CONNY AND NATE HAD THEIR BABY!
She's a gorgeous little two-and-a-half-kilo, dark-haired bundle of pinkness named Sophia Charlotte Saunders. Sophie chose June 13th to grace the world with her arrival; and with her brilliant parents, I fully expect Sophie to be changing her own diapers in a couple of weeks. Or at least learning that the hands waving in front of her face are indeed attached to her arms. Check out further details on Nate's blog!
Congratulations, Mama and Papa!
Raphael's Madonna of the Hospital.
When I was a little kid, I remember one of the best, safest, happiest sounds in the world was the sound of my Dad's boots thumping up the stairs to the front door after work. No matter what kind of a day he'd had, he was always whistling as he came in; and, once we heard that sound -- followed by the exciting jingle of keys in the door -- there was no stopping us. Like a bunch of little Pavlov puppies, we had no other focus in the world than to run to him as fast as we could, shrieking; and he'd drop everything; and the room would echo with his happy "HEY!" as we tumbled into his arms, his sun-warmed uniform and strong hands smelling of the flightline and Wild Country cologne.
As a kid, that's just how Dad was. You don't wonder at it or question it. He was just the symbol of all that was safe and positive. He would herd us outside to take a look at that incredible sunset. He would break open a fresh pea pod from the garden and exclaim in genuine wonder at the smooth green jewels within it; and his delight in the world around him flowed over into us and fed us as surely as did those hot strawberry waffles he'd make us while we all watched reruns of the original Star Trek on the livingroom floor.
When I got a bit older and would complain about something, nothing made me feel better than when my Dad would suddenly lean over and mutter, in his 'Indio' voice: "But that won matter to you. Or to me."
And I'd mutter back, "Because we will be far away."
And he'd go, "And we will have all the moh-ney."
And then we'd both go, "BONG!"
Of course, as you get older, your parents naturally become a bit more human. And isn't that the time when you're supposed to start getting critical of them, when they start to lose their godlike status, and the two of you are supposed to have some natural butting of heads as both must adjust to their changing roles?
Well, that never really quite happened with my Dad. As I started to get my own little taste of the grown-up world, my awe of him only grew as I realized all that he did -- and sacrificed -- for us in order that we could grow up in such security and happiness. It is especially now that I'm older that I get to know him even more for who he is, and not just who he is in relation to me. Imagine my delight, then, to slowly discover that Human Dad is even cooler and funnier and kinder and amazing-er than was God Dad (and believe me, God Dad was already pretty cool).
Now, I get to see and enjoy both sides of the picture. As I watch him with my two little sisters, I laugh anew at the "beep-boop-bort-n-ding!" robot that chases the girls, shrieking with glee, down the hallway. And then after we tuck the little ones in, Dad and I run to the kitchen like kids ourselves to drag all the chocolate and popcorn out into the family room; and then, accompanied by the sounds of crunching and passing around more Schnapps, he and Sarah and I hash out all the issues of the world, long into the night.
It seems not only inadequate, but strange, to try to say thanks. "Thanks" is what you say to somebody who helps you move your couch. What do you say to someone who has spent the last 26 years of his life making the last 26 years of yours nothing but joy? How do you thank someone who could easily be a concert pianist, a university professor, a NASA scientist, hell, James effing Bond, for choosing to first and foremost be your Dad? Somehow, I still slightly suspect that Dad is just hiding his Batmobile for those few moments he gets to himself; but not for one minute did I ever doubt that he would rather be cruising in it than helping us build our volcanoes for science class. (Which, now that I think about it, further supports my theory in that they were always the coolest volcanoes -- or Conastoga wagons, or Cheyenne village dioramas, or anything -- at the whole school fair. These were the kinds of dioramas that only Batman could have made.)
But because there aren't really any other words that can do the job, I'll just have to go for these. Thank you, Dad.
And happy Father's Day.
Thanks to Nate's blog for an interesting article, which led to this interesting article, about the sudden normalcy of seeing German flags in -- gasp! -- Germany.
I am especially intrigued by the teenager's haste in assuring the interviewer that her patriotic skirt isn't patriotic. Since the World Cup, the younger generation appears to have discovered a viable avenue for expressing some national pride, after all -- but only as long as it's fashionable and hip, and avoids any hint of politicism by a wide margin. This seems to confirm that this new phenomenon of attempting to redefine a country's image and sense of self-esteem is quite self-conscious. Somehow I imagine a homeowner looking over both shoulders as he raises his flag for the World Cup; then putting his fingers in his ears in expectation of the coming apocalypse as he makes the decision not to remove it immediately afterwards. Nothing happens... it waves prettily and harmlessly... and remains there, catastophe-free, for a whole year. Imagine that!
