Knight in Deutschem Panzer

If there's one thing that can make a girl swoon, it's when her guy comes to the rescue.

I know, I know. Am I a prisoner of societally-dictated gender role cliches?? Well, the key is that the rescuing must truly be necessary. It can certainly be overdone and cross the line between assistance and macho condescension. For example, bringing jumper cables to revive a dead car battery = eternal gratitude! Taking the picnic basket from my hands with a "Dafür sind die Männer" comment is somewhat less necessary. I know I should be grownup enough to accept any form of aid with the graciousness with which it was intended, but every time a male friends gasps in horror as I pick up a folding chair (or small backpack, or laundry basket, or jug of milk, or...) I quietly wonder just what other normal activities he thinks I'm incapable of. Yeah, unfortunate and ungrateful, but there it is. And I'm sure the line is different for every person, and women more laid-back and self-confident than I am would probably let the gallant helper be gallant. We just got the short end of the stick for a couple thousand years too long under the guise of "protection" (from, for example, the strenuous decision-making of voting), so some of us are still a bit sensitive about the issue. ;o)

That said, there are indeed times when humans require help from other humans. And when the source of this help is from your boyfriend, well!

For example, Bert is a born conflict manager. This is the result of a nice little cocktail of handy personality characteristics, among them being an extraordinary ability to say the most direct thing in the most tactful manner, and his seeming inability to lose his cool. Seriously, I have never met a person more unflappable. Underscoring this is an acute sense of justice and manners, all of which result in a guy who is never shy to confront what others (including myself) might view as sticky social situations.

Take last Wednesday, when I tried to return a pair of shoes to a store and the saleslady reacted in exactly the way you hope they don't react when you try to return something: she seemed almost personally offended, treating me as if I was trying to pull something over on her and making no secret about her deep suspicion that I was the Antichrist. I returned home fuming like a teakettle.

Bert, upon hearing the story, took me by the hand, walked right back to the shop, and calmly asked for the manager (by name, of course -- ever foresightful, he'd looked it up on the store's website). He then proceeded to calmly explain that, while we would certainly accept any decision dictated by store policy, we were dissatisfied with the unfriendly way in which the policy had been explained.

Of course the saleslady was right there. "You can complain all you like!" she spat.

Bert: "Can you repeat your statement, please?"

"I said you can complain all you like but it's not going to change anything!"

Bert turned to the manager and said, "Does this attitude conform to the quality of customer service promised on that sign behind you?"

He was reasonable, direct, unshakable. Yapping at him, the saleslady looked like an uncivilized shrew. Of course, we were able to exchange the shoes in the end. I am quite sure I wouldn't have been able to conduct the argument that well by myself, and was immensely pleased and proud to have him at my side.

There are other times when his sticking up for me is more subtle, but I am no less grateful. For example, I have lost count of the number of times people blithely blurt out coarse American stereotypes in my presence, apparently forgetting -- or not caring -- that there is an American standing right here. It happens all the time: once, after I laughingly recounted the way people used to mix up Manu's home country of Switzerland with Sweden, a guy scoffed, "Well, yeah, but the Americans are all like that, aren't they? They think we run around in Lederhosen eating Sauerkraut." And I snapped, "Just like all Germans think we are clueless ignoramuses in cowboy hats?" The air got a little tense. And Bert, instead of retreating embarrassed from his girlfriend's awkward conflict, put an arm around my waist and made a dry comment about showing manners and social sensitivity to international guests. I felt like a little kid whose big brother has just asked the playground bully if there seems to be a problem.

Of course I can fight my own battles. And I often do. But there's something about knowing that your boyfriend is on your team, that the moment he hears of any injustice done to you he polishes up his lance and mops the floor with the offender, that makes my feminine heart secretly skip a beat.

Heimat

Well hi there, Blog!

What a month. There's been so much afoot these last few weeks that, now that I finally get a moment to write, the idea of meticulously recording it all is a bit daunting. Which is mildly frustrating, seeing as how I constantly wander about composing blog entries in my head -- noticing something in the train, for example, and imagining precisely how I'll capture it in writing, just as soon as my itchy fingers can get to a keyboard -- and then by the time I finally, ceremoniously take a seat in front of my expectant little computer... the "service brain soon" light is on. I can almost feel the tumbleweeds bouncing lazily along the short distance between my ears.

But I've gotta begin somewhere, so why not at the beginning?

May got started with a spontaneous leap aboard a plane on the 1st, after my Mom called with the news that the mysterious, grapefruit-sized lump on her ovary was to be removed that day. Thank God it turned out to be nothing more than that! A mysterious, removable, if curiously large, lump. The surgery itself went off without a hitch; however, it was the parade of complications during recovery that sent the two of us on a zoomy ride through the nauseous, sometimes-inflatable world of Abdominal Surgery Recovery.

For the full story -- or at least, for the hasty blog entries shot off during each brief reprieve between adventures, when we'd look wild-eyed at each other and gasp the soon-to-be infamous words, "The worst seems to be over!" -- check out Mom's blog to the right.

For the rest of the story, suffice to say that, no matter the circumstances, it's always really hard to leave Mom again. I don't know how our family does it, remaining so close while so geographically far away. We become barnacles during those visits. In Pittsburgh, for example, I slept on a very fluffy air mattress on Mom's bedroom floor, cozy as could be; yet as if that weren't slumber-party enough, one morning while waiting for everyone else to get up and around, I just got up and clambered into Mom's bed so that we could whisper and giggle together without disturbing the rest of the household.

My aunt Sherry doesn't quite know what to make of this. She's from such a huge, close-knit extended family, who all grew up together and continue to live in the same town, that she has quite the opposite problem and sometimes needs to come up for air. Whereas I've never really had the opportunity to take my family for granted: we've been widely scattered since I was twelve. What's more, my immediately family are the only form of "home base" I've ever known. I counted once, and I've changed addresses no less than 22 times in my 27 years. Therefore my home has never been a geographical location: instead, I derive my entire sense of belonging from our family's consistent, open love and support for each other. Even the fact that everyone lives so far apart only seems to reinforce this bond.

Which brings me to a topic that I've been musing over off and on ever since I got to Germany: that is, the whole question of geographical belonging.

I used to have such difficulty with that everyday question, "Where are you from?" because I had never spent more than two or three years in one location, and what on earth was I supposed to say? Even the Air Force Base where I was born doesn't exist any more. In recent years, I've responded with "Arizona," at first for convenience's sake -- and because, really, who actually cares? -- and later because, hey, I did spent 13 years there.

But you know, I've slowly realized that saying I'm from Arizona really is just a convenient answer to a common question. Which is all anyone is looking for when they ask, anyway. But do I really think I'm Arizonan? What does it mean to be "from" somewhere? It seems this question usually comes with a particular set of assumptions, like, you have roots there, maybe were born there, cheer for a local team, have an address where the family gathers, etc. "I'm from Brooklyn." "I'm from Michigan." Not that it's so atypical of us Americans to hop all over the place, but regardless of current geographical distance or frequency of visits -- or indeed, level of affection for the place! -- most people at least have a town they'd identify as being "back home".

Arizona isn't that, though. I thought it might be; but now that I'm away, I look back at it fondly, but I realize I don't -- and maybe never did -- actually belong there. I've never had roots in Arizona; none of my family live there any more; I have no plans to return. I don't even miss it.

Maybe you can humor me a moment while I attempt to sort out what Arizona does mean to me. I absolutely have a soft spot for it. Tucson was the longest I've ever stayed in one town, and still whenever I hear it mentioned in the news or in song lyrics, I get all excited because, hey, I know that place! And you can't spend so much time in one region without it leaving some sort of mark on you. I love Mexican food, think saguaro cacti are cool, and am definitely unused to the oppressive dark of northern-latitude winters.

