten things that were circulating in the political world. The legislative session hadn’t even started but I was already cobbled into a caricature that I did not recognize. I’d never been smeared before and, even when you know things aren’t true, it still smarts when people you’ve never met before don’t like you.

The session was coming and I was feeling a bit paranoid for myself and for the organization I represented. I had to do something. I called the best contract lobbyist I knew of and explained the situation. He thought I was paranoid. Then he called me a week later and said: “You’re right. What you’ve heard is really happening but don’t worry, my friends and I will have your back.” I felt a little bit better about things after that and looked forward to the session so I could start defining myself among the people who wanted to see me fail.

In the meantime, I developed a few strategies and one of them was to get to know Charlie Young, a veteran of the lobbying world. He was one of those curious characters that you hear about and don’t know which stories to believe: he was a draft-dodger during Vietnam, he had a vicious wit and, he was cut-throat operator. He turned out to be all of those things and none of those things. Most of all, he became a mentor and a dear friend. And, he made me laugh. A lot.

Fast forward to September 11, the date Charlie and I had already scheduled to have lunch. When Gary and I woke that morning, the first tower had just been struck. Then minutes later we saw the live strike of the second tower. Like many others in the world, we spent the next few hours mesmerized and horrified by the unfolding events. My mobile rang and it was Charlie. Him: “Can you believe this?” Me: “No.” Him: “Should we still meet?” I knew what he was thinking. At a time like this, it seemed so selfish and superficial to meet a friend for lunch. Then again, I thought, life is fleeting. I wanted to see my friend. Me: “Yes, let’s still meet.”

So Gary and I met Charlie at a restaurant filled with quiet patrons, eyes glued to the television that had been pulled in from the bar. Charlie hobbled in on crutches. A couple weeks earlier, he had suffered a seizure while mountain biking. He’d never had a seizure before. Always athletic, it was a real shock to Charlie and his family. But, fortunately he took it seriously and told me in detail all the medications and other things he was doing to recover. His wife Lucy was a doctor and Charlie was a highly informed patient.

It had been a couple years since we’d seen each other so there was a lot of gossip to catch up on. Despite the gravity of the day, I threw my head back in a laugh at one of the latest legislative exploits. Then I looked around, embarrassed. To an outsider, it must have looked terrible to laugh on a day like this. But, that was Charlie, always able to turn things around no matter what was going on. We talked a few more times on the phone but that was the last time I saw him on that trip.

Two years later, I was back in Albuquerque for a wedding. Nora was a few months old, and I flew in with her and Gary would be come a few days after that. One evening, I went to dinner at Charlie and Lucy’s home, high up in the desert. He was full of excitement because his daughter was running in her first campaign for public office. Funny enough, he was a mostly a Democrat but his daughter was a Republican. It didn’t matter to Charlie. He was so proud.

But the mood changed over dinner. Charlie was highly agitated about the impending American invasion/liberation of Iraq. He was angry that Bush and Congress were giving it the go-ahead. I got a sense of how he felt about Vietnam, even though I thought he was wrong on both counts. And, for the first time ever, Charlie was upset with me. I supported Bush’s decision and Charlie looked at me uncomprehendingly. I was sorry to upset him but I wasn’t going to change my principles either. The ripple effect of September 11 never seemed to end. Fortunately, we rebounded to enjoy the rest of the evening. All was good.

One thing he mentioned before I left was that he was looking forward to a cycling tour in Colorado. I thought of his seizure but didn’t want to bring it up. Then, a month or so later, I got a message. Charlie was dead. On the cycling tour, he had bike trouble one day and needed to get it to a repair shop. He separated from his group and went into town. A car rounding a corner didn’t see him and Charlie ended up on the windshield, a fatal blow. Life is fleeting.

Again, my September 11 remembrance is nothing compared to the fear, desperation, horror, and tragedy suffered by so many. I mourn those losses and I also think of Charlie. (more about Charlie: http://www.abqjournal.com/venue/personalities/284022person01-07-05.htm)

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

My friend Renee and I are beginning to savor this upcoming moment in life: It’s almost Back to School time for the kiddos! We’ve even changed our ring tones to this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V9HAVapUNyo

It feels a bit like Christmas because we are getting the gift of time. As I write this, I have locked myself in my office and given myself the treat of Olga, our friend and babysitter, who I’ve appointed tonight’s chief of dinner and bath-time. Even so, I’m still getting knocks on the door ranging from the polite (Jack, age 4) to the demanding (Nora, age 8). Then, Me: “Is this an emergency?” Them: “No, but…” It’s at that point they are cut off and redirected to Olga. I hear faint screams in the distance now but I will not come out unless I have to.

It’s actually been a good summer despite the extreme measures I’m taking at the moment. We are among the Expats who have sold their houses in their home countries and live in Germany year-round. I say this because there are some Expats who kept their houses and return to that life every summer. Most of the latter group is trickling back now but a few others are waiting until the last moment before school starts. (That’s you, Allison!)

As we did last summer, the children and I (and Gary between work intervals) spent a few weeks traveling back in America. This summer tour included Raleigh, Chicago, South Bend (IN), and as always, the beautiful dunes of Lake Michigan (Holland, MI). At the Lake, there’s a strip of 5 cottages that houses everyone from my immediate family to the extended family including aunts, uncles, and first and second cousins. At our place, the routine goes something like this: Wake up when you feel like it; step over more sleeping bodies; pass the dining room which is dubbed the Conference Room because, in the morning, there are often up to 4 or 5 people typing furiously on their laptops; drift into the kitchen in search of coffee (tea for me) and food; discover gigantic mess left from after-hours kitchen raid made by elder nephews and nieces; choose to start cleaning the mess or ignore it; then walk, bike, or go to the grocery store; have lunch; go to the beach to dig in the sand, ride the jet ski, body surf, play paddle tennis, frisbee, and/or read. wander back up to the cottage for showers and cocktails for the grown-ups; prepare and eat dinner; watch the sunset; after that, the options include: patio discussion, Euchre, TV for those who need a break, and a bonfire. In between, regular visits from every other relative in the other 4 cottages as well as other drop-ins. It goes like that for two weeks and it’s great. In fact, I can still hear how one of the doors to the patio slams shut.

This summer in Germany started with great promise in the Spring. Then, Summer chose to skip Germany and just go to Italy and other warm places for the rest of the season. It’s been chilly and rainy but, by force of will, I’ve tried to make it summer here. Today started with apple picking at my friend Feri’s house and by mid-day we were making apple crumble; We’ve braved hypothermia in just about every swimming pool in the Taunus; lots of bike riding and also cookouts with friends; and there was even an afternoon of making clothes by threading together leaves from our garden.

It is fun but there are also days where I feel like a cross between Mary Poppins and a referee: “I’m bored….so and so hit me….” It’s those days I hear myself saying things like: “Well, if you’re bored I have plenty of weeds in the garden you can pull.” Or, the other chestnut “Nobody touch each other for the next 5 minutes!!” These are the moments where I’m tempted to refer to them as Thing One and Thing Two http://www.seussville.com/games/lb_catch_a_thing.html
P.S. I love you, Nora and Jack, Jack and Nora.

Our return from America always brings a very fun part: bringing the goods for friends. My friend Megan has brought a cache of goods for the owner of her favorite nail salon. The owner used to live in America and has trouble finding all she needs here to supply her shop. My friend Nadja’s son now has a couple items from Abercrombie and Fitch that fill out his ensemble of cool. In fact, his father tells me, they wish he would take those things off to give them a wash. The same goes for one of my Australian friends who I’ve gotten hooked on my favorite lip balm and a few other items. It’s not like we’ve moved to Saturn, there are plenty of good quality things to buy here in Germany. The thing is, America has a variety that is hard to replicate. The longer I am gone, the more I feel like Eddie Murphy’s character in “Coming to America.” http://www.imdb.com/media/rm2807208192/tt0094898
So many choices, such variety. I will find myself standing in ordinary but nice places like The Gap, Target, and Whole Foods loading up on items I can’t get here and examining all the new things I didn’t know existed yet.

That is the trade-off my German friend Eva and I discussed today. She has visited America once and was on the West Coast. She loved it and appreciated the vast, beautiful space that is ours, there. I miss that part and other things. But I enjoy what we have now: living in a smaller world with friends from all over that world; and, easier opportunity to travel to multiple countries and cultures.

It’s All the Little Things

Adopting the German style of birthday celebrations, a few friends lately have hosted their own birthday parties in their homes or at restaurants.  So, instead of relying on friends and loved ones to throw you a bash or get-together, you just do it yourself which I think is actually very sporting.  However, I still do like the idea of having parties for others—why make the birthday girl work so hard on her day? Well, each way has it’s own merits and, by the way, in a German office, a person would be considered strange and anti-social if they didn’t bring their own birthday cake.

But the reason I mention this is one of the recent birthday girls, Kathy, asked all of us invitees to bring a written memory with us instead of a gift.  Kathy is moving back to her home country in a few months and wants to collect favorite memories of life in Germany.  A couple friends said to me something along the lines of “Ellen, you like to write, this should be an easy one for you….”  But really I was a little stumped to come up with something spectacular.  Everything I thought of was good, but small on it’s own.  There are so many little things that, together, create a pattern of something significant.

“Friends” is an easy answer for some favorite memories.  Where else can you sit at a table for coffee with friends and realize that every continent in the world is represented?  But, more importantly, the friendships aren’t based on “wow, you’re from x” – these are all just real friends, with whom you laugh, learn, explore, and come help at the last minute when I realized I actually had 17 children coming to my house for Nora’s birthday party.

Ttraveling, yes, that’s another easy answer. But, I won’t bore you with the travelogue…… instead, I will speak of the little things…….

Completing a transaction in German without having to think about it;

Noticing when the sun comes out in the winter and discussing it all day with friends and strangers. “Hey, I got to wear my sunglasses for an hour today!”

Hearing Jack boast in German to his Kindergarten friends. It’s all the same in German too…”My house is the biggest, my daddy is the biggest….”

Causing a German to laugh really hard and it’s not because of Schadenfreude…It’s always a small pleasure to give a smile to the most dour German, notice their look of surprise, and then see their own smile in return.  But one of my favorites was when I had to return a bathrobe because it had shrunk in the dryer in extreme fashion, even though I followed the care instructions.  When I showcased the now tiny garment and declared it “nur für Barbie,” the sales clerk nearly collapsed laughing.  I didn’t think it was that hilarious but I loved sharing a laugh with her;

America’s FCC doesn’t matter in the rest of the world so hearing all the uncensored lyrics on the radio is still startling sometimes but often amusing. “Oh, so THAT’S what he really meant….”

We have two deer that visit and practically live in our garden. The most surprising part about this is we don’t live in a rural area.  We live near the top of a very busy village and are surrounded on all sides by other houses but these deer seem to like it here.  They often come around when Jack and I are having breakfast but they have never dropped in for coffee. And, whether coming or going, I’ve come face to face with them on the stairs, then I say “hi” (they’ve never said “hi” back) and then they bound off in the opposite direction;

Teaching the local Mexican restaurant how to make a taco salad.  They promised to name it after me and it’s divine;

Witnessing Nora’s newfound sense of freedom.  Since, she turned seven last year, I’ve been letting her go out and ride her bike and play on our street on her own to meet friends.  Many Germans let their children roam at earlier ages than that but I don’t think Nora really wanted to until she got more comfortable in our new world.

I love being American but I’m often mistaken for a Spaniard here.  This all makes a little sense because, after the first time my mother went to Spain and visited a Madrid portrait gallery, she mentioned that she saw a lot of noses in those portraits that look like ours.  We all have a bump that is referred to as “distinctive” by our mother and as “the curse” by my siblings. Her family originates from Ireland and I was confused by her meaning but then she continued with hints about the Spanish Armada spending time in Ireland and fraternizing with the locals.  Hmmmmmm……

Enjoying steam/sauna at the gym after a workout or at the multiple other spas around here. If there is one thing America needs more of, it’s places like this;

Hearing Gary’s normal travel agenda for work often sparks my imagination.  It was far-flung when we lived in America, and now it’s even more like the TV show “Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?”