Sure, the movement is young, and largely based (for now) more on soccerfield pride than on some fervent belief in a nationally-recognized set of values -- as, for example, American or Swiss pride tends to be. However, the mere mention of that kind of patriotism still makes Germans recoil in horror. So for now, light and fluffy, sports-oriented "Go Krauts!" t-shirts are already a big step. Whatever it is, it's a good sign. Maybe there can be a "new" Germany, after all, defined by its future instead of only its past.
Need insurance with a robot plan?
(Fyi, if you're at work: this one's a video!)
Tina is in Germany!
More specifically, she's visiting her old university town of Heidelberg, where she spends a couple weeks each year catching up with old friends (and random acquaintances on the street). And by "catching up with," I mean "bombarded by": breakfast with this person, lunch with another, then coffee with someone else, all before meeting up with these or those people for dinner. Haha, by the time she goes back, the girl probably looks forward to the new school year as an opportunity to relax!
Thus Nigel and I decided that this would be an ideal time to pop by and smother her with even more whirlwind socialization. Yesterday, the two of us met up at the Heidelberg Hauptbahnhof around 1 o'clock, and then took off to find our Bavarian girl in the Hauptstraße (a lovely street that penetrates the expansive and beautiful pedestrian Altstadt).
We had all these plans to explore the city -- visit this museum, see that sight, you know, do stuff -- but in the end, we just found ourselves not really wanting to do anything except eat, drink, and chat, chat, chat. In addition, Nigel lives in the French-speaking part of Switzerland, where he gets more than his share of baguettes and cheese on a regular basis. Therefore, part of our mission was also to fill him up with as much good, hearty, rustic German food as we possibly could before packing him back into his train.
So first thing's first, we went in search of lunch. We found it in a cafe with a garden, where Nigel was ceremoniously stuffed with Jägerschnitzel, Pommes, salad, and beer. (I, on the other hand, have had access to plenty of hearty Essen over the last nine months, so I wimped out with a simple soup and espresso.)
It was well over two hours later before we finally hauled ourselves out of our comfy seats and trundled, belching, to the Studentenkarzer: a nineteenth-century detention center for students at the University of Heidelberg, who had disturbed the peace with such shocking offenses as playing in the city fountains, singing loudly in the streets as a consequence of too much drink, or publicly jeering at local authorities. The Karzer is an unremarkable, three-story stone house in the middle of the scenic Old City, whose various rooms had been transformed into dormlike cells for the rowdy students to cool their heels for anywhere from two days to up to a month. Over the years, it took on a sort of romantic appeal: students began to view a stay at the Karzer as somewhat of a University of Heidelberg tradition. The walls are absolutely covered with clever poems written in candlesoot (and gorgeous, tidy, 19th-century educated handwriting); silhouettes of the inmates; murals; laments for missed girlfriends; funny anecdotes detailing "offenses"; and all kind of interesting bits of art. The Karzer was turned into a museum in 1914, and its elegantly entertaining graffiti has been carefully preserved for almost a century.
After taking pictures of ourselves behind bars, we then moseyed around various other university buildings before deciding it was time for more beer. The sunlight started to take on a golden tone as we found another outdoor cafe in the Marktplatz; and we then spent another couple hours talking each other's ears off over a cold, sparkly Radler.
Every now and then, someone would halfheartedly suggest that maybe we should be, like, walking around and seeing the city and stuff? At which point, the conversation would go something like this:
Person Two: "Oh yeah. Uh... well, we've all seen the castle about a dozen times."
Three: "And it's at least a ten-minute walk from here."
Universal sigh. Person Two: "How about the Brückentor (Bridge Gate)?"
Person One: "How far is it?"
Vague hand wave. "Oh, I dunno. Fifty feet that way?"
Significant consideration of this daunting odyssey. Finally: "...All right. Let's take a picture of the Brückentor, and then go find some dinner."
We drag ourselves once again from our umbrella'ed table, and spend about fifteen minutes hanging over the edge of the bridge to admire the swans and the view of beautiful Heidelberg, before walking one street over to a cozy brewery for more rustic teutonic deliciousness.