And yet I realize, looking back, that a lot of those ways in which the place itself seemed to have impacted my identity are surprisingly superficial. Food? Fondness for a cactus? Neustadt left me with wine and fondness for the grapevine -- and lord knows the growth and self-discovery that occurred there were no less than that which occurred in Arizona. Of course I spent 13 times as long in Arizona as I did in Neustadt; but honestly, is sheer volume of time the most deciding element in the role a place takes in shaping your identity? Looking back, I never really became any more a part of the community in Tucson than I did in Neustadt (especially considering I spent the first half of my stay in Tucson simply enduring the place and plotting escape!). I could certainly tell you the good places to eat and when the Street Fair took place; but never once did I watch Wildcat football or care anything for local politics. I never even learned Spanish (to my detriment). Shauna and I spent four wonderful years in a community choir, and yet whenever we'd travel on our spring tour to some faraway destination, the idea that we were supposed to "represent" Tucson just didn't apply to me. Those other, blond singers who had gone to such-and-such an elementary school and had grandparents in Green Valley, they were Tucson. I'd only just arrived. Even up until the moment I left, people who actually were from Tucson were telling me I had an accent. Maybe that's why I'm not shocked to discover that, despite the thrill of familiarity that comes with seeing a desert landscape, it's no longer accompanied by a sense of belonging. I have lived in lots of places to which I still feel that sense of connection, even propriety; yet I notice that Arizona once again feels like someone else's community. Familiar, to be sure. Loved, of course. Home? Well... not really, no.

Which is odd, since I sure lay a lot of personal claim on it over here. You'd think I was a cowboy from Bisbee. I get a kick out of tossing its exoticism around in discussions with my German friends ("You think this is hot?" or "That ain't Mexican food!") and point proudly to its familiar rectangle shape on the U.S. map. And to an extent this is true: I'm certainly not from New England, the South, or the Midwest. Arizona is my largest reference point in the States, so I play it up as actually being who I am.

But I'm sheepish to admit that this is mostly just out of a need to pick someplace to be "from". Germans are fiercely loyal to their own regional origins: being a Bavarian or Saxon or Hamburger or Rheinlander comprises an inseparable piece of their identity. Against that, I feel more or less compelled to at least say there's a place out there that is my own home. Yet this identification of myself as Arizonan is purely relative: this is the place they know, so that's the place I know. That was the last place I was before I came here. It needs this backdrop of comparison to make it mine.

(Which of course doesn't make me any less excited to show it to Bert when we travel there at Christmas. Whatever its current role, it's still where I spent many years of the most recent last chapter of my life. Plus I gotta get some decent Mexican food!)

All this does make me feel a bit homeless. Which is nothing new, and nothing automatically good or bad. My current setting simply throws it into relief, and so I get more occupied with the fact than I have before. On good days, I feel enriched and free, to hell with Tonio Kröger's bourgeois disrespect for "Zigeuner im grünen Wagen." On bad days, I feel floating and anchorless.

On most days, I just don't give a rat's ass. Wherever my family is, I am home.

Sigh.

Shouldn't they both be campaigning against McCain...?

Thoughtity thought thoughts

Happy April, Weinstrasse! Ahh... I'm loving this whole, whatsit, "changing seasons" concept. It's a lovely way to run a climate. The newest installment is called Spring, and it's like Europe has sat up, stretched, reached over, and turned on a light. Suddenly the streets are lined with various fluffinesses the colors of Easter eggs: pink blooming trees, neon-green buds, cheery purple bushes, trumpeting yellow daffodils that look like they're whistling at you as you pass, all under the sort of bright blue skies that shine down beatifically on every kid's crayon rendition of his neighborhood. All Ludwigshafen needs now are some curlicues emerging from quaintly irregular chimneys and a huge, quarter-circle sun thrusting squiggly beams out of a substantial corner of the sky. What a change!

Well, since, over the last month or so, I've gathered a fair little collection of half-finished blog posts, I think I'll just stick 'em all together in one big musings-style entry. So here goes...!


Weird Humans

Bert and I watched a program the other day about researchers attempting to improve aerospace engineering by harking back to the expert: nature. It was pretty nifty, touching on historical attempts to fly (all those Renaissancey, bat-winged things), as well as current innovations and future projects. Did you know that, until a few years ago, biologists had no idea how flies could actually fly? And now guys at Stanford are zooming their own little remote-control bug robots around, commenting that simply imitating insect structure really is the most efficient way to construct a flying apparatus. We watched model planes whose wings actually flapped, with soft, silicon oval feathers on the tips (!) and all-terrain vehicles that scurried along on six legs. Finally, the program concluded with attempts to make machines walk upright on two legs -- and, of course, the most successful models have been the ones that end up with an almost creepily human gait.

Which brings me to wondering, what is it about us people that makes us just so darned curious about everything? Why are we compelled to imitate every neat-looking natural phenomenon we see -- or even capable of perceiving them as imitable? What other animal looks down at itself and says, "Hey, how am I doing this? Let's build a model!"? Who was the first person to observe a sheep, fluffy in its wool, and say, "That looks warm. Give me that!" or, "Ooh, pretty feathers. Let's decorate ourselves," or, "Hey, that bird is flying. I wanna do that, too!"

We humans are weird. And very, very cool.


Bonny Soonds

I found the link to one of the bands we heard in a pub in Inverness, called "Schiehallion." I could have listened to these guys for hours. (Sing, that is -- when they talked, I didn't understand a word!)

Goo on and give 'em a wee visit. But beware of listening to the music samples: you'll have the catchy, r-rolling, Highland-dancing-inducing songs stuck in your head for days!


Elbow Room

I've started to really enjoy my regular flights back to the States. And not only for the obvious reason of imminent family time: I also mean (to a much lesser degree, of course!) the flight itself, just because it's usually the first contact I've had for a while with a concentrated group of Americans. And it's always jarring to find this experience simultaneously pleasurable as well as the tiniest bit embarrassing!

Lemme 'splain. Hm... how to 'splain. Well, maybe it's like this:

I've spent the last year and a half filling the role (more or less unwittingly) of Token American for nearly all in my acquaintance. Not that anyone usually makes a big deal of it; I'm sure most don't even think about it half the time. I certainly don't. But it has nevertheless become a feature of my identity as distinctive as the shape of my nose, more significantly because it's one that otherwise wouldn't even register were I living in, say, Seattle. Thus some subsequent adjustment has been required in order to accommodate this new proboscis on my personality: I've had to figure out just what exactly "being American" means to me, as well as to others, both American and not. It's been quite an interesting, enlightening, ongoing, and surprising process, let me tell you!

One of my first identifiable discoveries should have been obvious: namely, that such a various, multifaceted, multilingual, fiercely multifactioned country as ours is absolutely resistant to sweeping labels and generalities. The usual picture held of us by our bro's across the water comes predominantly from news and entertainment, both of whose ability to truly reflect the beliefs and everyday culture of a (particularly so huge) society is absurdly limited. I've constantly had to point out to people that the stories you see on the news are there precisely because they're newsworthy, which often enough means weird and atypical.

Second, this impossibility of sketching a "typical" American means that I don't have any real reason to wince when admitting my own nationality. Why should I? Yep, I'm from the U.S. Nope, I don't approve of Bush or his war. Yes, I do speak a foreign language. No, I don't eat at McDonald's. But I do enjoy root beer and can't wait to carve into that fat roasted turkey every year, just like in the movies. I wave a sparkler on the fourth of July and think the Second Amendment is a dangerous, ridiculously outdated "right" that has no relevance in today's society. I care about the environment, quote The Simpsons, and don't give a damn about Hollywood gossip. And you know what? I am no more or less extraordinary than anybody else who also whips out that blue passport at the customs check.

All of this means that I, of necessity, purport to know something about my culture. So imagine how startling it is to step up to a gate full of chattering Amis and suddenly see them as an outsider might! I am always a little chagrined to hear that our language really does sound as "rarrarrar" as people's imitations of it, and to notice that more than half the passengers are waiting for the plane in tennis shoes, exactly as stereotype mandates. Not that they're not all individuals inside those sneakers; it just always takes me a bit off guard. I'm not sure what exactly I expect. Maybe my sheepishness simply comes from the necessary recalibration of those idealized images that have been slowly pushing out the normal, sweaty, unfashionable, human reality of any gathering of Earthmen.