During this current school year, I’ve been teaching a class that includes Nora and the children of several friends of mine.  I’m getting to know these children from a completely new angle. And, I imagine they see me from a new angle as well. Each hour packs in more fun and and a little frustration.  There are nine of them and I also have Jack who prefers to start climbing on me just when I’m in the middle of an important point.  I’m forever grateful to the (good) teachers of the world who do this every day.

There are more memories but this is good for now.

When in Rome

When you go to live in a country where there is a language difference, you automatically expect there will be different customs and there is ripe opportunity for faux-pas like the ridiculous Sauna Incident from many moons ago.  But, if you read a book or two, you’re aware of things such as, in Germany, when you are in a social gathering and people are clinking their glasses, you must take a drink from your glass and, while doing that, hold the gaze of the person you just clinked with. It’s tempting to start wiggling your eyebrows during those few long seconds while you’re drinking and gazing but that would not be a good idea. In a less formal atmosphere, it’s more relaxed but at German business dinners those few seconds can be excruciating.  Trust me, I know!

But, what can be deceiving is to travel to a different country that has the same language as yours.  The inclination is to believe we’re all the same.  And, to a certain-degree, that can hold true.  But, you can really stick your foot in the wrong place too and it’s seems more embarrassing because there is no language difference.  I lived in Ireland for one year of university and soon discovered the Irish are among the most cynical in the world, and are a total contrast to the happy-go-lucky stereotype that many believe in America. Mind you, it was very fun and I made life-long friends there but that was the first time I realized the same mother-tongue doesn’t mean the same people.

Some years later, a large group of those Irish friends had emigrated to San Francisco and we overlapped living there for a couple years.  One couple in the Irish group got engaged and I’ll never forget the look in their eyes when Gary and I showed up at the engagement party with a gift.  It was as if we were handing them a vial of radioactive material (“We thought plutonium would look great in your living room!”) or maybe a rabid squirrel (“He responds to Sammy.”) These normally fun, gracious people couldn’t even whisper a thank you. What was customary among Americans, triggered Irish superstition through the roof–it’s bad luck to give an Irish couple a gift before they are married (even if they are living in San Francisco).  Also, never give a pregnant Irish woman a gift for the baby.  Wait until the baby is born.  At least I never did that one.

The reason why this comes to mind is I’m traveling to London with friends soon and I realize that even though I’ve been to London a few times, I don’t know that much about English life. We all speak the same language and then it can get into treacherous territory if one doesn’t know the rules. Sure, I know things like “pants” in England means underwear.  Say trousers instead. Also, don’t ask for a “ride” in someone’s car.  Tee hee heee….ask for a lift instead. But, aside from some basics, all I know is I like London, except for the breakfasts–horrific. But from Googling around I have learned things like: never cook a pork pie you buy from a shop–it’s already cooked and will be a complete mess if you put it in the oven. Besides that, it seems to be considered a mistake so stupid–something like putting ice cream in the oven. Good to know but I’m not sure if I even want to eat a pork pie.  Also, never kiss the hand of the Queen which Mickey Rooney did a few years back when she visited America. I find that sweet and also hilarious but it was the talk of England apparently. I’m not expecting to meet the Queen but, duly noted!

Guten Tag

The first time I went to a doctor’s office here I noticed a German trait I really like. I went to the waiting room,  sat down as usual and tried to find something to read, which was hopeless at that point because I knew very little German.  Anyway, a moment later, another patient walked in and said “guten tag” and then sat down. And, so did the next patient, and the next.  As the minutes rolled by, everyone greeted each other.  Such a simple act of civility totally impressed me.

In America, I always found it a bit awkward and cold to walk into a room of strangers and no one acknowledges each other.  Sometimes you share a nod and smile or a “hi” with someone but, otherwise, it’s mind your own business.  There may be good reasons why that is commonplace in America….so many people, so little time. Or, frankly, as a woman, you can attract a lot of unwanted attention greeting a stranger.  Like one time in college, when I missed my ride from Ohio State back to Saint Mary’s (this was in the days before everyone had mobile phones), and my only choices were to hitchhike (no way) or take a Greyhound bus back.

I knew the bus trip was going to be bad–6 hours, stopping at every little town along the way.  But, I didn’t know how bad  it would be until, a few stops away, a gang of 15 year old boys climbed aboard.  I learned from their chatter they were on furlough from a reform school and they were ready for action!!  It was as if a pack of starving wolves had been released onto the bus. They immediately started hassling the driver, leaping from seat to seat, all senses were engaged. Being the only other passenger, it took a millisecond to determine  I was on the edge of catastrophe. Did I also mention I was a bit hungover from a great evening with friends the night before?  It was turning out to be a bad day.

I buried myself in my book, hoping to avoid notice, which naturally didn’t work.  I felt the gaze of the ringleader lock-in on me and I stared at my book harder.  I spent the next several minutes doing that while the ringleader and his friends sat on their knees on seats all around me and stared at me.  Do not let them know you are scared, I thought to myself.  I was seriously terrified and decided acknowledging them would only open the floodgates.  Make no eye contact. But, they were determined.  And, there was nothing else for them to do on the bus.

So, they stared.  It felt ridiculous to ignore them anymore so I gave a casual nod to the ringleader and said “Hey.” That was all they needed.  The questions came from all directions…”can I sit next to you? do you have a boyfriend?  what’s your name?” I felt the sides of the bus closing in, grabbed my stuff, head down, elbows out, I pushed my way through the gauntlet and sat near the driver.  He didn’t look much tougher than I did but the boys kept their distance.  So, the next few hours I only had to suffer through their schizophrenic shouts to berate me and then plead for me to come back.  That was the first and last time I ever rode Greyhound.

Back to present day, I still usually forget to say “Guten Tag” when I enter a waiting room.  Then, when I realize my error, I overcompensate by greeting all the newcomers with a big smile and “GUTEN TAG!”  However, this is still Germany, birthplace of the scowl, so I’ll have to tone it down a notch next time.

By the way, another greeting here that surprised me originates in Bavaria, the most southern state in Germany, which is also home to Munich.  ”Grüss Gott” they say for any occasion that requires hello, good morning, good evening, etc.  The literal translation is “say your greetings to God.” So, wherever you go in Bavaria, from the bored shopclerk to the neighbor to your best friend, you’ll be greeted this way.  It’s highly unusual to hear “Grüss Gott” in Frankfurt (most here scoff at the expression and would say “hopefully not soon”) but, one day recently, I was greeted that way by two different people.  Here’s a short discussion of the origins:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grüß_Gott.  (sorry, the hyperlink isn’t working so you need to just copy and paste that into your browser.)

Another German courtesy I appreciate is often (but not always) a stranger sitting next to you at a restaurant will say “Guten appetit” as in “I hope you enjoy your meal.” My Father just visited (thanks for coming, Dad!) and, after I had to leave him at security in Frankfurt Airport, I decided to eat at a Thai place on the way to the parking garage.  All the tables were crowded so, as soon as I sat down with my tray, a man asked if the seat across from me was free.  As we tucked into our food he said “guten appetit” and then we both noticed we were eating the exact same thing–green curry chicken.  He kept talking and, after a while, I got lost in his German and asked if we could speak English.  Pretty soon, I was on my way to hearing his entire life story but then we both ran out of time.  It’s a simple expression but it was the key to making an otherwise anonymous meal in the airport more engaging. (P.S. There’s an even better Thai place at the airport but it’s only for take-away.  It is outside of Terminal 1, in a shack next to the little McDonald’s.)

Expat Wife: The Agony, The Ecstasy

“If there is a such thing as reincarnation, next time I want to come back as an expat wife,” said the husband of an American friend of mine here.  This set off a fit of cackles from the rest of the men in the group and eyeball rolling from the women. It was very funny but my first thought was a bit of indignation–don’t they realize how hard the expat women work here?: Transitioning our families to a new country; dealing with bureaucracies (just ask me about Mainova the water and gas utility here–it’s epic); navigating through an entirely new language, culture and landscape; managing accounts here and back home (why does my bank keep losing my wire transfer agreement?); trying to re-create portions of our former lives (just ask how hard I’ve tried to find the right gymnastics class for Nora); commonplace things such as household repairs take on a whole new level of complexity; and, let’s not forget, serious amounts of volunteering for the international school and other organizations.  That part can be rewarding but we all know the look of friends who have gotten overcommitted–pale faced and unable to speak about anything except the project they can’t wait to finish.  All of this and much, more more while our husbands circle the globe. Actually, there are a few husbands here for their wive’s jobs but, for whatever reasons, it’s mostly the other way around.

But, I will admit, after all that, being an expat wife can be pretty cool. That is because a lot of women here are dedicated to creating entertainment and adventure. One of my personal heroes is an expat woman I met who moved here from Zurich who used to go skiing every day after dropping off her kids at school.  Wow……………….ok, I’m back after fantasizing about that for a while. But, life in Frankfurt is very good too.  Would you like to…. meet for coffee, go to the English Theater, visit the sekt cellar, check out that new Mexican restaurant, get a special tour of the Courbet exhibit, go antique shopping in Belgium, play competitive tennis, be in a book club, take a weekend cooking class in Provence? Opportunities for pleasure are everywhere, whether through groups like the American Woman’s Club or informal activities with friends. I’ve also had more great travels lately—Lake Como, Mallorca, and Ireland.  I feel very fortunate.

So, gentlemen, I’ll allow your smirks but just don’t do it after I’ve received yet another mysterious invoice from Mainova; or, when I’m ordering birthday supplies at midnight so they can be shipped in time so the next visitor can bring them; or, when I’m filing another round of 50 health insurance claims (we have to pay up front for all doctor visits and prescriptions and then file for reimbursement back in America); or, when I’ve just driven 20 kilometers out of my way just to get cheddar cheese for that meal everyone likes; or, when I’m cleaning the slop out of the clothes dryer vent (why do they design them this way??);  or….. well, you get the idea.

The World from Above

As I’ve spent so much time examining life in Germany on ground-level, sky-diving seemed like the next logical step.  Well, that’s not exactly how it all came about.  Two years ago, I got the idea of going for my 40th birthday and I started tentative plans.  Since I had just gotten into magazine writing, I also started researching which magazines might be interested in a pitch from me about it.  But, close to my birthday, disaster struck.  First came a deadly skydiving accident that happened somewhere else in North Carolina where we lived.  Second, I happened to see a new magazine article written by a woman who turned 40 and went sky-diving.  Bitch. So, I flung my dangerous and unoriginal plan into the dustbin and walked away in disgust.

Now two years later, as my birthday approached, Gary asked if I would consider sky-diving again.  Since my birthday last year was spent with a team of German movers unloading boxes into our house, a near-death experience this year sounded perfect. Really though, I was glad he reminded me because I had forgotten all about it.  Plus, I was unaware of any new life insurance policies he had taken out on me (kidding!!)

So, my airborne day arrived and I felt oddly calm about the whole thing.  In fact, I was pretty excited.  After a morning of meeting up with friends and feeling all birthday-princessy, I got in the car with Gary, Nora, and Jack and we drove about 45 minutes north of Königstein to a place called PullOut Skydive. The sun was bright and warm and we arrived at what looked like a couple of shacks next to some larger buildings, all in the middle of nowhere.  We headed toward the shacks and entered into an entirely different Germany. This Germany had a Zen-like calm blanketing the whole scene. Everyone seemed to have a sense of peace and purpose.  Dogs lolled about in the shade, enjoying the breeze.  Several 25-year old looking men strolled around chatting and laughing, all wearing pieces and parts of sky-diving gear, confidently waiting for the right moment to get fully ready.  You could tell they spent a lot of time together in this place. An older man, looking more official, was sitting at a picnic table with forms and he looked at me with a steady, unsmiling gaze.  This turned out to be Klaus, my tandem dive instructor.  If I had to guess, he was trying to do an immediate assessment about me–did I look like I’d be panicky up in the air and be a danger to everyone?  Or, did I look like I was ready to have fun?  I assume he agreed with the latter and I started filling out my forms.