If you ever find yourself in Heidelberg, whether for the first time or as a returning wanderer, I highly recommend the Vetter Brauhaus. Located in the Steingasse right across from the Brückentor, it's the coziest, most Germanic pub ever. We sat ourselves down at a long bench pushed right up against one of the tall, enormous windows, the sill of which makes up the table's end-bench. The result is that you feel like you're dining half-outside, half-inside, and able to watch all the summery foot traffic wander by as you sip THE WORLD'S STRONGEST BEER. No kidding, they have an entry in the Guiness Book of World Records! All of the beer at this brewery was good -- especially the pale stuff, which was practically sweet -- but their most famous one is the "Vetter 33": a beer whose alcohol content nudges the 33% mark. They serve it in 1/4 liter glasses, and we all carefully sipped one of these between the three of us. It's surprisingly drinkable. Dark, of course; very malty and syrupy, of course; but has a pleasant smoky finish, and forces you to enjoy it slowly. The food was also absolutely terrific: ever on task, Tina and I fed Nigel a plate piled with a delicious giant Bratwurst on top of a mound of steaming Sauerkraut and perfectly-fried potato slices, and I got a tender, yellow baked potato covered in herbed Quark, washed down with a bubbly refreshing Radler. For dessert, Tina and Nigel ordered the thickest, most layered Apfelstrudel this side of paradise. (It was so good, in fact, I even risked a bite myself, knowing full well that doing so could mean inciting the wrath of the Gods of Fructose Intolerance. Fortunately, they seemed not to have noticed my sin, yet...!)
Nigel is daunted, but determined.
(By the way, that glass is a Maß -- a full liter of beer!)
We must have sat there for hours. The candle burned all the way down in its clay bottle as we talked about old times and new, caught up on what's been going on in the past and what we hope for the future. I gotta say, it was exactly what I'd been needing. Not that I don't enjoy the company of my new friends and all the wonderful people I've met here; but, well, sometimes I just miss my old buddies. Hanging out with Tina and Nigel was like making a little visit home.
Which is exactly what it was, actually. Looking around the cozy brewery, watching the streets get dimmer outside as murmuring pedestrians wandered by with their ice cream and we ordered more beer, I realized that, to me, home isn't a geographical location.
Going to the pharmacy here is fun.
First, to get there, you hop over puddles in the cobblestoned streets until you reach a narrow doorway, squeezed between two centuries-old stone buildings and hung with a wrought iron sign that says "Hirsch Apothecary" (established sometime in the 17th century). Ding! You push open the door.
Inside is a small shop, covered wall to looming wall with an orderly, but dizzying, variety of medicaments, all glowing quietly in their white packaging -- an effect surely meant to convey not only professionalism and sterility, but also the impression that aesthetics are completely superfluous for medicines of such power. Two robed deities of Health and Well-Being (or maybe they're white-jacketed pharmacists) greet you with a grave nod. "Good day, madam," intones one, bending his awesome medical eye upon me. "How may I assist you?"
I suddenly remember that, in addition to my prescription, I could use some more band-aids. "Right this way," purrs the white jacket, and floats weightlessly out from behind the counter to guide me to an astounding array of various Self-Adhesive Cotton-Gauzed Wound Plasters. Selecting one from the artfully arranged shelf, he assures me that "this assortment should meet the lady's needs."
"Sure," I say, reaching for the box.
But he's not finished. "You see the various different kinds of Self-Adhesive Cotton-Gauzed Wound Plasters available in this package." He tips the silver-edged box on its side like a bottle of fine wine, in order to better display the incredible power of these bandages. "There are 14 strips of a 19x72 millimeter size, and 6 more of a 30x72 millimeter size. The padding contains an antibacterial element which can also help prevent infection in the wound. In addition, these strips are waterproof."
I repress my grin. "Sounds great." Then I hand him my prescription. This is also outlined in equal detail, and finally conveyed to me in a professional, Hirsch Apothecary-embossed refrigerator package "because of the warm temperature outside today."
"Does the lady require anything else?" the voice intones, serious and hushed as a doctor's -- or a psychiatrist's.
"No thanks, that was it."
"Then I wish you a pleasant day."
And with that, the two deities withdraw once again behind the Counter of Olympus, and the ding of the bell heralds my crossing back over into the earthly world.
Raphael's Madonna of the Hospital.