This becomes even more pronounced in close, economy-class proximity, when the general American discomfort with physical nearness manifests itself in overly hearty camaraderie. It's kind of sweet, really. In a train full of Germans, people just accept brushing against each other as a natural consequence of the communal effort to get somewhere. On a Northwest flight, however, the guy to my left inadvertently brushes my arm with his jacket and exclaims in dismayed apology. "Oh, excuse me, there!" he announces heartily. "Just getting settled in. Therrre we go. These sure are cramped quarters, huh?" I smile in agreement, half waiting for him to finish with, "Ho! Ho!"

A couple hours later, the guy to my right gets my attention by leaning forward to look into my face and waving a little. I look up; and, indicating his wife's unfinished meal tray, he inquires in a voice disproportionately loud due to his earphones, "SAY, WOULD YOU LIKE SOME ICE CREAM?"

Surprised, grinning, resisting the urge to cover my ears, I shake my head no thanks.

"OKAY, 'CAUSE SHE'S NOT GONNA EAT IT AND IT MIGHT GO TO WASTE."

I make what I hope is an expression appropriately regretful of the tragedy, and we nod and he turns back to his movie. This kind of thing would never happen in Germany. Offer a stranger your unopened ice cream? It's so... cute! Not that Germans aren't polite to each other, but they're just so used to close quarters that there isn't any need for a self-conscious attempt to compensate for being squished together.

I must point out the one thing that almost bordered on ridiculous, though, which occurred when I happened to step on the tip of someone's luggage strap at the baggage carousel. I immediately removed my foot and apologized, but almost not before the owner hastened to apologize to me, assuring me that he didn't want me "to trip up, there." (Ho, ho!) Er... thanks. I think? What? My brother pointed out a potential darker side to this, which might be a sort of passive-aggressive attempt to point out your rudeness by inappropriately taking the blame on oneself. It's a thought. Would correspond well at any rate to a quote I heard recently, claiming that "Germans are too honest to be polite, and Americans are too polite to be honest." Aside from the vaguely distasteful generalizing, I might admit that there's some merit to it -- if only as far as to reflect inexperienced intercultural perceptions. Politeness is all relative, anyway. The guy's behavior at the baggage carousel struck me as all but obsequious, but then many East Asian cultures find us Americans to be loud-mouthed boors.

These thoughts preoccupied me only as long as it took to spot my dad and bro waiting for me at the end of the airport hallway -- after that, I couldn't have given a spare ice cream cup for any focus other than family and laughter around the dinner table.

Academitecture

Nothing skewers the grad experience like PhD Comics...

Costume parties

In case anyone's still interested, there are finally pictures posted from Karnival in Cologne a month ago -- and from our Halloween party, four months ago! Sorry I'm kinda bad about updating this stuff; but they're fun albums, and I figured better late than never. :) Halloween in particular was great, since for a lot of our guests, it was the first time they'd ever really observed the holiday, and we went all out. Mom had sent a big, heavy Mystery Box that turned out to include everything we'd need for a good old-fashioned American Halloween party: shiny foil decorations, recipes, pumpkin-carving kits, even funny little cartoonish invitations to fill out and mail to our friends. We used it all, every last kitschy bit -- and it was a smash!

I'm already planning a 4th of July barbecue. Heh heh, I'll impose my imperialist American traditions, yet!

Du you Sie what I Sie?

As many of our Gentle Readers are aware, German has both a formal and an informal way of saying "you".

"Du" is the familiar, informal address, usually reserved for kids, friends, and family, though sometimes also the occasional stranger who you're relatively sure wouldn't be offended by the insinuation that they're in your peer group. But since the latter case is kinda fuzzy, you're often better off just addressing most strangers by the formal "Sie" (which even insists on being capitalized). This is the respectful form, and what you use with older people, colleagues, strangers, the shopkeeper -- basically anyone outside your intimate circle.

As a barbaric American who doesn't know the meaning of respect, I am fascinated by the use of formal vs. informal addresses. I like to see which one advertisements pick: are they trying to be your buddy, and thus dutz you? Or are they trying to sound professional and respectful, and so the placard addresses you as Sie? The rules are often pretty predictable in social interactions -- for example, you always call an older person "Sie" until they invite you to do otherwise -- but sometimes I struggle to remember who has offered me the use of du and who I still call Sie. A pretty good rule of thumb is the First-Name Basis: since using "Herr" and "Frau" in Germany is considerably more standard than is the use of "Mr." and "Ms." in the States, you can usually assume that someone's introduction of themselves by first name equals an implicit invitation to dutz them. Yet it's still only implicit, and there are certainly cases where first names still Sietz each other (many work colleagues, for example).

Most of the time, native speakers navigate this sea of dus and Sies and ihrs and Ihnens and euchs with ease, and it's only us non-natives who get clammy hands when we want to summon a pronoun and suddenly realize we've got to think about it. So it is sometimes with secret, relieved Schadenfreude that I hear native speakers occasionally getting tripped up themselves.

For example, most of my own learners and I dutz each other. I'm not exactly sure how this came about; perhaps as a result of both establishing a first-name basis in the classroom, as well as an outgrowth of the fact that our main classroom language, English, only has one form of address. Or maybe it's the relaxed, informal atmosphere; or because many of them are older than me; or that I'm not a regular part of the workplace and could therefore subconsciously fall outside the category of "coworker"; or maybe at some point I, the foreigner, unconsciously started it and they all just followed suit. (Did I mention this can get complicated...??) Whatever the reason, we're mostly "du".

So the other day, when Bert showed up to pick me up for lunch, he met a group of my learners as we poured out of the meeting room, laughing, and I went to introduce them. Taking the safe route, I introduced them as "Herr This," "Herr That," and "Herr Lissner."

What followed was an amusing flurry of awkward dus and Sies, liberally peppered with first names followed by "Herr"s. After all, Bert was an unknown coworker; but he was also being introduced as my boyfriend. Was this a work context or a personal context?? I rubbed my hands gleefully.

And yet, I'll admit that, most of the time -- despite the odd complication here and there -- I quite enjoy the Sie and du system. I like the option of showing someone respect (or distance!) in how you address them.

This is not to say that there aren't moments when it can turn nearly surreal. For example, one place where you definitely use Sie is in the doctor's office. I have a wonderful doctor: an older, eastern-European gentleman with solemn brown eyes that remind me of a kindly hound. I've never had a male obgyn before; but this man just oozes competence and professional sympathy. During my last visit, though, I was suddenly struck by a sense of absurdity at making Sie-oriented small talk with someone who is busily engaged in being decidedly more familiar with you than any friend you call "du"! And yet something about it was simultaneously pleasant: the simple use of the formal, businesslike address with each other could make an entire situation formal and businesslike, effectively enabling you to remain clothed in dignity while not clothed in anything else!

I wonder if English once had both a formal and an informal address?

(ps. A random side note about the title. You know that Christmas song, "Do You Hear What I Hear?" Great song. But remember the part where the shepherd boy says to the Mighty King,

Do you know what I know?
In your palace warm, mighty king,
Do you know what I know?
A child, a child shivers in the cold,
Let us bring him silver and gold.

These lines always puzzled me. First of all, to a kid, the shepherd boy's attitude sounds more than a little taunting: "Do you know what I know? Huh? Do you? I bet you don't!" I always thought talking this way to a Mesopotamian king seemed a good shortcut to a beheading. Secondly, silver and gold?? He's shivering in the cold! What this child needs are some blankets!)

Lustige Lektüre

A weekly stop by The Onion ("America's Finest News Source") is always worth it. Check out the two latest "opinion" columns -- even the accompanying photos of the supposed writers are priceless!

Strange... It's Almost as If This Were Some Sort of 'China Town'

You Know What's Stupid? Everything I Don't Understand.