Next, one of the 25 year olds calls me over to get started on my training.  It turns out Kris is an elementary school teacher but spends the rest of his time at this place, training, video-taping, and jumping.  He gets me started with everything I need to know.  It’s not as much training as one would need for a solo jump but there are several things you need to know and carry-out during a tandem jump.  You’re not just attached to the instructor like some barnacle. After training with Kris, he turned me over to Klaus.  ”This isn’t your first tandem jump, is it?” I asked him.  I was kidding, of course.  His whole demeanor radiated that he was the Zen master.  At least when it comes to sky-diving. So, if you find him in Frankfurt, behind the wheel of a car, screaming at someone in that time-honored German fashion, don’t tell me I’m wrong. I just know he is in his element here.

As Klaus and I talked, he continued to check and re-check my gear.  I still wasn’t very nervous.  It felt like a dream at this point.  Then it was wheels up-time.  I kissed Gary, Nora and Jack good-bye and we walked to the plane.  It turned out there would be one other tandem jumper and 5 solo jumpers, all from the 25 year old crowd.  We squeezed into the hot plane and were soon up in the air.  The way things were arranged, the other tandem jumper and I had to sit facing each other, knee to knee.  He looked like he wanted to vomit. “Did you tell your mother you were doing this?” I asked him.  ”Yes, I did,” he said with a hint of a smile. “Well, I didn’t tell mine,” I confessed.

With that thought, it occurred to me there was a slim chance these were the people with whom I was spending my last moments of life.  I decided to turn my head toward Klaus (who was attached to me at this point) and tell him it’s my birthday.  ”Aaaah,” he smiled and revved up the others to sing Happy Birthday. It was a nice distraction.  Then the other divers started into a silent series of hand gestures and I joined in: fist bump, gentle hand slap, point the index finger and smile into each others eye. All of us in the plane managed to do this with each other, except my videographer ,Tobi, out of reach, who gave me a thumbs-up and a big smile.

Then, WHOOSH, the side door slides open and the first solo diver smiles and bails out…..backward.  At this point, I say a Hail Mary and reinforce my trust in Klaus’ 29 years of experience.  I was the last to go, along with Klaus and Tobi. When we left the plane, there was no “1, 2, 3, jump” or anything of the kind.  We just hung on the edge for a few moments and then suddenly we were falling.  For a split second, I squeezed my eyes shut at the utter shock of freefalling at 14,000 feet.  It felt like my heart stopped.  Then I opened my eyes to get the full rush.  A strange thing to be falling like that yet knowing everything would be OK.  As we dropped, Tobi effortlessly reached his arm toward me to touch one of my hands.  I strained to reach his as the air seemed to pummel my arm away.  Then it was time to pull the chutes and, surprisingly, I was sorry the freefall was done.  Now we were gliding and Klaus told me I could take off my goggles for a better view. I could have floated there a long time, feeling weightless and enjoying the scene.  Oh, there’s a huge castle to the right on that rock, farm property lines fully visible, and oh look, those little dots now look like people I know.  I waved.

Quickly, it was time to prepare for landing.  During training, Klaus had told me 3 different commands he could give, depending on the situation. Until the command, I was just supposed to position my legs up, feet pointing out.  But, then I see Tobi on the ground, right in our path so while I worried about whether we were going to run him over, I missed Klaus’ command to stand.  We still had a perfect landing but, the perfectionist streak in me wants to do it all over again. By the way, Tobi was exactly where he was supposed to be and Klaus knows exactly how to time everything so we wouldn’t run him over.

None of that mattered at the time though because it was one of the most joyful and exciting (and slightly terrifying) experiences I’ve ever had.  I couldn’t stop smiling for the next hour as we relaxed and waited for them to complete the DVD. Some of the same solo divers went up yet again while others hung out.  Separately they approached me asking how I felt about the jump. Since they’ve all jumped at least 50-100 times already,  I could see they enjoyed reliving that first-time experience.

When it was time to go, I almost didn’t want to leave such a cool atmosphere. Nora and Jack didn’t want to go either.  They had glued themselves to Klaus’ yellow labrador who was now splayed on the ground in total surrender to them.  After hugs goodbye, it was time to split.  Dinner was waiting for us at a beautiful biergarten in Kronberg called Bürgelstollen.  I felt great but I’ve never seen Nora so tired.  Halfway through dinner she had her curly head on the table. Don’t worry, she perked up when the ice cream arrived.

The Passion of the World Cup (Americans, don’t stop reading yet!)

OK, now, this is when Germany gets really fun. Starting on June 11 and lasting until July 11, the world revolved around the World Cup Soccer (Football) Championship held in South Africa.  Every day, every cafe had extra tables and televisions parked outside for every match.  All eyes were glued to the matches and at the same time enjoying drinks and a meal with friends. It was an obsession.  Even cars driving by would slow down to catch a look at a match and see the score. In the beginning there were 3 matches a day so the festivities seem to continue non-stop.  I’m happy to say I got out as much as possible for this.  Of course one can watch at home, but there is nothing like enjoying beautiful German summer days among good friends, food, drinks, and enthusiastic fans.  When Germany won their quarterfinal match against Argentina, we were in Frankfurt and watched fans flood the streets in unprecedented abandon.  You see, the last few generations of Germans have been quite reluctant to wave the flag or appear, in any way, blindly loyal to nationalism.  During the last World Cup, four years ago, flag-waving resurfaced among the masses which concerned many.  Is it just proud patriotism or the first phase toward goose-stepping nationalism?  Whatever the debate, Germans in general seem even more comfortable displaying their colors this World Cup and I think it’s long overdue.  They have paid for their sins and rebuilt themselves into a prosperous, fully engaged democracy. There are still some uncomfortable Germanic traits in my opinion–and they deserve a little humility for that– but the devils are long gone.

So, the days and weeks go by and I grow accustomed to flags posted on cars, painted on faces, and displayed everywhere else you can imagine. Fireworks crackled,  Vuvuzuelas (those annoying horns) honked regularly and, in some moment of magnanimous stupidity, I bought one horn each for Nora and Jack. The enthusiasm was everywhere and even Jack came home from German Kindergarten twice with German flags painted on his cheeks. We only got alarmed though when he came home one day and started singing Deutschland Über Alles, or Germany Overall, which is their national anthem. Fortunately, July 4, Independence Day arrived shortly after that.  I put out our Stars and Stripes early in the morning. It was then I confirmed a suspicion.  German homes do not have flag posts–something every American home has.  I had to rig the flag with some layers of masking tape so it could hang over our garage.

By the way, World Cup is such as huge industry besides the overpriced fan jerseys.  There are quite a few official songs that were recorded for this championship. I only know two of those songs and one is by Shakira and, unfortunately, it sounds like she just phoned it in.  The better one, by far, is called “Wavin’ Flag” by K’naan.

One last thing for those of you who weren’t paying attention/didn’t care (I used to be one of those), America made it to the round of 16 and was defeated by Ghana 1:2. Germany made it to the semifinals and was defeated by Spain 0:1.  Spain won the World Cup in overtime against the Netherlands 1:0.

Travel, Trauma, Truth or Fiction

Tomorrow I leave for America for 3.5 weeks.  I haven’t been there for 9 months which isn’t that long but it seems like a lifetime ago. Now is the time to make my way from the Eastern Seaboard to the Midwest visiting family, friends, new babies and loved ones with serious illnesses.  All of this will culminate with a long stop in Holland, Michigan on Lake Michigan, my ultimate place of tranquility. Along with the sentimentality is a laundry list I’ve prepared of items to purchase and bring back to Germany. Whole Foods, Target, the Gap, you have been warned.

In the meantime, we’ve just survived 10 days of summer camp–tennis and swimming.  All instruction is in German and it freaked Nora out a bit.  Each day started with tears even though she can speak and understand a lot of German. Well, hopefully next summer will be easier! Right???

The travels continued whether it was us or visitors.  My brother Michael and his wife Marilyn and daughter Clare spent 2 weeks with us in May.  Then Gary and I went to the Cote D’Azur and it was all I imagined it could be.  Beautiful scenery and people, delicious food….I could get used to that.  Then our next set of visitors (Brad and Jessica +3) arrived from Albuquerque, where we used to live. Along with their good company, they brought provisions I have missed and it all had something to do with green chile.

Lastly, I am looking forward to a class I’m starting in September: Creative Fiction.  To me, there is nothing funnier or more interesting than writing about the truth.  But, I’m dying to learn how to write fiction.  I’ve made a few feeble attempts in the past which I’ve deleted in embarrassment. So, if my blog takes a sudden turn and I’m talking about my life as a magician and how I ride an elephant to work, you’ll know I’ve veered into fiction.

All the Signs of Life

Greetings from below the volcano.  Who knew that Iceland had volcanoes?  Who knew they could mess up air traffic so badly?  Despite the grief it’s causing (including the fact my brother Mike may have to cancel his trip over here this week) I still think it’s fascinating. It nudges my memory of living alongside several dormant volcanoes in Albuquerque.  Driving by them along the west mesa I would imagine—“what if?”

Tree leaves have sprouted and the calendar tells me it’s Spring but I am still shivering.  It was a long, snowy winter and we’ve been teased with a few days of warm weather but Spring in Central Europe is no rival to the fragrant, heated blast of Raleigh. The good part is, it only reminds me to dream of the humidity-free summers here that are filled with wildflowers.

Springtime here really means travel time.  Morning drop-off at school is full of chatter about trips done and trips planned. (Did that villa in Tuscany work out?  Malta has hardly any beaches!  Does anyone want to go to Normandy?)  The exchange of information flies at lightening speed.  Everyone is here to squeeze the last drop of adventure out of it.  Most are told their work assignment here will last 2, 3, 4 years and, that’s the way it happens. Others get the rug pulled out from under them when they learn their company is downsizing or changing direction.  That could mean a quick move back to their home country or a reassignment to Dubai.  So every Expat instinctively knows that time here is precious.

So far, I think we’ve been doing well in that department.  Skiing in Austria in January, Egypt in February, and Spain in March. I’ve also gotten short trips to Budapest and Paris. All this when Gary still needs to work (oh yeah!) and Nora needs to be in school.  Recognizing the Expat thirst for travel, the international school that Nora attends arranges several breaks throughout the year.  So that means we don’t start summer break until late June.  School starts up again in mid-August.

Now is also the start of many good-byes.  Every day I learn of someone else who is moving.  Most can stay until the end of the school year but their eyes are already turned toward their next journey, finding a home and schools, and building their next lives.  Those first friends of mine here will be missed.  You never forget your first friend.  I still remember the first friends I made in elementary school, high school and college.  Most of those people are still close to me and to my heart. Fortunately, other “first friends” are staying here at least for another year and, of course, a new crew of new families will arrive with friendship potential.

Nora and Jack continue to change in ways they don’t even realize. Jack’s kindergarten teachers tell me he speaks German with a native accent, not with an American accent.  Nora will claim she doesn’t know much German but then spends the next two hours playing with German friends and speaking German the whole time.  If we need to pass the time, like at a doctor’s appointment recently, Nora and I will pull out my German phrase book and test each other.

I haven’t applied myself to formal class work yet but I can get by here and I surprise myself when my instinct is to speak in German when we travel.  In places like Madrid, English helped me much more.  But Egypt is flooded with Germans and so many in the service industry there speak some German.  In fact, our Nile cruise ship was packed with, you guessed it, Germans! We were the only other nationality on that boat except for the Egyptian crew and an Indian couple who have lived in America for years.  However, Nora and Jack had the good fortune of being the only children on board.  The crew doted on them endlessly—hugs and kisses, candies, games, and milkshakes.  On Nora’s birthday (her 7^th) the crew covered our beds with pink flower petals.  Besides a special birthday cake, the celebration at dinner that night included so much attention Nora was embarrassed at times and hid her face in my arm.