Speaking of Scotland...

I'm reading an adventure book that takes place in the Highlands in the 18th century, and the writing is just sparkling. So much so that I'm compelled to share a couple passages:

"He shrugged, irritably waving off a sudden cloud of voracious midges. Unable to shake their attention, he ducked into the dark, brewery atmosphere of the pub, leaving the midges to mill outside in a frenzied cloud of inquiry."

"The inhabitants of the street scattered before him like geese, startled by the sight of a hurtling Scotsman, kilt flying around his churning knees."

Man! I wish I could write like that. Instead all I can do is chortle appreciatively to myself while the other passengers on the train scootch imperceptibly further away. Ahhh, English.

The Woman with Her Heart in the Highlands

Sooo, I guess it's time to reveal the deeply-hidden secret that there'll soon be another Eggers on this side of the pond. (Er, one that's immediately related to me, at any rate!)

Let me start off by saying that my parents are my role models, albeit in very different ways. In my Mom's case, this is a woman whom the backs of romance novels would describe as an "indomitable spirit".

Most people wonder idly what's "out there." But Mom has never stopped going out to see what's out there. She grew up taking care of her own family, doing all the cooking and cleaning and grocery shopping and paying bills and everything an adult does to care for a household... from the age of ten. Mom is no stranger to adversity. If we're talking about novels, this woman's life could easily comprise one -- although it would likely be rejected by editors as too dramatic to be believable. Her biological mother died when Mom was seven, and she was adopted by her invalid grandmother, who then died three weeks before Mom's eighteenth birthday. She married when she was eighteen, divorced, and joined the Air Force to see the world. She married again while her brand-new, premature son breathed oxygen in a tank in the hospital for seven months, finally surviving against all odds and to the astonishment of his doctors; less than a year later, she added some twins; hopped around from base to base; and six years later busily packed up the young family to move to a foreign country. I still remember standing in the dining room in our house on-base in Spokane: Mom was on the phone with Dad, who had called from work, and they were talking excitedly about incomprehensible grown-up things when Mom almost fell out of her chair. They talked a bit more, Mom hung up, and she turned to me looking like someone who has just been told they're actually the emperor of China. "Pickle!" she said. "We're going to Germany!" (I think my response was something like, "Oh.")

Mom's enthusiasm, though, was catching. The night before we left -- all three of us kids snuggled into one bed in temporary base-housing -- she described how magical it would be to see the world, how much mystery and wonder was Out There.

And she was right. Mom spent the next six years soaking up as much Germany and Europe as any single human could. It was not long after we arrived and she got her own bearings that she took over the USO's "Guten Tag" program, an orientation program geared toward introducing other new Americans to German culture. The Guten Tag program was her pet: just as she continued to do for us, she was devoted to spreading the love of discovery and travel to others. She gently encouraged frightened new G.I.'s and their families to explore their surroundings; to meet the people; to learn some of the language; to try new food and experiences; to blend a bit with -- and appreciate -- the culture; in short, to recognize the opportunity for what it was and not be afraid to discover what could be Out There. She was tour guide and language teacher and cultural liaison all at once (though somehow this woman still found time to bake us cupcakes for school birthdays and chaperone every single field trip!).

Mom's involvement only grew. I think, at one point, she held five different part-time jobs. She found herself mixing cement in Belgium, marching in a Karnival parade in the Pfalz, driving a brand-new Mercedes down the Hockenheimring (the most famous Grand Prix track in western Germany), even delivering newspapers in Landstuhl on the weekends. She still laughs when she recounts sitting in the front yard with her best friend, Nena, as the two of them relaxed in the sun with a bottle of wine. "Oh, damn," Mom had griped, "I can't go shopping in Strassbourg this weekend. I have to lead a tour to Paris!"

When Mom and Dad weren't running around Europe for work, they were packing us up to run around it in their free time. We poked through Italy, Spain, Bavaria, Holland; Mom can still tell you the best places for lunch in random, tiny French villages, how salt is mined in Austria, or which trains to hop through Switzerland.

Of course, when you're a kid, you just accept this as life. It doesn't occur to you that any of this could be unusual, because you don't know anything else. It's only later that you recognize your extraordinary luck in growing up with such a multifacted, various, and yet safe exposure to the New. I sometimes complain about the fact that I don't really "come from" anywhere -- especially in comparison to the bogglingly deep roots that anchor Bert to the very soils of his homeland. But to tell the truth... I wouldn't have it any other way. Maybe that's only because I don't know it any other way.

But Mom does. She grew up thinking of Europe as "a place where rich people go." If anyone had told the overstressed thirteen-year-old, surviving off hard work and government aid, that she'd someday picnic in castle ruins in Germany, she would have laughed before turning back to washing the family's laundry by hand in the bathtub.

So you can imagine the guts it took for her to leave it all behind when her marriage fell apart. Mom and Dad finally admitted, toward the end of our six-year stay in Europe, that it probably Wasn't Meant to Be. A few short months later, Mom found herself in the desert in Arizona, 36 years old and sharing a bedroom with her friend's daughter and wondering how she was going to start all over again.

Well, of course she did. And by 2007, Mom had built up quite a life in Tucson. She had learned a new trade, cultivated a successful career, and even actually owned a house -- her first one -- which she then slowly filled with nice furniture. As she describes it, this seemingly mundane detail was what allowed her to finally feel like a grown-up: gypsy no more! She wasn't moving every couple of years! She was established, had friends and a career and a life, three kids grown and through college, and matching furniture.

And she looked around and said, "This is it?"

I should mention that, while Mom has certainly been persistent in attending college off and on again over the years -- even getting her Associate's Degree while we were little and taking night classes at Pima Community College while I was at the UofA -- she's never had the luxury of being able to study full-time. Yet the woman should have. She loves to learn. I think she was as fascinated by the material while I was in school as I was, and we would stay up long into the night talking about history and language and politics. Especially in recent years, her book collection has become almost exclusively non-fiction, and she's grown into a veritable unofficial expert on the history of the British Isles. She especially loves Scotland: I think something about its wild, dauntless spirit calls to her own.

Well, after a lifetime of taking care of everyone else around her, my mom is finally doing something for herself. She sold her house; she left her job. She said goodbye to her friends. She packed up her car and drove to Pittsburgh to stay with her nephew and sister-in-law for a while.

And in August, she's moving to Scotland.

Congratulations, Mom. Let's go explore the wide, wide world again together!

Aw!

You know what makes my job gratifying?

When I walk into a room where the learners are waiting for me, and they cheer, "Oh boy, the best two hours of my week!"

Viva la language teaching. :)

Fructose and spice and everything nice

So because I am a generally food-oriented person, I thought I'd blog some more about food.

I like food. In fact, I tend to be a relatively constant nibbler from the moment I get up until right before going to bed, popping into the kitchen at least every couple of hours to crunch at a Knusperbrot or snap off another piece from our pile of Tembadoro dark chocolate. It's not particularly much at a time; in fact, big meals make me uncomfortable and sluggish. But it's certainly constant. And I've always been this way -- even in second grade, I remember hating being forced to space out my energy intake into three hulking, inflexible, timed, official "meals" within a long day of school and homework and play. Not allowed to eat in the classrooms in high school, I would chomp carrots and string cheese walking down the hall from class to class, and then save pieces of my lunch for the bus on the way home.

Well, consarn it, I'm a grown-up now, and I'll eat how I want. If left to my own devices, the biggest meal of the day will be a bowl of oatmeal in the morning. This is then followed, over the next several hours, by an assortment of rye crackers with cheese, a hardboiled egg, a scoop of herring salad, some peanut butter right out of the jar, a bowl of mushroom soup, half an avocado, a piece of chocolate, some yogurt out of the tub, and, I dunno, a handful of almonds. I certainly get enough calories (especially if you factor in all the beer and wine that gets drunk around here!). I just don't like to take it all in at once. Maybe this supports Bert's proposition that I am, indeed, a bird. (Or a sheep?)

Herr Bert, on the other hand, will go for hours without even thinking of food. He'll maybe have a cup of coffee in the morning at work, and then sometimes not even take a lunch break and come home with nothing more in his system than that bite of cake from his coworker's birthday. I would be famished. Irritable, shaky, unable to think straight. But he's not even hungry! I try to be polite and space out my munching to coincide with his dinnertime; but usually (unfortunately) I'm so impatient that, within the time it takes to select an evening menu, chop the salad, boil the noodles, heat up the leftover sauce, and even -- good lord! -- make a grocery-store run, I've nibbled enough ingredients to be satisfied before he's even drained the pasta. Most of our "dinnertimes" consist of me sipping a glass of wine while he, with unfathomable patience, starts into the first real bite of anything he's had all day.

His way is probably more practical, not to mention polite. It certainly seems to fit much better with the rhythm of the rest of society, to be able to conform to scheduled big-meal times. But I tried to force myself into that habit for twenty-seven years, and finally, I'm done. I'll eat this banana on the train, thank you very much!

However, no sooner had I taken my rebellious, munchy stand than the situation got even more complicated: namely, the discovery last year that my body has a weird little condition (like 30% of bodies with central-European ancestry, actually, except that only some show symptoms!) called "fructose malabsorption." This means it doesn't produce enough of the enzyme fructase. Sort of akin to lactose intolerance, except with fructose: because I've slowly ceased, within the last few years, to be equipped to break down this complex sugar molecule, it simply passes merrily on through without being digested. Hooray! And like many cases of lactose intolerance, fructose malabsorption often develops in adulthood; but unlike lactose intolerance, there's no little pill to take to supply your body with the missing enzymes (probably because the condition is only just now being discovered instead of simply dismissed into the hazy category of "irritable bowel syndrome"). Other symptoms are fatigue, crankiness, and vitamin deficiency due to the inhibited nutrient absorption. Ah ha, I thought I'd always felt weird after eating apples. But who would have thought that fruit would be bad for you??

There are also some other pretty common foods that contain relatively high quantities of fructose, among them being honey and -- get this! -- wheat. Yep, wheat breaks down into long chains of fructose molecules. (So does spelt, which is an older relative of wheat.) I guess it makes sense, though. Continuing the discussion of artificial behavior patterns developed within the last hundred years, we weren't really meant to eat fruit all year round -- sweets, even less so. No wonder some bodies simply raise the white flag.

So now my eating habits are even weirder. Our cupboards are packed with rye and oats, and I've become a huge fan of the potato. Many vegetables are still a go, but apples and pears may as well have a "Mr. Yuck" sticker attached to them. (Remember Mr. Yuck? The green icky-face sticker that warns children away from poison? Ha ha, good old Mr. Yuck.) The fun part is trying to explain this to people -- especially when visiting an unfamiliar baker. I ask if they have anything 100% rye, and the resulting dialogue is quite predictable:

"No, but this one is mostly rye."

"What is 'mostly'?"

"60%."

"Hm. I'm looking for something without wheat or spelt."

They never hear the "or spelt" part. "Why, yes, we have this whole-grain spelt Health Bread."

"Spelt, you say?"

"Yes. Spelt is healthy."

"Wish I could, thanks. No 100% rye or oat?"

Now, they get snippy. It's like, they've been magnanimous enough to carry an alternative for the gluten-intolerant (for whom spelt is still not an acceptable substitute, by the way!), and now I don't want it? Well! "There is no such thing as 100% rye," they huff. "The most you will ever find is 90%!"

I refrain from mentioning that, in this Marvelous Land of Bread (Germany's lesser-known title, behind Land of Beer and Land of Chocolate), I have found quite a number of specimens in which, although the 2% of salt was listed among the ingredients, there was nary a mention of wheat. I thank them and seek my ryedical fortunes elsewhere.

The good thing about all this business, I guess, is that it keeps my hand out of the cookie jar. And frankly, I'd rather know what the problem is and be able to avoid it -- no matter how weird or impractical -- than enjoy that caramel apple and suffer the mysterious consequences later.

At least coffee, chocolate, and red wine are still on the "friend" list! And french fries. Viva la health food!

Grading fun

Man, Jorge calls it every time!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KATIE!

Katie shows me a thing or two about swimming

My little sister, Kaitlyn, turned six on February 4th! This year, the 4th fell on Rose Monday -- otherwise known as Karnival. So there were parades all over Germany, just in time for one rose's birthday!

I hope you had a great day, Katie!!

Achtung! Englisch!

As I write this, I am suddenly aware of a household emergency: we are out of Tembadoro 80% dark chocolate bars! Aiee!! This not only indicates a rather embarrassing speed of consumption (these things are by no stretch of the imagination snack-sized), it also, horrifyingly!, means that there remains none left within reach to be eaten. This situation must be remedied, and quickly.

But while I await my dapper young Deutscher to get home so that he can accompany me through the dark to the supermarket (where we'll also pick up an emergency supply of red wine), I'd like to write a little something about my work!

It all happened... amazingly fast. I landed back in Germany on September 26th after the Summer of No Work, and within two weeks, had half a dozen different teaching contract offers. Two more weeks of bureaucratic hilarity ensued (which I won't get into here) and by November 1st, I had a full schedule as a freelance "language trainer".

And frankly, it's just great. As a freelancer, I enjoy a little more structural flexibility than in some other teaching jobs: it takes some finagling -- especially if you get contracts from several companies! -- but with luck, you can set up your schedule to accommodate a whole bunch of different groups at near-ideal times. I also had the tremendous luck to meet just the right people (thanks to Bert's alert eye at the BASF Lernzentrum), and suddenly this whole regional network of English trainers opened up before me, like fudge ripple through a tub of vanilla. Turns out there's actually huge demand in this area for what we offer! Long story short, I now teach Technical English to five different learner groups at BASF; one advanced private lesson per week to a manager at BASF; four hours per week of tutoring in Neustadt; one Advanced English for Business class (twice weekly) at the University of Applied Sciences in Heidelberg; plus two more classes at Heidelberg, this time for the university lecturers who are interested in improving their English.

It's a full schedule -- not to mention a lot of travel -- but great fun. Ludwigshafen is the world headquarters of BASF, and their campus is massive. It takes up 7 km along the Rhein River! Security is also pretty heavy, and so the most I'd ever seen of it before -- aside from the familiar, lovely view known to every Ludwigshafener of slender belching smokestacks in the distance -- was on a short bus tour for visitors.

Now I get up three mornings a week and take my brown suede teaching bag to the tram stop to catch the Strassenbahn. I call it the "BASF Bahn": the thing is practically empty when it shows up at Berliner Platz, before the wool-coat-wearing, briefcase-schlepping crowd trundles in. Then everyone piles out a few minutes later in front of Gate 1 and whips out their IDs to beep at the entrance. It's a weird feeling to realize you are also one of these guys. Almost every morning, I think of that scene in "Fantasia 2000", where a bunch of stylized cartoon commuters clings to the loops hanging from a subway ceiling to the tune of "Rhapsody in Blue". Somewhere, the wild kid in me who decapitated her Barbies is pointing and laughing at my new playing-grown-up game.

I beep my own important-looking ID and clipclop inside (trainers are expected to dress the part, too). But unlike the other clipcloppers, I get to turn and head to the production area; my group contracts are all in one production department.

The inside of the plant looks really cool. Because it's so massive, they have attempted to make it almost like a miniature city, replete with tree-lined streets, sidewalks, and their own bus system and railways. Except the buildings are covered in various colored pipes and gauges and weird apparatuses, and enormous pipes arc over the streets from building to building. It's like being inside a giant motherboard. I walk down the sidewalk, and a voice squawks orders in German over the PA system; mysterious steam emits from mysterious vents; tall, hardhat-wearing, broad-shouldered German men walk by in reflective blue coats and grin at me. I grin back. They're like Lego men! The whole thing is like something out of a movie.