In other ways, Nora and Jack are developing as they would in America or elsewhere.  Nora spends much of her free time writing and illustrating her own stories.  Our girl has tales to tell…. and sometimes the artistic temperament to go along with it. So, don’t ever ask her about a story if it’s not completed yet! And, if Nora’s not writing, I often find her in the kitchen conducting scientific experiments involving eggs, tin foil, light bulbs, vinegar, and other innocuous things that combined, hopefully won’t blow up our house.  Jack, who often starts our mornings announcing “It’s a sunny day, Mama,” is usually armed with at least one or two swords, which he uses in battle with his toy dragon or the rest of us.  He loves to draw his own pictures (sometimes I can even tell what they are) and is an ace memory card player. At night, he needs a fleet of matchbox cars and Legos in bed with him.  This is in addition to Bunny, Puppy, and a bear so it’s awfully crowded in there.

After 10 months here, I’m no longer surprised by German social graces.  In fact, they’re actions are so predictable I’m usually immune to it. Like when a German woman dropped a flat of apples on the grocery store floor the other day. The woman stared at the apples around her feet while I helped the grocery clerk pick them up for her.  Strange, yes, but normal. I did get amused though yesterday when our next-door neighbors pulled up in their car and stopped for a chat with Gary and me.   They have nice smiles and looked like they wanted to hang with us for a while.  The only thing is, we had no idea who they were.  You see, a few days after we moved into our house, I delivered jars of jam and introductory notes to our 3 different neighbors on each side. (One neighbor rents their upper floor to a 90-year-old lady who drives a candy-apple red Volvo and who dresses every day like it’s fashion week in Paris. She is the bomb!)  Subsequently, we had nice visits with 2 of the 3 neighbors but never heard a word from the other.  It was even hard to tell if the house was occupied except I detected a car would occasionally move to different spots on the driveway.  Anyway, after few signs of life, we completely forgot about them.  Yesterday, they mentioned they had just gotten back from a few months in the South Pacific (nice!).  They didn’t say anything about the jam and I can’t help but wonder if it’s still sitting in the unused-looking mailbox where I placed it.

I thought you’d like to know that Dance Party is back!  This all started as Naked Dance Party (Nora only!) after Nora’s bathtime when she was a toddler.  Then it morphed into Dance Party after dinner as a way to cheer us up while Gary traveled.  Then, along came Jack, who joined us with gusto.  But, after the chaos of moving to Germany, Dance Party was lost….until recently.  Now, it includes square dancing that Nora has taught us and that she learned at Gym class.  So, have you ever danced the “Virginia Reel” to the tunes of David Guetta and the Black Eyed Peas? We have.

Test Drive

Here, this will be fun.  Try these questions and check the answers in parentheses.  No cheating!

You are driving on a very narrow road and can see 50m ahead.  What must be your maximum stopping distance?  (25m)

You are traveling at 60 km/hr, what is your braking distance? (36 m)

Is a load allowed to project over the front of a vehicle?  (Yes, if the load does not project more than 50 cm to the front and is above a height of 2.5 m.)

A single-axle trailer has an actual weight of 600kg. What must be the minimum load on the trailer coupling of the car? (24kg)

What must you know about catalytic converters? (WTF)

So, now you know what I haven’t written much lately.  When I have free moments, I’m studying for the German driving test. Besides memorizing various formulas for this test, we are expected to know hundreds of road signs that often have complex and compound meanings. Check this site out if you want to witness the menagerie of signage they have here http://www.gettingaroundgermany.info/zeichen.htm.  

How I wish I was an EU citizen and didn’t have to sit for this exam. Then again, I feel fortunate because my North Carolina license means I only have to take the written portion. It’s the hardest part but at least I don’t have to bother with a road test and a CPR course like my friend Charlene, who moved here from California.  Officially, we have 6 months from arrival to get this done but since Gary and I have pushed off this task until the last moment, we need to pass this thing or else.  I’ve heard several accounts of people failing it the first time.  The only test I’ve failed was in 5th grade History in Mr. Sisti’s class.  I had just transferred to a new school because my parents noticed that I was getting straight As at my other school without much effort. In fact, my teacher had me grading other kids’ papers. Enter Mr. Sisti who kicked my butt. So, that experience instilled the fear of failure which has propelled me to this moment. Anyhoo, don’t ask me if I’ve passed this.  I’ll let you know. And, if you see me logging onto facebook too much, shoo me back into my studies.

I must confess though. That’s not the only thing I’ve been doing.  I’ve fallen in love with Apple TV. Ever since Gary brought it back from a Stateside trip in October, it’s been a great connection back to the world of favorite shows and new movies.  We’ve had a marathon catching up on “Mad Men” and “Entourage.”  Besides that, we are not completely deprived here. There is an English language theater in Frankfurt which I’ve been to a couple times.  It’s a dump but good enough, if you want the theater experience.  I finally saw “The Hangover” there.  So funny, gross, and sweet.

One last thing about the driving test.  The owner of the driving school, Herr Brauer, who is handling all our bureaucratic issues with this (trust me, there are many) has stopped by our house a few times to pick up and drop off various documents.  I noticed his English was so good that he understood all of our slang.  I asked him how he learned English and “Frank Zappa” was his reply. Back in the day, Herr Brauer was such a big fan of Zappa that he decided he wanted to understand all of the musician’s lyrics. So he set forth on translating all of them.  ”His language is quite complex,” Herr Brauer remarked.

Aaaaah, Christmas

Germany knows how to do Christmas very well.  Afterall, they invented the idea of the Christmas tree and haven’t stopped. Every city, village and dot on the map seems to have their own Christmas market or “Weihnachtsmarkt.”  Some markets last a couple days, others go throughout Advent. At this time of year, when daylight is scarce, it’s lovely to see the lights everywhere and to know that festivities are brewing. I attended my first Christmas market with Nora last weekend, in search of our first batch of gifts to send back to the States.  I found those gifts but first got derailed when we ran into friends from England, Steve and Tim, who introduced me to the Christmas market staple, Glüwein. It’s a red wine, warmed with spices that is the quintessential winter beverage through the ages, popular from here to Norway.   I look forward to visiting several more Christmas markets, including ours in Königstein and one of the most famous in Nuremburg.

My, They Change

A quick update on our favorite short people.  Nora is taking a tap-dancing class and has her first recital next week.  I’ve seen her rehearsals before bathtime at our house and I’m pretty sure this show is going to rock. Nora also has a case of the Madonnas. It’s much better than having swine flu but you just never know when she’s going to break out into a pseudo-English accent. The reason why this is happening is some of her classmates are from England, her teacher is from England, and her German classmates have also learned to speak English with an English accent. 

Jack turned 3 on November 21 and we celebrated pirate-style, since he seems to never be without a sword these days. I’ve gotten a spot for him in German kindergarten and he starts in January.  At a doctor’s visit the other day, our doctor noticed Jack was speaking in German, asking me to come look at something.  Once he starts German kindergarten, I’ll be hot-footing it trying to keep up with his language skills. Jack has also started singing with me at bedtime.  After prayers, I’ve always sung “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” and “Rock A Bye Baby” to him.  Now he wants a duet which we do every night.

Jesus Liebt Dich

While we’re having a lot of fun here, the German attitude about things can still be glaring.  So, Gary and I have added to our arsenal.  I’m actually looking forward to my next unpleasant encounter so I can say “Jesus liebt dich.”  As you may have guessed, that means “Jesus loves you.”  I will say it with the drippiest sincerity I can muster.  It also has the benefit of being true, even for Germans.

Well, that sounds as if I don’t like Germans, doesn’t it?  There are several I personally like quite a bit and I think they like me. There’s just a particular brand of German that pops up in grocery stores and other places that you just want to smother with a pillow.

Skin Cancer Sucks

I’ve gotten a disappointment this week.  Some of you know that I have battled with skin cancer since I was 28. I had something on my leg that appeared over the summer and my new doctor and I didn’t think it was anything more than an annoyance.  So, I got around to getting it removed a couple weeks ago and didn’t think much about it until I got the stitches removed a couple days ago.  The doctor informed my the biopsy came back as a basal cell, my old nemesis.  As an added bonus, I have one on my arm too.  So, that’s #10 and #11. Half of those have been on my face so I’m trying to be grateful that it didn’t happen again there.  The last round I had was 4 on my face and I had to have 2 days of surgery right after Jack was born. 

Whenever it happens, I think about how I got here.  I have Northern European genes that were never meant to spend hours every day on the tennis court and swimming at places like Hilton Head Island and the beaches of Lake Michigan.  Not to mention skiing, soccer, golfing, and all the privileges my parents provided. I wouldn’t trade any of it. I only wish we had known how important sunblock was. My mom’s whole family has had problems with skin cancer and, so far, I’m the only one of 4 siblings that gets it.

So, my little public service announcement is: wear sunblock and don’t worry, you’ll still get some color.  Make sure your sunblock does not have any chemicals because they are actually cancer causing estrogens.  Only use sunblocks whose “active ingredients” are zinc oxide and/or titanium dioxide. Any other active ingredient is a chemical so don’t use it.  Chances are good you won’t have my kind of trouble but at least you can avoid a few wrinkles.

Two Germanys

Now that I’ve been here 4 months, I realize I generalize too much when I refer to “The Germans…”  But I feel comfortable generalizing on this one thing: “The Germans” just don’t understand customer service.  Sure, they can set up shops and sell goods, they are the number one exporter in the world, but if any sort of curveball is thrown at them, they don’t know what to do. Last week, Gary and I attended a “Stammtisch” which literally means a table reserved for regulars.  It’s an occasion where the same group of people meet, on a regular basis, at the same place, for dinner, drinks, and conversation.  The stammtisch that we attended is a different twist on that theme. It’s hosted monthly by Cheryl, our relocation agent and she invites all of her clients who come from all parts of the world to a different venue each time. It’s basically a cocktail party at pretty clubs in Frankfurt. So, the party was in full swing by the time we got there and Gary and I each ordered a glass of wine and started chatting with now familiar faces.  We were having a great conversation about Budapest with another couple when suddenly I saw out of the corner of my eye a waiter about to dump an entire tray of full glasses and bottles on me.  It was too late to do anything except try to turn my back to it and then a shower of booze and glass came down.  It was a real head-turning crash, worthy of a movie scene.  My entire left side, from my head down to the inside of my shoe was drenched.  Somehow I was still holding the stem of my wine glass in my left hand and the rest of the wineglass was a jagged mess.  I think I was in shock because all I managed to say was “Wow, I can’t believe that happened.”  

Then a team of staff members came out to sweep and mop up the debris and one of them tossed me a napkin.  Figuring this was going to be the start of some assistance, Gary (whose suit got a good splattering) and I waited for them to finish.  They hustled away and then…..nothing.  ”Hey, you’re bleeding,” a guy informed me. I looked down to see a gash in my left hand. Realizing that I was in Germany and help was not on the way, I retreated to the ladies room and mopped myself off. The gash wasn’t that big but it was a bleeder and wouldn’t stop.  So I got really mad and marched over to the bar.  Three staff members were standing idle and I launched into them.  ”Does anybody here care that because of one of your waiters I am soaking wet and bleeding?”  I waved my bloody hand in their faces thinking this would surely jar them into action.  Nope.  Their faces were blank, not hostile, but with only the slightest hint of curiosity. “What would you like us to do for you?” one of them finally asked.  ”Well, you can start by getting me a band-aid,” I offered. It was like trying to get compassion from a doorknob. One of them hustled away and then returned with a band-aid.  ”What else can we do for you?” he asked with a bit more curiosity.  A hundred things they could do for me swirled through my head but I didn’t want to spend the rest of my evening training this sorry team on customer service.  ”Just get me another glass of Shiraz,” I said and went back into the party.  

As I stood again with Gary, trying to converse with people, I felt hot tears pool in my eyes.  Oh no, I don’t want this evening to include crying, it’s been bad enough already. At that point, I realized what bothered me so much about the incident.  Not that the waiter had an accident but the fact that no one responsible said “I’m sorry” or even cared about what happened. I smelled like a distillery and my clothes on my left side stuck to me.  Fortunately, my clothing was dark so it wasn’t that noticeable but I was pretty sure I wanted to go home.  Then Cheryl came over and asked if I was ready to meet a new expat from England (via Budapest) that she thought I’d really like.  ”Not yet,” I said biting my lip.  So we talked over the incident and she showed me her splatter stains on her back. Pretty soon the tears were gone and I went over to meet Allison. I’m glad I stuck it out.  Allison was great fun to talk to and we have a lot in common.  She also lives in our village and has children at Nora’s school. So, surprisingly, it turned into a really nice evening again.