And my groups themselves are so cool. They're technicians, and their laid-back, funny camaraderie is infectious. I especially like some of my beginner groups: they actually have fun learning the language, and use their limited vocabulary in creative ways to poke at each other.

Today, for example, we practiced how to use the English auxiliary verb "to do". The learners were about to begin an exercise, so one announces to the other in loud, deliberate English: "Sven! Do-you-have a sheet of paper?"

Sven replies, equally loudly and deliberately, "Yes, Wolfgang, I do have a sheet of paper!"

"Do you want to give it me?"

"Unfortunately" -- this was one of our vocabulary words -- "I do not have one for you."

In another group, I had them practice interrogative syntax by thinking up and writing down some random questions. Afterward, I instructed them to ask their questions of each other. This seemed to take them by surprise, and so everyone sat up straight to prepare himself for this new exercise. One then turned to his colleague and began his question with, "Dear Franz." Hahaha! They're so playful that I sometimes have trouble keeping us all (including me) on track to finish the day's lesson plan.

Occasionally, I have time afterward to catch my own tall, hardhat-wearing, bestubbled "physics technician" for lunch in the (surprisingly nice) cafeteria. Most of the time, though, it's a quick jog back to the Strassenbahn so that I can get to Heidelberg for my Business English class.

There, my students are all majoring in Sports Management. It's pretty much what it sounds like: the business end of the sports industry. I am, frankly, completely apathetic to organized sports of any kind; but our class concerns itself almost exclusively with language and business in more general terms, and so I don't think my (highly athletic) class has discovered this yet. They're a bit younger than my BASF groups -- mostly your typical university ages, between 19 and 25 -- but just as energetic. Admittedly, it sometimes seems they spend more time in competitions of wit than they actually do with the material, but they're fun and it keeps me on my toes. Besides, when you're reading a text on various types of banking, you've got to liven it up somehow!

All in all, I teach about 18 hours a week -- which means lots and lots of preparation, especially since most of the lessons are completely different from each other and require completely different material. Add the time it takes to just commute from one appointment to another, and I put in a pretty full week. The only negative side to all of this is that I only actually get paid for those 18 hours of teaching; and so although the hourly income seems pretty high, the travel and prep time fully justifies my fee.

Well, that physics technician just got home, and so it's time to go solve this lack of chocolate problem. Hope all's well out there in Januaryland!

Internetless at the End of Times

I'd like to mention that my Dad is hilarious.

First, a little background:

Right about the middle of November, some cable down the street gave up the ghost and we were (gasp!!) without internet at the apartment for THREE. WHOLE. WEEKS. During this time, our bright and helpful internet provider brightly and helpfully promised to send a technician between the hours of x and y; and time and time again, nobody showed up. When we’d call and demand to know where the guy was this time, they’d brightly and concernedly assure us that, according to the technician, he’d “tried to call, but no one answered the phone.”

This is where the usually sweet-voiced and urbane Bert lay ze Schmack daun with logical, methodical Germanness. He pointed out, in his soft urbane voice, that first, no calls had been made to the home phone number provided during the appointed time. Call records also show that neither have any calls been attempted to any of his other numbers, whether cell phone or work (although all numbers have been confirmed as operative). Secondly, two people had been waiting attentively in the place specified – our apartment, at the correct given address – during the entire arranged time period. Thirdly, the technician’s fulfillment of his duty hinged in no way upon calling, anyway: the agreement was for him to simply show up, not to pretend to make non-existent phone calls as an excuse for running out of time for all of that day’s appointments. This was the second time Arcor’s service had been proven unacceptable, and if the situation was not remedied immediately, Bert would pursue legal recourse to end his contract.

Our connection was back up the following day, with an apology and a credit.

Anyway, as soon as Dad heard we were back online, he wrote the following:

While you were gone:

Cold fusion was harnessed, ending our energy problems.
Global warming has been stopped.
The stock market hit 21,300.
A wonderful Independent-Party woman was elected president of the US.
Aliens landed, taught us a lot of cool stuff, and gave rides.
Both cancer and AIDS were cured.
Jesus came back, visited, and it was really nice. No apocalypse.
World peace has been declared.
We spent a wonderful weekend at the Dells.

Wintry wonderings

You know, sometimes I think we humans have really forced ourselves into some unnatural behaviors. For example, aren't mammals supposed to sleep at some point in midday? Don't most mammals do this? Yet because we have mechanically-controlled schedules and a complex societal/economic infrastructure that requires the cooperation of more than just a small tribe of hunters, we can't allow ourselves this. "Thanks for the meeting, guys, sounds pretty interesting. Excuse me now while I sleep through the heat of midday." We allow this to children, but not to stressed-out, responsibility-laden adults. Why else do we all seem to experience that mid-afternoon drag? Some of us turn to snacks for energy, because we can't just lay down and sleep. Let's start a campaign for the good of humanity: More naps! Less sugar!

I think this is also a pretty good explanation for why people get grouchy and tired during winter. The sun is low; daylight is short. For centuries, this was when we -- out of necessity! -- stopped working in the frozen fields, and spent our time inside on small projects, passing the long evenings with stories and community. But now that we're no longer so dependent on daylight to carry out our tasks, we try to keep the same hours and activities that we do during the summer. Doesn't this just somehow seem... wrong? Artificial? In contradiction to our biological rhythms? As a result, we're tired; performance lags; we get cranky. Here I don't recommend that companies change their policies to account for "winter behavior", but maybe it would at least help us all individually to recognize that we're just going to feel a little less than 100% between November and March. Or, well, at least it helps me to recognize this! :)

Then, maybe I'm just particularly sensitive to all this "season" business, anyway. After spending so long in the desert, these irregularities in sunlight availability must be seriously impacting my system. I've never enjoyed spring so much as I did last year: "So that's where we get all these cliches about the Earth 'coming back to life'! It really does stir, like an old man slowly waking up." No wonder our ancestors could so easily personify Nature. Following this, the whole summer was just an orgy of energy and happiness and activity.

Come October, though, I started to noticeably slow down and get more pensive; and then by November, I'm downright sluggish. The effort to try to maintain the activity expectations set up by the summer makes me irritable. I've found myself sliding back into some of the melancholy thoughts I remember from last January: "Am I really making the right decisions, here? Where am I going with work? Why am I still broke? Am I actually a good language trainer, or will I get found out as a fraud at any moment? Why aren't I working on my PhD right now? Where's my family? Do I actually have a 'home' anywhere?"

The realization displeases me -- "I thought I was over this!" -- until I consider the possibility that maybe it's just the time of year for brooding. It would make sense: nothing has actually changed enough to justify my sudden, inexpicable shift in attitude, except the season. Maybe if it snowed here, the landscape would take on that soft, magical look that it lends the Erzgebirge, quieting the harsh lines of the bare tree branches and reflecting some of the low light back up into the sky. But in Ludwigshafen, it only rains, making the highrises uglier, wetter, and darker, and more visible through the naked trees. Ugh. At least the realization that it's probably just the time of year helps quiet inner concerns that I'm actually dissatisfied with my newly-made life.

This is certainly true of the daylight factor. Bert was the one who noticed it: he says I'm a bird. As soon as the sun comes up, "cheepcheepcheep!" I'm energetic and talkative and optimistic. But as soon as the towel is dropped back down over my birdcage, I get quiet and slow-moving again. He's right! Now that I thought to notice it, evidence is everywhere. If I have to get up before sunrise, the world, and my outlook, are gloomy and cranky. The moment it's light outside, I have this personality shift, and feel like a productive, successful contributor to society, in control of my day and my world. Weird. A little unsettling. And yet simultaneously comforting, in that any bouts of moodiness will probably shift back again naturally, come ten o'clock, or springtime.

The sheer realization of this appears to be a good coping strategy. The other two are 1) working out and 2) eating. Yesterday, the former was it: I punished that elliptical machine for an hour, pouring cleansing sweat, bathing my brain in oxygen, clearing out my insides with the simultaneously energizing and comforting rhythm of pounding feet and heart. I love that full-body swing that running/elliptical training facilitates. You feel so powerful and light, reveling in the primal joy of a healthy body's freedom of movement. Today, though, I could hardly muster enough energy to catch my Strassenbahn on time (it was also raining, which might contribute to the Sunlight Theory). When I got home, I proceeded to change into my pajamas, flop down on the couch, and eat the better part of a rather sizable bar of 80% dark chocolate, washed down with most of a bottle of red wine, plus a block of Swiss cheese, for good measure.

The only thing left to do is just hunker down and wait for March!

The clothes make the panhandler

I notice that when I'm dressed for work, people approach me in public significantly more often than when I'm wearing, say, jeans. It can be for various reasons: they ask directions, make casual small talk while waiting for the tram, or offer a religious pamphlet. Mostly, though, it's a request for money. This includes both "normal" panhandlers and schoolkids needing donations for various projects, as well as those guys with clipboards who want you to sign up for this-or-that. Yet take away the slacks and button down shirt, and these same people walk right by me, headed for the other guy in the slacks and shirt. Funny, that the difference in behavior is so noticeable. I guess "jeans" must somehow equal "dicey bet," while "slacks" equal "probable high-paying business job." I'm polite, but usually decline (which makes me feel like Ebenezer Scrooge). I want to save them the effort by wearing a sign with my work clothes that says, "Teacher, sorry," accompanied by a little graphic of a fly escaping an empty cartoon wallet.

A new year on the Weinstrasse

Happy 2008, friends and family!

I hope everybody had a good "slide" into the new year. :) Sorry the blog has been a bit neglected; our internet connection went ffkkzbk in the middle of November (more on that later) and got reconnected just in time for me to disappear into the coffee-filled depths of Seattle for Christmas. That trip was marvelous. And way too short. But no sooner had I landed in Frankfurt than this tall handsome German appeared to distract me from my family-missing sorrows, and swooped me away for a week-long New Year's vacation in the Frozen East. So of course the first thing I can think to do is lean back in my rocking chair with a glass of Dornfelder, set the bifocals on the end of my nose, and commence with a long-winded droning elaboration of all that's been happening to me, me, me! :)

(Or you can just see some pics!)

******************

January 1-6

Olaf called the Erzgebirge in winter “German Siberia.” Given that, though I’ve never been to Russian Siberia, Dr. Zhivago looked pretty darned cold, I’ll take this as a sufficiently apt description.

From the time we arrived in Sehma on the night of December 3oth until boarding a train back to Mannheim a week later, I couldn’t stop commenting on the temperature. "Damn," I’d muffle through my scarf as we stepped outside, "it’s cold." Or later, listening to the wind attempt to tear out the rafters outside our cozy loft bedroom: "Damn! It’s cold!" Or, stepping into skis before getting enough blood moving to ward off the wind’s icy blue fingers: "Dammit’scold!!"

I was definitely the picture of a wimp – or, as ze Germans would say, a “warm-showerer” – while pulling on wool leggings and a wool shirt under my normal pajamas before climbing under two layers of feather comforters to sleep. Bert’s family even seemed mildly concerned. (There is a great picture of me and Bert’s sister, Heidi, a strapping Viking maiden if I’ve ever seen one, as we go for a walk through the snow: I’m wearing an arctic parka, she’s wearing what appears to be a rain jacket.)

At last gratification was mine, however, when two nights ago, Bert sat straight up in bed, looked at me with consternation in those enormous brown eyes and exclaimed, “Verdammt! Es ist kalt!”

The thing is, it is so cold because it is beautiful. If the Erzgebirge in March looks nearly like a picture-print by Currier and Ives, the Erzgebirge in January is a winter wonderland. Thick white snow covers everything: as if a whole town (and the forests, hills, and rivers around it) had been dipped in whipped cream. The naked tree branches were coated in enough ice to turn them into sculptures of pure white lace; and in the silent blue evenings, golden Schwibbögen would light up the windows of every house in the snow-covered town. The whole place had the look of one of those model villages you’d set out on top of the bookshelf at Christmastime. Plus the temperature really wasn’t insufferable: the parka had been a Christmas gift from my marvelous family, and – despite a sure resemblance to Joel Fleischmann in Northern Exposure – I was grateful for every minute spent bundled in its feathery depths.

Pretty pretty pretty!

Where to begin? The trip was, as ever, magical. We pulled in early enough for a light Abendbrot with Bert’s parents on Sunday night, and then settled into an apartment downstairs from Olaf and Corinna (which Olaf’s brother owns but doesn’t really use).

When I say “apartment” I mean “bottom floor of a large, pretty, old stone house that has been sectioned off for three families to occupy.” Indeed, few of the houses in the Erzgebirge – or in Germany, for that matter – are single-family dwellings. There are some, sure, but in general there just doesn’t seem to be that tradition of inexhaustibly vast frontier that made us Americans so accustomed to roominess; here, owning the entire building – plus enough surrounding property to make a front as well as a back yard – is a bit of a luxury.

However, unlike the vaguely unappetizing apartment highrises that line the residential streets of Ludwigshafen (which itself can’t be blamed – after all, the bombed-out city was entire rebuilt in the fifties, and on a budget!) the “apartments” in Sehma are absolute coziness. We woke up on Monday morning to sunlight streaming through huge windows, and a snow-covered landscape rolling gently to the mountains in the distance. It was even a little like waking up at Grandma’s house in Colorado!

That day, Monday, was New Year’s Eve, which we spent making raclette with Olaf and Corinna, Heidi and her boyfriend, Jens, and another couple from Leipzig. Raclette is neat – a very social meal. It consists of one large electric cooking device in the middle of the table, with two surfaces: the top can be used for grilling or frying, and underneath sit eight individual, wedge-shaped little skillets, one for each guest. All around the table are bowls of uncooked food pieces, which you can assemble to make a variety of mini meals under the cooker in your tiny skillet. I started with a chicken, mushroom, tomato, olive, and cheese concoction, followed by eggs and potatoes with bacon. Mmm… bacon… We also had salad and lots of wine. The leisurely meal took hours until we suddenly realized that it was a quarter to twelve!

Outside the party went. We stood around a snow-covered hay bale on a snow-covered hillside with a view of the snow-covered Sehma valley below, and by the time the bubbly had been distributed, it was midnight. And I gotta say, the best way to celebrate New Year’s has got to be looking down on a valley in the Erzgebirge. All the towns came alive: bells started drifting up from every corner of the valley, followed by the marvelous, anticipatory screeee! of firecrackers. Pink and green and gold lit up the night; we danced around in the snow; friends called from other parts of the country; and “der lustige Bert” proceeded to light a few rockets of our own and then flee so comically that he was even more entertaining than the fireworks.

Prost Neujahr!

The party then continued a few houses down the road at Bert’s uncle Gert’s house, where everyone else sampled Gert’s famous punch… while I fell asleep on the couch.

So on that note, here are two observations from my first week back in the Fatherland: 1) Everyone is having babies. 2) I forgot how much people here can drink!

It’s true. On Sunday night – before New Year’s Eve – I felt unusually sleepy. Then I realized that this might have to do (other than jetlag) with the fact that I’d been offered, within the first day of being back in the country, a total of two beers, two glasses of wine, and a Schnapps, for no particular reason except that we’d stopped by various houses to visit.

It’s not like people sit around getting drunk, any more than most Americans would sit down and consume two liters of 7-up at a time. Beer is simply What You Drink. I hate to stereotype, but sometimes it seems we Americans have a relationship with alcohol that lies somewhere between titillating excess and scowling Puritan disapproval. Whereas Arizona law dictates no sale of wine before a certain time on Sundays, the beer on the menu here costs the same as, and often less than, a bottle of water. You can go to any Christmas market and enjoy a cup of mulled wine – standing right there in, gasp, public! My God, what if the children see??