On our way out, Gary was still bothered by the incident and approached the manager who was hidden on the other side of the bar area.  Gary began his sentence with “Meine Frau (yes, married women here are called “frau”-it’s hideous) and he explained the situation to the man who had the same impassive look as the others.  ”Here’s my card and you can send me the bill for the dry cleaning,” the manager responded.  Still, not one apology. So, if you ever decide to go to this place, you have been warned. And if they, say, set your hair on fire instead of your creme brulee, you are on your own.  I won’t mention the name of this place (unless you ask) but it rhymes with “Tumors.”

That was the one side of Germany–the chilly, harsh side.  And, the next night, we experienced the other.   Gary and I don’t often have 2 nights out in a row but, the following evening we were back in Frankfurt for another engagement.  This time with our friends Victoria (English) and her husband Andreas (German).  You may remember Victoria who rescued me in the early days here with provisions while we waited for our late shipment to come.  They lived in America for 6 years and grew fond of American-style steak houses like Morton’s, etc.  and they wanted to show us a favorite steakhouse here in Frankfurt called “M.” The evening started all civilized with a first rate meal and then it suddenly morphed into tequila shots back in Königstein at a Mexican bar run by a Greek guy; Then it lurched into a midnight raid of Andreas’ wine cellar;  then we realized it was 3 a.m. and the evening ended with profuse apologies to our babysitter, whose mother has since showed us profound mercy, thank you. While that was not a typical night out for us, the point of this story is, this place can be a lot of fun if you can get over “the other side.”

Life in a Small World

Yesterday, we had the pleasure of participating in our first Martinstag or Saint Martin’s Day.  It’s a very popular and traditional celebration here of a Roman soldier who ripped his cloak in half for a beggar who was freezing on the side of the road. All the villages and towns seem to have their own celebration of the sainted man. It was a wet and cold night but I bundled up Nora and Jack (Gary was traveling) and we headed into the Aldstadt of our village for a party at Jack’s pre-school (Spielgruppen).  Pretty soon we heard drums beating and it was time to join the parade.  There were hundreds of people, holding lanterns, streaming through the streets lined with half-timbered houses.  The very young, like Nora and Jack, have lanterns with battery-operated lights surrounded by beautiful paper designs.  Older children get the privilege of carrying actual torches.    

Our parade was led by a man on horseback, dressed like St. Martin as a Roman soldier, and he guided us up toward the castle. Once we reached the castle, there was a giant bonfire and remarks from the Burgermeister and the reigning castle “queen” Verena, another friend from our early days here.  After warming by the fire, we exited the castle grounds and every child was given a Wechmann, a sweet bread in the shape of a ginger bread man.

It was a beautiful night but what made it even more special was running into my new friend Natalie on our way up to the castle.  Natalie is from South Africa and we have played tennis a few times.  I told her that I had made another South African friend named Lauren and I thought they should meet.  When I described Lauren a little further, Natalie cocked her head and smiled “I think I know her. She was my playmate until we were 4 years old.”  I followed up with Lauren the next day and, yes, she’s the one.  Reunion on the way.

Hair We Go Again

Since yesterday, I have been drenched in self-pity over a botched hair cut.  Well, technically, it’s a well-done cut.  But, it’s not the one I wanted. A few months ago, I decided to grow my hair longer and was now just getting to the length I wanted.  However, I needed to get things shaped up so I went back to a hairdresser who had given me a successful haircut earlier.  Her English is good (important since my German is bad) and she’s also skilled and friendly.  When I re-explained my goals, she seemed to remember and understand completely what I was saying.  However, by the time I left the salon–chop, chop– I was back where I started 3 months ago. Something was completely lost in translation!  

I decided today I had 3 options:

1. Sob into my pillow every night

2. Go back to the salon on a homicidal rampage

3. Google “quick hair growth”

After much deliberation, I went for the third option.  Up popped various theories on Vitamin E, B-Complex, et al.  But, the most interesting one to me was a tincture of Stinging Nettles. I became convinced this was my silver bullet and visited a health foods store in search of the cure.  Well, I found it.  It only came in a pack of 3 bottles and this stuff tastes like….hmmmm….if your dog wore underwear and you put it in a blender and added some water, there you go.

My Life of Crime

It seems worth mentioning that I still haven’t lost my talent to irritate or even enrage the natives here because I’ve broken some unknown rule or mistakenly broken another rule.  Depending on the situation, I’ve adopted certain styles of response.

Scenario A:  Since it’s gotten too cold to run outside regularly, I joined a nice gym in our village. After I finished my second workout and was leaving the building, the front desk clerk motioned for me to come over to her.  I slowed my gait because I know the look of a German who wants to scold me about something. As I got closer, she pointed at my running shoes.  ”These, no good….you must…”  then her sentence trailed off.  Her grasp of English is limited and so is my German so we were at a standstill.  Then, hurray, another club member pipes up.  He’s German but knows English well and offers to translate for her.  I watch her hands rise and fall as she explained my transgression to him.  He turns to me and takes a deep breath. That’s when I decide to just lean on the counter and take my licking, whatever it is.  These people exhaust me.  So, the gentleman explains to me that I should not wear my running shoes outside.  I should carry them with me and wear street shoes to and from the gym.  That to me is a simple (yet very picky) explanation.  But I know well enough that the explanation needs to continue.  They can’t just make their point and finish.  So, that’s why I settled in to hear lengthy instructions.  I nod several times for the next few minutes, apologize profusely, and start mentally composing my grocery list while he continues the translation. At last, we are through, then I smile and thank them for setting me straight.

I’m not the only one who has this strategy. A couple days later, as I’m unloading Jack from the car in a village parking lot, I hear a commotion behind me.  An older German woman is shouting and shaking her umbrella at another woman (who looks about my age) who is in her car.  The woman in the car is responding in English saying “I know, you are absolutely right, I’m terribly sorry….” Apparently she had almost hit the German woman while backing out of her parking space.  Of course, I can’t blame the German woman for being unhappy about the incident but I cringed knowing the sort of harangue the driver was going to get. They were blocking my path so all I could do was stand there and offer a sympathetic smile to the driver. She took her hits and finally the German woman tottered off.  The driver (who is English–we met at a party a week later) leaned out her window and puffed her cheeks at me.  ”Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ve actually gotten it even worse than that.” The driver offered me her parkschein (a prepaid parking voucher) which still had time on it and then sped out of the lot.

It’s raining so I pick up Jack and hustle across the lot only to run into the German lady. She spoke to me in German and I told her I spoke English. “Did you see what happened?” she repeated.  I stop in my tracks and adopt my pose.  ”Yes, I did and that must have been frightening but I’m so glad you are OK,” I responded. “She could have killed me,” the woman continues.  I nod and commiserate. It’s still pouring rain and Jack is getting heavy in my arms. Suddenly, the woman switches topics and her face softens.  ”Are you English?” No, American.  ”How do you like it here, are you having any problems?”  Several scenes flash through my mind and I smile, “It takes a while but it’s starting to feel like home,” I responded.  ”My name is Frau Müller and my number, oh I wish I had a pen and paper here, is [XXXXXX], please call me if I can ever help you.” She’s a sweet lady.  All she wants is to be understood clearly and that is what so many Germans want.  Now that I’ve figured it out, I don’t mind giving my time to do it.

But, then there is Scenario B: Lately, if we’ve got an open stretch of time, I’ve gotten in the habit of taking Nora, Jack and their scooters to Bad Homburg which is a large town that has a very good fussgänger (pedestrian walkway).  It’s much longer and less cobblestoney (invented new word) than our fussgänger in Königstein.  There’s also embedded toys along the way so that Nora and Jack can speed along on the scooters, then stop for a while to play. I always park in the same garage but one recent day I decide to explore a different place to park.  I turn down a wide street and immediately realize this was a bad idea. I’m going the wrong way on a one-way street.  Crap. I immediately stop behind a parked car and look behind me so I can back out of there but traffic is busy.  There are about 8 cars on my street waiting for the light to change.  I’m not in their way but they decide to entertain themselves during the red light by honking their horns at me repeatedly.  The driver closest to me is a man and he is honking and turning purple screaming at me through his closed window.  I decide I’ve had enough abuse and resort to psychological warfare. Since my car is not rigged with loudspeakers, ready to blast Barry Manilow’s Greatest Hits at my enemies, I use the only tool I have at the moment.  I turn to the purple man, give him a big, dumb smile and a peppy, American-style thumbs up.  It works.  He’s completely unglued. “Oh, Mama, he’s really mad at you now,” Nora said gravely.  ”That’s the idea, honey,” I responded.  The light turns green and Purple Man zooms off in a fury and I feel serene knowing that the sadists behind the wheel here don’t bother me anymore.

Hallowhat?

Being American, I forget that Halloween, while recognized in many other parts of the world, is really an American holiday.  In fact, many of the retail stores here skip Halloween altogether and go straight to Christmas. In Nora’s classroom, I’m an assistant room parent (yes, just one heartbeat away from top spot–just kidding, Ika) and we gathered a group of parents to discuss festivities for the year. When the subject of Halloween came up, the other parents shifted uncomfortably.  We needed to carve four pumpkins for the classroom and everyone around the table looked hopeless. They are from Fiji, Australia, Brazil, the Netherlands, Germany, and other far-flung parts and have never carved a pumpkin before. I realized, as the American, it was my duty to get things rolling. “Well, I can carve two pumpkins but I’m probably not going to commit to all four,” I offered. Pretty soon an Australian, a German, and the Fijian gamely offered to do it as well. My little team consisted of Nora and another American girl and 3 German boys. Everyone wanted our pumpkin to be terrifying and the boys decided the pumpkin should have VERY sharp fangs.  I loved showing the boys this new craft except they kept shoving their hands and arms inside the pumpkin while I was carving with a long butcher knife.  Not recommended!

While some step gingerly around this holiday, the American expats make sure that we get in some heavy celebrations.  We’ve already attended 3 Halloween parties and have 2 more to go. If we were back in the U.S., I probably would attend only half of these but, over here, I’m in the business of making new friends so we’re showing up at all of them.   The last get-together is on Halloween and is actually our event.  Gary and I are going to strut our stuff as Trekkies, old-school, polyester style.  Gary will be Spock and I will be the chick with the short red dress (what is her name??).  Anyway, I thought it was the best Target could offer and I ordered them online and Gary picked them up in Raleigh last week while back on a business trip. 

On a random note, I can never think of Star Trek without being reminded of an exchange student my family hosted while I was about 8 years old.  ”Juan” was from Columbia, 16 years old, and didn’t know a word of English when he arrived.  He stayed with us about 6 months and cared only about these things: Star Trek re-runs, hot dogs, and our microwave oven.  He was mesmerized by all three of them and we could hardly pry him away.  That was the only remarkable thing about Juan except, after he left, I–being the youngest in the family–was sent in to clean out his bedroom. Under the bed, I discovered a huge cache of soft porn magazines.  So, I guess he cared about more than we realized and, now, I had something to share with my other 8 year old friends!  I was in Catholic school so this was a major score.  However, my mother confiscated the material so that was the end of a fascinating cultural exchange.

Oh Yeah, Campaign 2009

We spent last Saturday evening in Frankfurt (with Gary’s brother Chris–Hoover Brothers European Tour, Part Deux!) and while we were sitting at a stoplight, Gary noticed an advertisement for an Angela Merkel (the current German chancellor) political rally. I had nearly forgotten we were in the heat of campaign season, which is unusual for me, the political junkie.  The thing is, the only television I’ve been watching is beamed out of London.  The news I’ve been reading is from all the American websites where I’ve always collected the news.  And, let’s face it, the German election for chancellor is important but not ever big news.  

A few days later, Jack and I hopped on the train in Königstein–always a popular activity for a two year old boy–and rolled into the Frankfurt Hauptbanhof, the main train station and scheduled site for the Merkel rally.  After getting our American fixes–McDonald’s for Jack and Starbucks for me–I pushed Jack in the stroller outside to the gathering crowd. It had many of the sights and sounds of an American-style political rally: eager fans, plotting protestors, and thumping music from the Black Eyed Peas, Pitbull, Lady Gaga, and the like.  But it was all scaled down to the size of a rally for a U.S. Member of Congress or a Senator.  Germany has over 82 million people which makes it densely populated and everything gets crammed into smaller portions.  The Polizei were present but amazingly scarce considering the chancellor was arriving.

It was a few minutes past the start time and the crowd starting pushing forward making it harder to keep Jack protected. It turns out there was no need to worry about that.  My nearly full Starbucks cup, which I had set on the ground for a moment, toppled over, sending my drink toward the toes of at least 25 people to the left of me. While I was crushed to see my Starbucks float away, it’s a brilliant way to make room for yourself in a crowd. 

It was all starting to get exciting when some politician stepped up to introduce Merkel. Jack decided to stand up in his stroller to get a better view. Throughout the man’s entire remarks, one of the protest groups called Operation Übernahme (basically communists/socialists), started blowing whistles and honking horns. Then when Merkel made her way to the stage, and the rest of the crowd cheered, the whistles kept blowing, horns kept honking.  They didn’t stop. Ever. Merkel had to speak over them the entire time.  Do groups like this think they’re going to change anyone’s mind by completely annoying them?  Then when one of them shouted at Merkel,  she paused and said “Ja, ja…” and made some comment that made the rest of the crowd laugh.  I have little idea of what she said during those 20 minutes but I was impressed by her poise and conviction.  There were no “ums” or “ahs.” Her delivery was smooth, confident, and she held the crowd in her grasp.  Election day is September 27.

Hiatus

It’s time to put this blog on hiatus. I’ve had so much fun with this but want to think more about next steps for my writing. Maybe I’ll come running back to this next week, next month, next year, who knows?  But I’ll wrap up a few details before I leave off: 

1. No, I haven’t run across Frau Zilla again. If I ever do, I’ll be sure to gently inquire about her mental health.  By the way, driving manual is like second nature now and I do my best to imitate Jason Bourne without all the car crashes and police chases.

2.  I’ve decided to return to the sauna and go native.  The way around it is just keeping a towel with you….and avoiding anyone who faintly resembles our landlord or Nora’s teacher, or…..

3. My time here so far has confirmed the old wisdom that people are people the world over.  Except I think there will always be some wide gulfs of understanding. Like when I filled out a school form for Nora from the German Health Department.  I was puzzled to see that Nora being left-handed is considered a “physical disorder” and lumped in the same category as diabetes, heart trouble and asthma.  Maybe they aren’t aware several U.S. Presidents such as Reagan, George H.W. Bush, Clinton, and Obama are south-paws.  I think they’ve all managed just fine. Anyway, I decided not to check the box for her particular “disorder” just in case some bureaucrat would decide she’d have to wear a little sign saying “My Right Hand is a Useless Appendage” or “My Left Hand is Defiant.”

So, for now, that is all.  If you’re on facebook, I’ll let you know if I decide to start up again.  If you’re not on facebook, on the right column of this page is a “Subscribe” feature.  If you click on that, then you should be notified if I do more posts. Hopefully that feature works.  Thanks for keeping up with us on our journey and stay in touch.

Hang on, Kids!

Last weekend, we took Nora and Jack to a local amusement park called Lochmüle, a place that throws Caution out the window, stomps on it, and like any good German institution, puts it in the recycling bin.  I’ve never seen a theme park that has boats that go airborne and lets children get on a wooden raft to float down the river with a big stick like Huckleberry Finn. It was like a training ground for Hollywood stuntmen. And, let me tell you, it was FUN!!  No, we didn’t send Nora and Jack on the dubious ones but even the safe ones had an edge–like the mini ferris wheel whose gondolas tipped forward on the slightest exhale.  I should also mention this ride could only be powered by someone riding on a connected bicycle. Some really nice dad pumped and wheezed the whole time Nora and Jack rode it.  Our friend Ray joked: “Careful, don’t let him look you in the eye or you’ll be sitting there next!”  

The lawyers in Disneyworld would break out in hives at the mere sight, but this creaky park, while surprising at points, was also a refreshing antidote to the hyper-litigious world back in America. Gary and I laughed thinking the park should have a sign at the entrance that said “Accident free for the past ___ hours.” No, we didn’t see anyone getting hurt, just lots of people having a good time. Oh, and they serve beer too.

The Homefront

While I’ve been busy picking out which festival to attend, school committee to join, and lining up tennis and lunch dates, the real world comes crashing in.  This time, it’s my mother who is getting a heart valve replaced today.  As I write this, she’s undergoing surgery at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, in the able hands of a South Korean surgeon and a French cardiologist. Yesterday, when my mother asked her surgeon what he liked most about Minnesota, he had a quick reply:  ”The weather.” Somehow I feel even better knowing he has a sense of humor.  

Yet, these are the moments that I always miss because I’m the one who’s always far away.  Twenty years ago, I left Indiana to live in Washington, DC. then New Mexico, California, North Carolina, and now here in Germany. My sisters, Kate and Fran, and my brother Mike, chose to stay in the Midwest and kindly pick up my slack.  Last night, I thanked my sister Fran, who has been shepherding our Mom the last few days.  It’s an exhausting process for a patient (and attendant) to get prepared for this type of surgery.  Two full days of tests, poking, and racing from one appointment to the next. No easy task when you have a heart valve that wants to quit. Then, on day 3,  you wait for hours to be called in for the actual surgery. I don’t feel very useful at this point and I joked to Fran that “Karma was probably waiting around the corner for me, in a Lamborghini, revving the engine.”  That’s always the flip side of being the one who is far away.  I don’t ever have the physical presence of my family to help with illnesses, to babysit in a pinch, or to commiserate on a rough day.  Months ago, when my mom and I were discussing my move to Germany, she observed that it seemed to be my “fortune to be away.”  It seems so.  But, I always go back.  In fact, I’m taking Nora and Jack back to Indiana in a few weeks for a visit.  If all goes as planned, mom will have just returned from her ordeal and I’ll have a chance to be a dutiful daughter.

The Germans Weigh-In

The longer I do this blog, the more it’s getting passed around to people I don’t know.  It’s been really fun to find out who’s reading it and get to know the newcomers.  A few of these newcomers, like Alexandra and Ina, are German and are still able to enjoy my examination of their culture and have even extended a hand in friendship to meet for coffee, tips on sauna protocol, and other funny and nice gestures. They were directed to my blog via Anton (Alexandra’s brother) who is married to my friend Pamela and living in the States. It can’t be easy to see their country scrutinized and, sometimes criticized, and I really appreciate their good humor and thoughtfulness. 

And, going into this project, I realized I should be prepared for the tables to be turned and to accept German opinion about Americans and even about me personally.  Fortunately, no one seems to have a personal gripe with me yet but I’ve been gently reminded about some American shortcomings such as our general ignorance of history.  Of course, there are many Americans who know the Battle of the Bulge has nothing to do with dieting but there are too many who don’t.  

Then again, I’m not going to apologize so hard for that weakness because it is also one of our great strengths.  We don’t dwell too long on what happened or what could happen. We move forward, we go, we do. But, I’ve learned that since Germany sits in central Europe, its history of invasions by other countries has, understandably, burned insecurity into the collective psyche. For example, our landlord needed to enter our house for a repair recently and I was not going to be home when he could come.  So, I told him I would hide a key in our garden and he could enter while I was away.  The man was riddled with anxiety thinking about all the people that could find that key and wipe out all our possessions or do even worse. “Gosh, this is a pretty peaceful area, have there been any problems? ” I asked.  ”Oh no,” he said in surprise.  ”But there’s always a first time,” he gloomed. Sure, he could be right.  But, our contained neighborhood only has people that belong there and the garden is large and covered in flowers making it impossible to find a hidden key. Optimistically, I hid a key and told him where to find it.  When I got home, I found him standing guard outside the door.  He had not looked for the key. I felt bad for worrying him so much. 

Anyway, one of my favorite responses to the blog came from Ina.  We had never met and her email came out of the blue.  She had been sent the link to my blog and “I did a print out (oh jesus, almost 10 pages…) and I took all the paper with me. I forgot about it. Today I was in the middle of a big traffic jam on the “Autobahn A 5″ – I spend almost 2 hours sitting in the car, listening to radio and watching all the angry faces around me in the other cars. Stop – I remembered myself to have those papers in my handbag and I started reading. It has been so entertaining … I couldn’t help laughing … and laughing …. And suddenly I realized how it was to seat [sic] in a big traffic jam and just laugh… Can you imagine the faces around me now?!” Sure, her message is complimentary to me which is always nice. But I love the tempo of her words and, most of all, am relieved my observations and predicaments gave her a smile and not an insult.

Olympic Queuing

Before we moved here, I heard queuing is not a strong part of German culture.  I found it surprising, considering this is a country that seems to be obsessed with order.  But, it’s true. And, it’s hard to not form judgements about people when they’re trying to cut in front of you.  I look at queue jumpers through an American lense and, well, to my eyes, they seem unprincipled.  But, for Germans, who have never found queuing important, this is just a natural act. And, to be fair, not all Germans are queue jumpers but plenty are. At first, I found it amusing and let them go without an argument.  Now, I keep my elbows out a bit and my peripheral vision on high alert. Like yesterday, waiting in line for a rotisserie chicken at a street vendor, I noticed the man behind me slipping from side to side trying to maneuver me out of the way.  So, to his frustration, when he moved right, I moved right.  He sighed.  Then left, left, sigh. And so on, until it was my turn.  

But, sometimes you can’t predict the line of attack, like in the grocery store the other day. I had one item to purchase and Jack in the stroller.  I briskly walked up toward the clerk, who was checking out a customer,  and suddenly, like an Olympic long jumper, a woman leaped in and sandwiched herself between me and the other customer.  I looked at the empty grocery belt and placed my one item on it.  The long jumper threw me a glance that appeared to show some sign of unease but, I wasn’t sure.  I watched her as she continued to hold her grocery items in her hands. That was her fatal error.  The clerk moved the belt so my one item was ready for check-out.  What was the long jumper going to do?  Shove aside my item and lay down hers?  ”Scheisse” she muttered and she took a step sideways and I glided forward to the clerk.  Victory was mine. Later that day when I was walking out of Nora’s school during pickup, who should appear before me?  The long jumper, with children in tow.  It’s a very small world here.

Party Time

Every weekend, I look at event calendars and my eyes widen with awe.  From what I can see, all over Germany, all the time are festivals.  Everything from the famed Oktoberfest, to whisky, guitars, and Elvis is celebrated.  Our own village, Königstein (im Taunus), hosts several per year. We’ve already attended our village’s Burgfest up at the castle and I hear the Jousting Festival in May is outstanding. 

Last weekend, we checked out two festivals while we had our first houseguests, Gary’s brother Mike and his wife Laura. Everything turned out opposite of what I expected.  The first festival we attended was Laternfest (Lanternfest) in Bad Homburg which showed signs of being very special with events like a children’s lantern parade.  But, what we saw turned out to be a huge, brassy carnival, crammed with drunk teenagers. We ditched the festival and settled into a tasty Italian restaurant instead. The next day, there were a few other festivals to choose from and we set our sights on one in Frankfurt because our guests hadn’t seen much of the city yet.  The only problem was this festival sounded like a real snoozer: Museumfest (!).  As we rode the train into the city, I wondered if our first try at entertaining house guests in Germany would be a total flop.  

It turns out, Museumfest was a winner and that’s probably because we never set foot inside a museum. We just strolled through the happy crowd, along the river Main, watching boat competitions and tango dancers, stopping only for ice cream for Nora and Jack, a biergarten for pils and curryworst, and topped it off with a visit to a leafy playground. It was a great way to spend Sunday afternoon. I imagine during our time here that we may find ourselves at other Laternfest-like events but that’s OK because it’s all part of the adventure, right?  And, I give points to anyone who throws a party.