I’m pretty sure that this has something to do with a centuries-long tradition of sterilizing the village water by simply fermenting it. (I’ve also heard that this accounts for the British love of tea.) Funnily enough, people do look at me a bit sideways when I drink tap water instead of bottled mineral water. “Well,” they say, eyeing my glass. “I suppose one can. It’s potable. But you don’t have to,” they protest, “We have plenty of normal water right here!” And a 1.5-liter bottle of sparkling Odenwaldquelle hovers over my glass. I attempt to convince them that the water out of the faucet here is delicious; but the general reaction is still a bit as if I had started to drink, I dunno, mouthwash, instead of just rinsing with it.

As for the second observation: 2007 appears to have been the Year of the Baby. I read an article a while back that mentioned a correspondence between the jubilant World Cup in Germany in summer 2006 and a sharp rise in birth rates nine months later; and am inclined to believe it. This is good news. The country could use a little population boost. With an economy based on socio-capitalism, the successful financing of social programs (like public healthcare) is heavily reliant on having a healthy generational bell curve. That is, the population should consist of mostly working-age folks helping to support the young and old on either end; and yet in the last couple of generations, the population has only been getting fewer and older. Not to mention that holding Olaf and Corinna’s bright-eyed baby, Samuel, is a warm and snuggly prescription for a New Year’s Day hangover.

Speaking of New Year’s Day and babies, I finally got to meet Sophia! Conny and Nate were at her mother’s house in Bernsbach for the holiday, and so we got to catch up a little over coffee and cookies. I also finally got to meet Conny’s sister, Franzi, and her brother, Thomas, which felt weird, seeing as how I’d seen so many pictures and heard enough stories that I’d completely forgotten I’d never actually met them. It was like talking to moving photos. Franzi’s daughter is just a couple months older than Sophie, and so it was a baby-filled visit. Sophie’s great. She’s good-natured and curious; plus Nate’s parents had brought her a warm fuzzy outfit from the States that includes a hood with ears, so that she looks like a stuffed animal when bundled into her carriage for a walk.

Franzi (holding Louisa), me (holdie Sophie), Heidi, & Conny

Meanwhile, Nate and Conny are as funny as ever. Nate couldn’t get enough of remarking on the uniformity of Erzgebirge Christmas decorations, and feigned dry, Natelike shock when he spied a multicolored Schwibbogen in one window. “Is there a hotline we can call to report this?” he asked gravely (before discovering that the offending Weihnachtsschmuck was a perfectly respectable white-light-bedecked arch, seen through a multicolored stained-glass window).

New Year’s Day also included a succulent lunch prepared by Bert’s uncle, and another walk through excessively charming snowy villageness back in Sehma with Olaf and Corinna.

The next day, Bert, his mom, his uncle, and I hopped aboard the steam-engined train to Oberwiesenthal (the skiing town at the top of the Fichtelberg), strolled across the border, and walked about an hour or so to a Czech café where I saw they served “American potatoes.”

“What are ‘American potatoes’?” I asked eagerly.

“Kind of like french fries, but they’re bigger and thicker, and lightly spiced. Plus they leave the skins on,” explained Gert. (I like Gert.)

Wedges! The menu offered potato wedges. Not that German fries aren’t heavenly, but I was curious to order “American” something from a Czech menu and see how it would come out.

They were awesome. Fresh, plump, crisp, tender, spicy, and exactly like you would get at a steakhouse. I gobbled up both my own and the rest of everyone else's, and was tempted to order another, separate portion. Nothing like hot salty potatoes on a cold snowy day!

While Regina and Gert headed back to Sehma by bus, Bert and I hopped off a few miles early so that we could walk a bit longer through the snowy woods and hills. I couldn’t get enough of stomping around in the snow; and thanks to Shauna’s merino wool socks, my feet stayed toasty warm despite the minus-whatever degrees. :)

The next day, we decided we still hadn’t tanked up enough fresh mountain air before the impending return to BASF-scented Ludwigshafen, and so we spend the day in the hills near Wiesenbad, hiking a couple of hours up to the castle in Wolkenstein. Somehow it seems there are only a few ways to describe wintry bucolic beauty before you resort to exhausted cliché: suffice to say, every step of every walk and hike was sheer visual feast. We wended our way along the sides of hills overlooking deep valleys; through woods heavy with creamy snow; alongside fields of horses whuffling their lips over the ground in an effort to eat the icy white stuff; and all the way up to a stately castle on a mountaintop.

Here's a "holiday home" you can rent in Wolkenstein. Wow...

There, we found a cozy café; and I know this blog busies itself excessively with food descriptions, but I just gotta describe one more. At this café, they serve the best fish you will ever eat in your life. I still don’t know what it was. Trout? It was juicy, oily, pink, soft, flavorful yet mild... roughly a foot long, freshly caught in the river at the foot of the mountain, and cooked and served whole, next to a pile of creamy yellow potatoes. Admittedly, attempting to eat an animal that retains its original animal form is a little unsettling. But after the first steaming pink forkful, you become a savage. This macabre little pile of skull and spinal column and bones piles up, while your only focus is on finding the last scrap of fishmeat between head and tail. Mm... delicious barbarism.

Friday was spent in lazy Vacation Mode. We slept until the last moment possible before tromping over the hills with Heidi to have lunch at Gert’s; then Bert and I fell asleep on Gert’s couch for another two hours. We woke up; had some After Eights (Gert is an After Eight pusher); tromped back home; and I made a crustless pumpkin pie for Bert’s family, simply because I didn’t feel like all the work required to make the crust. Maybe that makes it more like pumpkin custard... at any rate, it was a success, and one American got to smell pumpkin pie baking as she stared out the window at the moonlit snow.

Saturday was skiing day. Bert had been wanting to go cross-country skiing all week, but hadn’t gotten his new skis waxed until Thursday night. So despite the arctic weather that blew white feathery rivers sideways across the roads, we donned our gear and headed out with Heidi and Bert’s dad, Horst, to try the cross-country trails.

The Lißners all grew up on skis, and it shows. Heidi had no sooner tumbled out of the car than was she attaching the things to her feet like extra body parts, and gliding away naturally over the snow. Bert and Horst were not far behind, and I… well, I’m from Arizona. Plus, compared to Bert’s tall, powerful family of mountain giants, my usually well-built frame of five-foot-five is apparently so dwarfish that we had to borrow ski poles from the neighbors just to find ones that fit me.

But my boyfriend is the most patient boyfriend who ever boyfriended. While his broad father and statuesque sister glided expertly away through the forest, he gently instructed his shrimpy foreign girlfriend in the basics. I have to admit to being a bit frustrated that something which had come so easily last March was suddenly so difficult; but Bert assured me that the conditions were also different this time, and that (so he says) my skis were particularly slippery, and that’s why I kept sliding backward when I meant to move, you know, forward.

These... look... like... skis...

It was still a lot of fun. Once, in learning to turn around, I fell over into a pile of snow with my skis crossed behind me, like some kind of cartoon. Then, just as I was starting to get the hang of swooshing along on the even surfaces, our path headed up a long, steep, curving hill. Bert assured me I could ascend this. He demonstrated by splaying out his feet so that his skis formed an open V, and scrabbled up the hill. I splayed out my skis in similar fashion and scrabbled in place. Bert looked back down to see me flailing around, buglike, at the bottom of the hill, laughing hard enough to make the whole business go from difficult to impossible. By the time I did get a few feet up the incline, some other people started approaching from behind, and I didn’t know how to get out of the way. Here, my overtaxed facilities gave out. Bert looked me in the eye and advised me to turn sideways while stopped on a hill (while we let the people who knew what the hell they were doing go by), but for some reason, I stopped understanding German and just stood there squinting at him. And then sliding backward.

That was yesterday. Now we’re plopped on the train back to Mannheim, and my triceps are pleasantly sore; Bert is snoozing off and on next to me with his earbuds in, waking up just occasionally to blink at me with those eyes that are the same color of his chocolate-brown sweater.

The holidays were wonderful.

We’re almost home.

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