On the Radio

When we decided to move to Germany, one of the many things I looked forward to was listening to the radio and, hopefully, hearing artists that were new to my American ears.  When I lived in Ireland back in college, the songlists were almost totally different from back home and it was so entertaining to learn a culture that way.  Well, fast forward to 2009 and, of course, with instant communication at our fingertips, the world of music leaps between the continents with far greater ease.  So, a lot of the artists on the radio here are the same ones dominating the airwaves back in America….Pink, Eminem, Katy Perry, blah, blah…But, I have run across a few artists that are new to me and I have no idea if they crossed over to America since I’ve been gone: Milow from Belgium, Gabriella Cilmi from Australia, and Mando Diao from Sweden, are a few I can think of now that have some great songs.

The radio has offered a couple other surprises too: Rush Limbaugh is on live during the evenings here –which I’m sure pleases half of you (I’m in that half) and disgusts the rest.  And there is also a radio station serving all American troops based in Europe, Afghanistan, and Iraq.  So memories from home can be constant, if you’re listening for them. But, my strongest impression on the radio came yesterday on a German station that usually plays regular pop music.  For some reason, they were playing an entire album from Rhonda Vincent, one of my bluegrass favorites. The way she turns a phrase can stop me in my tracks and I was overwhelmed to hear her.  My drive lasted long enough to hear 3 songs and it’s good that it wasn’t any longer.  Otherwise, someone was going to have to write another sad bluegrass song to describe how I was feeling just then.  Really, I am starting to love living in Germany and I’m always excited about what the day will bring.  Yet, still, homesickness can slap you on the face like a rogue wave.

Sauna Trouble

Last Saturday, I booked a babysitter so Gary and I could head over to Bad Homburg to try out one of their well-known baths called The Taunus Therme.  Our entire area is well-known as a retreat for Germans to dip their bones into the natural mineral waters provided at various spas. German royals funneled here for hundreds of years for that very reason. By the way, if you see the word “Bad” in the name, that means it is a spa town. Spas and baths are quite a strong industry in that the German health care system supports citizens to attend the spas to treat certain maladies or to prevent others.  We were feeling just fine but I thought it still sounded like a very relaxing way to spend a couple hours.

The complex, which is designed in a Japanese theme, sits on the edge of park.  Once we got into our swimsuits, we decided to jump straight into the first pool we saw. Then we tried them all –there had to be at least 6. Some were heated, some were not.  Some inside, some outside.  After soaking in the hot tubs,  we decided to try the saunas.  There are about 15 of them and they all are different–herbal, cedar scented, hot, extremely hot, on and on.  We decided to visit all of them and to start with number 1.  As we entered the sauna area upstairs, we were so focused on finding #1, we didn’t look too closely at the people around us.  I noticed a few naked people showering behind a wall to the left and then I saw swimsuited people drinking tall glasses of beer at a bar to the right.  When we got into #1, the only 2 people in there were nude.  No problem, we just sat on our towels and breathed the sweltering air.  Then the lady in front of us got up to leave.  Hmm.  A few minutes later, as we traipse into #2, I open the door to see an older man nuzzling his female companion.  He was all smiles.  Then he looked at us and his eyes went wild.  He pointed at us and roared something in German that surely meant “Get the hell out of here!” We stopped in our tracks blinking at him like Bambi and friend.  So, finger still pointing at us, he decided to repeat the message with even more fire.  It was as if he thought our swimsuits were packed with explosives or we were carrying signs that said “We’ve got swine flu!” Still a bit confused about the fury, we turned on our heels and left the room.

“Are we supposed to be naked in the saunas?” I asked Gary as we surveyed the area and confirmed everyone was naked, except at the bar.  Some wore towels as they strolled around but they were all obviously naked.  Except us, the sore thumbs. Until that moment, I’ve never been embarrassed to be fully clothed. We decided to travel back to familiar territory and went back to the hot tub to soak up the magnitude of our faux pas.

On a practical level, being nude in a sauna makes much more sense than wearing a swimsuit.  Why?  Well, it’s hot. Since it is a well-known hallmark of German culture and many others on the continent to be comfortable with public nudity, I’m not bothered by theirs. But, my public nudity is a different story.  Gary and I then started talking about well, what if the next time we just go native? But what if we ran into someone we know like the landlord,  Nora’s teacher, or  some of our new friends? We shuddered at the thought. Once you start thinking that way, the list of “All the People I Don’t Want to See Naked” grows very long.  Not because I think anyone else’s physique is sub-par– I don’t want them to see me naked either. It’s just because it’s not part of American culture to socialize in the buff unless you’re from Vegas maybe or West Hollywood.  Maybe we’ll cross this divide next time… or not, we’ll see.

Who’s There?

Our front garden, like many German houses, is enclosed by a wall and locked gate.  If someone comes to our gate, they can press a button that rings inside our house.  In our front hallway, there is a button we can press to unlock the gate.  The view from our house down to the gate is obscured by trees and there is no video camera so it’s impossible to tell who is there.  In the beginning, I would walk down our garden stairs to see who it was before I let them in.  After a few days of that, I started just buzzing in whoever rang our bell.  Then I just look through a window and see if they are fit to invite in.  They always are.  

Some of the people that come are here for repairs, etc and we sometimes didn’t know they were coming.  Others, well, it’s become a bit of a game for me because we’ve had several surprise guests–some we already knew and some we didn’t. You just never know who is thinking about you. Nora has caught on to the game too. Whenever the bell rings, Nora races to the buzzer and then flies down the garden stairs.  So far we’ve only had one awkward moment.  I had just stepped out of the shower and the bell rang.  Nora buzzed, ran down the stairs, and shot back up to report there was a man at the gate and he said he had to come in.  It turned out to be the chimney sweep (again, no notice). When he saw my sopping wet hair and bathrobe, he practically threw himself down the basement stairs to get to work.

Schule Days

Nora’s school, Frankfurt International School,  has begun and it’s as if the U.N. has reconvened except all the delegates are children.  People hail from all over the world here and listening to the range of chatter in the halls could keep you busy trying to detect the different accents. There’s also a sizeable contingent of German students too which is good since this is our host country and we don’t want to be isolated from them.   I hope it will also bolster Nora’s German skills.  She’ll be taking German classes 2 days a week and they also incorporate German into art class, which I think is very interesting.  

The school campus is very modern, colorful, and fitted with all the amenities you can imagine.  My favorite feature in the primary school are the 2 working kitchens, scaled down to their size, where they learn how to cook.   It’s amazing to think it all started in 1961 with 6 families.  Now it’s filled with some 1200 students from over 50 countries, all aged 3-18.

When I picked Nora up today, she was pleased to report she has a new best friend. Abigail is from England and her mom, who is from Scotland, tells me that Abigail had the same report.  

Just as I was thinking that Jack was enjoying himself at preschool, I started getting calls from the director.  ”Jack’s been crying all morning….he gets really upset when we speak German to him…he wet his pants again….”  When I was driving him there on Monday he said “Mommy I don’t want to go to school, let’s go home and watch a movie.” Jack has always been Mr. Social, Mr. Easy-Going, Mr. Early Potty Trained, so this was all a surprise.  I guess the transition to our new world continues.  

But, last night, at bedtime, I decided to lay down with him and have a talk about it.  He’s 2.5 now and ready for longer discussions. I asked him if he wanted to bring Bunny, his favorite lovey, which he has stopped carrying around the last few months but still always sleeps with him.  Jack seemed delighted with that idea.  Then I gave him a kiss on his palm and pressed it on his cheek.  I told him that if he ever feels sad at school, to put his palm on his cheek and it’s like getting a kiss from me.  I wish I could say I invented that concept but I happened to remember it from a phonics activity Nora had last year.  And, if none of this worked, I was prepared to pull him out of there if I needed to.  But, I really want to have 2 mornings a week to myself and Jack needs to make new buddies too.  

So, he cried a river when I dropped him off this morning and I decided to stick close to the area, expecting to get a call.  But I never got one.  He still wet his pants but, otherwise, they said he had a happy morning.

Babel

While Nora’s school has yet to start (August 24), Jack has started going to preschool two mornings a week.  When I picked him up the other day, I realized he is starting to learn German, his new language, and it sounds exactly like he did when he was 9 months old.  He’ll babble like a baby, twirling his tongue with the new sounds, then he’ll laugh and slip back into English.  His preschool is bilingual and I am eager to see how much of the language he absorbs.  When he starts German Kindergarten when he turns three at end of the year (their Kindergarten is age 3-5) I hear he will be fluent within a few months.

At this point in daily life, I get by on a few key phrases and the hope that someone will know English.  I’ve been stuck a couple of times when trying to do a more complicated transaction.  But if you struggle long enough, you can usually get your business done with hand gestures or, mercifully, a passer-by who speaks English will come to interpret for you. But now that we’re settled in more,  I feel ready to make the next step to learning the language.  There are enough English speakers in Germany that I could spend the next 3 years without knowing German.  However, I miss being able to have a discussion with my hairdresser, or the (nice) old lady in the doctor’s waiting room; I want to have a clue about what I’m ordering in a restaurant.  And, I’m curious to understand the man at the store’s joke about me that made everyone else laugh so hard.    

So, I’ve decided to get enrolled in a conversational German class offered here at our village.  Our mayor, the Burgermeister (no kidding, just like “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”) told me about it when we met at the castle festival in July.  His English is perfect and he talked at great length with Gary and me wanting to help us get acclimated to our new world.  My English friend Victoria also told me about these classes and she said it’s been much more fun learning German over a latte than sitting at a desk repeating commands from an instructor.  Yesterday, I went down to the Rathaus, which is city hall (yes, insert your own joke here),  to get signed up but….it was closed. Of course.  It’s Wednesday.  You see, German government offices and businesses close as often as possible, especially in August.  So, I learned that our Rathaus is never opened on Wednesdays.   Now, this is not an editorial on our Burgermeister or the employees–all I’ve encountered have been great.  Just, in general, German business hours are trying for the 24/7 American soul. We’ve also been waiting 7 weeks for our digital phone lines but that’s another story.  So, I’ve just ratcheted my expectations way down and am enjoying our new life with the very beautiful view.

p.s. I also learned from another friend about Yahoo Babel.  You can take words, phrases, or large chunks of text and translate it to and from any languages. The document I put together for my first visit to the hairdresser rivaled Beowulf in length but it got the job done.

Cherry Blast

My new friend Valerie, who is American, mentioned she had cherry trees in her yard and invited us to come pick them the other day. So along with one of her daughters and the neighbor-boy from next door, we took turns climbing a ladder and picked and I gained an enhanced appreciation for all fruit pickers of the world.  After the first 5 minutes, it’s not the bucolic activity that it promises to be.  After that, the real fun started. Little did I know, Valerie had planned to lead us through pitting the cherries, making a crust, and turning it all into a beautiful pie from scratch.  We also made made scratch cinnamon rolls. Then when Nora and Jack discovered an apple tree in the yard, Valerie whipped out an old-fashioned peeler that turns a whole apple into a curly-q. Wow! The day had already been great fun but now Nora and Jack were ecstatic. At that moment, I wanted to throw my hands in surrender and turn my children over to Valerie. That, or steal her apple peeler. Really though, Nora turned to me and said “This has been the best day ever” and I was so glad to hear it. Then Valerie’s great friend Andrea came by and her Chicago accent made me wistful for home but so happy to be here at that moment.  By the time we finished, Valerie’s kitchen was covered in cherry juice, red footprints tracked the tiles in the living room, and all our hands were stained a deep crimson. It was a great day.

The Schwimmbad is Gut, Except When…

If you step outside our house and walk down the road 50 feet, you’ll see a tiny sign that says “schwimmbad” pointing down to a hidden trail.  I had heard about this outdoor swimming pool, but thought it was on the other side of the village. It’s not to be confused with the divine Kurbad where we have gone swimming several times. The Kurbad sits high on a hill and has heated indoor and outdoor pools.  As you paddle around the bubbles and jets, our village castle presides on the next hill over.  Not bad.  

Anyway, I decided to check it out and walked down the trail, into the forest, down into the valley below.  You can hear the pool, long before you see it.  Voices and splashing echo up through the trees until finally you reach a set of stairs.  At the end of the stairs, down a bit is the schwimmbad. It’s actually a lap pool with a high dive, another pool with a slide, and a baby pool. I’ve taken Nora and Jack there several times now and each time we go we hope the water will be warmer.  But it is like diving into iced tea.  Once you get used to it, it’s more like cold water, no ice.  But you would never know that just by observing the other swimmers.  The Germans frolic in these pools like it’s the Gulf of Mexico.  We swim in it, turn blue, then get out for a while to warm in the sun.  Repeat. 

Despite the chill, it’s a great place with a large expanse of lawn behind the pools where people play cards, take naps and eat lunch.  And, like every other place in Germany (the zoo, amusement parks, etc.,) you can always buy beer. However, I haven’t bought beer in any of those places (yes, shocking).  I’m too busy just trying to be an aware parent there. 

One thing we always buy at the schwimmbad is ice cream, always a happy moment.  But, the last time, not so much.  As we walked back toward the pool and Jack and Nora licked their ice cream bars, we had to go down a set of concrete stairs.  Being two, Jack still needs to hold onto a railing while going up and down stairs.  So, he latched onto the only railing which happened to be on the left side.  A thought flickered in my head that this could be trouble for the German mindset since we were going downstairs on the left side.  But, I wanted Jack to stay on the railing so I didn’t move him over to the right.  My mistake.  Suddenly, a woman, maybe 65 years old, comes charging up the stairs and heads straight for Jack.  She knocks his hand off the railing, barks something in German, and pushes through, sending his popsicle flying and Jack tottering on the brink. I steady Jack and look back in disbelief at her quickly disappearing form.  Another German woman, about the same age, gasps.  She saw the whole thing and lifts Jack’s popsicle off the ground and turns on some water to rinse it off. She spoke to me in German and I gave my standard line “Ict spreche nicht Deutsches gut.”  Which means, “I don’t speak German well.” She had sweet eyes and said in English: “Some people just don’t know.”  

Or care, perhaps.  But, there is a definite pattern here.  When you interrupt “Ordnung” someone around is going to do something about it.  While these moments (like Frau Zilla–see “Terror on the Streets”) have been upsetting, they make me laugh later when I think about them. I’m not sure I’ll get many laughs from this one though.  

But, the other part of the pattern is, for every rude encounter, kindness still trumps.  Like the woman who washed off Jack’s popsicle and another German woman at the pool who eagerly struck up a conversation when she heard me speaking English.  She and her family just spent the last 4 years in Rhode Island.  With serious intention, she gave me her phone number.  I would have given her mine but I still can’t remember any of my numbers and have to carry them on a piece of paper in my purse.

Outdoors, Always

If there’s one thing I love about Germans–besides their soft pretzels– is their enthusiasm for the outdoors.  Every restaurant and cafe has nice outdoor seating and the country is littered with hiking trails. My favorite restaurant so far is called Lodge and it overlooks the zoo.  Kind of a funny juxtaposition because Lodge is a steak house and here we are gazing at zebras and wildebeasts while eating hunks of meat. Fortunately the zoo keeper isn’t the meat supplier. Gary and I went for the first time last weekend and the setting is what I’d imagine a safari lodge in Kenya looks like–warm wood finishes, breezes floating through, candles, and a full, orange moon hanging in the sky.  We couldn’t have ordered up a more perfect evening.  And then we actually ran into people we know–a sure sign a place is starting to become home. 

The Germans take advantage of every ounce of good weather and even not-so-good weather.  They are prepared with every type of coat, hat and boots to ensure they can still get out and enjoy the fresh air.  If you take the hidden trail from our house and turn left, instead of right for the Schwimmbad, you are handed a series of decisions about which trail to follow–the back route to the castle and the Altstadt (old city) or along a stream, past a waterwheel, and near the train tracks.  I go for my runs down there and I’m an oddity in my running gear and listening to my iPod.  The Germans prefer to hike around with what looks like ski poles in their hands. Maybe it provides more of a workout.  The first time I noticed those things was a trip with Gary to Cinque Terre in Italy two years ago.  As we hiked the pathways carved along the steep Italian cliffs, we were amused by all the Germans and their hiking gear, as if they were climbing Everest. One evening during dinner with an Australian couple, we asked if they had noticed the ski poles.   In his best Melbournese, the guy shrugged and said, “Yeah, what’s up with the sticks?” So, here we are again, surrounded by hiking sticks.  

Our village even has Kindergarten in the Woods, which is exactly how it sounds.  There is no school building.  Parents drop their children in the woods every morning — rain, sun, sleet, or snow–and the teachers take over from there.  My neighbor’s eldest son attends that kindergarten and one cold, rainy morning I saw him leaving for school.  He was dressed head to toe in rubber, looking like he was about to trawl for lobsters in the North Atlantic. I think this sort of Kindergarten is a novel idea though and will consider it for Jack.

We’ve had several comfortable weather days lately but everyone warns us about winter.  Some new American friends had us over for dinner recently at their home in the Aldstadt of our village.  Their house sits right across a courtyard from the ancient cannonball forge that used to supply cannonballs to our castle.  They’ve lived here for three years and have had the best time.  However, they admitted the first winter was rough.  No sunshine and the daylight is scarce.  It got so bad that the husband decided to make a chart of actual daylight every day of the year.  He got the information from the internet and created a graph.  The results were clear. December had the shortest time of daylight in the year–one day around the 21st has only has 8.5 hours of daylight.  But, pointing to January, he said, “This month is total s***. Get a babysitter and plan a long weekend somewhere sunny,” he recommended.

Feast Day

When we purchased my car (Mercedes wagon–like it!) from Kevin and Karen, it was a really friendly transaction.  They are being transferred to Shanghai and now they could check it off their To Do list.  We could check it off our list too. Everyone was happy.  A couple weeks later I get an email from them asking if we would like to come over for a meal and to meet several of their friends who have 6 year old daughters that attend Nora’s school. Sounds good! We decided to meet right after our return from Bavaria.

The meal was yesterday and I think I’m still full.  It turns out Karen and Kevin are real cooks and they somehow prepared a feast for 21 of us while they get ready to leave for Shanghai in a few days.  Their friends are real cooks too and provided divine salads and even sushi from a Korean family. As we digested our food over discussion such as where to buy a pair of 700 euro shoes to the location of the tiny English language cinema, we listened to their trio of dogs howl to passing sirens.  One is alto, one tenor, one bass. 

Then Kevin announced to the group that he was placing us in their care and he was going to miss everyone terribly.  China will not allow them to bring any sort of food or liquids, so they opened their cupboards and we all thanked them for their hospitality and proceeded to loot their kitchen. I was satisfied with a bag of Goldfish (Jack’s favorite), a can of pumpkin pie filling, a bottle of Vodka and other random items.  Then Karen didn’t think I had enough and started filling up another bag for me. Karen loves to laugh and wants to take care of everyone. That she did. Everyone left with arms, bellies, and senses full.  I’m sorry to see Karen and Kevin go but feel lucky to have known them this brief time. And, now Nora knows 4 other girls that could be classmates.  Gary now has a group to play basketball with on Monday nights (beer afterward), and Jack and I picked up a few more friends too.

Things That Seem Normal Now

1. Looking in my wallet and finding Euros

2. Taking quick showers (water costs a fortune here)

3. Driving stick shift–I no longer require absolute silence from my passengers Nora and Jack never went along with that anyway.

4. Emptying what can be described as a “sleeve” every time the dryer finishes a cycle.  German dryers don’t have a connecting pipe to send the excess water away. So, you have to pull the sleeve out and dump the water into a sink.

5. Having a tiny freezer.  Have to grocery shop much more often.

6. Putting a euro coin into the grocery cart to release it from the corral.  No coin, no cart.

7. Bagging my own groceries while the clerk zings them with astonishing speed.

8. Driving around and seeing castles everywhere.

9. Free childcare at Ikea and a couple other stores.  Woo hoo!  I’ve had to go to Ikea several times now to buy and exchange light fixtures and a few other things.  Nora and Jack actually get excited to go there except some mean little girl slapped Nora on the face today.

10. Gelato, soft pretzels, and gummy bears everywhere.  Easy treats within reach as I drag Nora and Jack along errands.

Official Bizness

I have a regular routine now with our branch manager of our bank. I go in and fill out forms to A) do a wire transfer B) get an ATM card C) get a credit card D) allow automatic debit from our account.  He carefully helps me with the forms so that I don’t miss anything. Then days pass and A) the wire transfer hasn’t happened B) the ATM card never arrives C) ditto the credit card D) automatic debit happens but I get a letter, written in German naturally, saying what looks like “We barely got this done for you and it may not happen again.”  So, I take every document I think I’ll need and head down to the branch to seek an explanation.  These encounters are very pleasant and they always end with A) we couldn’t read the bank clerk’s handwriting so we didn’t do the wire transfer B) We don’t know what happened to your ATM card C) Oh, we switched Mastercard carriers so you’re paperwork was probably thrown out D) Yes, we have your paperwork for the automatic debit but what about those 4 other sheets you must fill out?  And, so it goes. We never received these 4 sheets, by the way.  And, why does one automatic debit require practically a tribunal? Lastly, I’ve filled out the paperwork twice now for the credit card and it still hasn’t arrived.

But this is nothing compared to the 20 sweaty minutes I spent in the company of our local DMV official.  I had to get the car title transferred to my name and was accompanied by a relocation agent.  She had sent me several nervous emails prior to this, making sure I had a certain white card from our insurance agent.  We are using an American insurer and she was skeptical the DMV would go for it.  I assured her all was set and she drove us to Bad Homburg for our appointment. I was surprised that when we got there the waiting room was completely empty.  We sat down and waited for my name to be called.  

Then, in what sounded like someone clearing his throat, our time had come.  As I turned the corner, the first thing I noticed was the intense body odor, then I saw our helper face -to-face.  He was about 22 years old, tall, lean, angry, covered in snake tattoos, and drunk with his authority.  I handed over my paperwork with confidence and he emitted “nein, nein.”  The relocation agent then looked at that rotten white card and showed me the problem.  It had Gary’s name on it and not mine.  Then our helper told us to get out and try to get another appointment for next week.  I sent a pleading look over to the relocation agent and she shakily asked him if we could call the insurance company. They argued this for several minutes and I watched it like it was a courtroom drama.  They were the opposing lawyers and I was the defendant.  I decided to have a look on my face that was somewhere between understanding my sin but pitiful all the same. At last, arguments exhausted, he thought for a moment and nodded his head.

The customer service rep from the insurer told us he’d have it all fixed in a jiffy.  Instead, he had us on hold for 15 minutes, coming on once in a while with cheery assurances it was almost ready.  In the meantime, the DMV guy would growl warnings to us that our time was up.  The waiting room was still empty but that seemed to be beside the point.  Finally, He Who Must Be Placated looked at his computer screen and grunted in approval.   Our insurer had finally sent the goods.  We exited quickly before he could change his mind. 

So with these experiences and many others in mind, I wasn’t looking forward to getting a prescription filled at the Apoteke (pharmacy.) I had a written prescription from one of our doctors in Raleigh and approached the pharmacy with a mixture of dread and resignation.  After all, even at an American pharmacy, they won’t accept prescriptions from out-of-state doctors. And, if you need Sudafed for your sinus infection, you are assumed to be a meth addict and must sign a log before you can get it.  

Anyway, I hand over the prescription to the pharmacist, she barely glances at it, and heads to the back room.  Moments later she comes back with the medicine and tells me it will be 39 euros.  What? No argument? I don’t have to fill out 30 more forms for this? No clicking on a computer, verifying anything?  Then I remember Gary telling me he was able to get antibiotics here last winter for a sinus infection and he didn’t need a prescription. I realize I could come in with some scrawl on a post-it note, signed by Mickey Mouse and it wouldn’t matter here.  Thus, the enigma that is Germany.