Newberrys Abroad

The Greatest Superpower

2010-08-03T10:19:00.000+02:00

Clark Austin Garrett

September 19, 1989 – July 27, 2010

***

In the summer of 1989, just after I graduated from high school, I went to Nashville to stay with my sister Carla. She was expecting a baby boy that September, and I would be starting college before he was born. I just had to spend some time with her before my life would get so busy.

While I was there one day, she left to run a quick errand by car while I waited at her house. I thought I heard her return, and I expected her to come inside right away. When she didn’t, I looked out the window, and there she was, big and pregnant, trying to push her car out of a ditch by herself. I ran outside, yelling at her to quit before she got hurt, but by the time I got to her, she already had the car part of the way out of the ditch. It was amazing, like she had sudden superhero strength.

I know that incident had nothing to do with why she named that precious baby boy Clark. But his whole life, Clark Austin Garrett identified with Clark Kent, and he grew up loving Superman. His room was full of Superman posters and collectibles. His first car had Superman floor mats. He had a little pug dog named Lois (as in Lois Lane). Superman was his nick name. He even had a Superman tattoo. And at his funeral this week, dozens of his friends honored him by showing up in Superman T-shirts.

It turns out that Clark had more in common with Superman than just a name. He had some pretty amazing powers too.

Clark always tried to make other people feel safe and comfortable, and like Superman, he was very protective of the innocent. He wore no cape, but he was cloaked in a peaceful, friendly presence that carried him everywhere he went. He couldn’t leap over tall buildings, but he could overcome prejudice and find reason to forgive people when their ignorance blocked their understanding. He couldn’t fly, but he did jump out of an airplane once. And he may not have had x-ray vision, but he had gorgeous piercing blue eyes and the miraculous ability to look deep inside people and see the good in them, no matter how deeply that good was hidden.

Clark certainly didn’t have a secret identity. He was open and sincere. But he did have many moments of self-doubt that he kept hidden from others, and sometimes he was lonely. He struggled to balance his own ambitions with his fears of failure. Like any of us, he was still trying to figure out who he was.

There was always something very different and special about him, like he had the wisdom of the ages in his young body. When Clark was a tiny thing he used to tell elaborate stories about when he was an old man living by the railroad tracks. He’d call it “my other one life”. He was so convincing in his details that it was easy to imagine that he actually might have lived before in another body and time.

His was an unusually gentle and nurturing spirit. Clark was twelve years old when my son Luke was born. And at the risk of crossing the “too much information” point, I have to tell you that he actually filmed the birth. He was fascinated by the whole process, and having a doctor for a dad, he was not as squeamish as some. He fell in love with Luke, and as soon as he could hold his new cousin, he did. Never before or since have I seen a young boy so attentive to a baby. Not just that, but he was especially sensitive to my then two-year-old daughter Claire’s having to share her spot at the center of her parents’ universe. He was determined to give her as much attention as the new baby so that she wouldn’t feel left out.

He made both of my kids feel special and valued. Throughout the years he has spent hours playing with them and reading to them. He made a point to remember all of the cute little things they ever said or did when they were small, even some of the things I had forgotten. He often quoted them, and just recently on the phone he asked to talk to them, just to hear their voices. I have so many pictures of him holding them. They adored him. We all did.

Clark was so much fun. He was adorable and sweet and funny. As a baby he ate sand on the beach, just to try it. As a toddler, he said cute things like “cragee” for “crazy” and “doot” for “fruit.” And every time we’d get in the car, he’d yell, “seat butt”, which is how he pronounced “seatbelts”, to remind us all to buckle up.

He was immensely talented in so many ways. He shined with a light to which people were attracted like moths. He just made folks happy.

At my wedding in 1995 (he was five years old) he danced so enthusiastically and so amazingly well that people gathered around just to watch him get down and boogie. At a friend’s wedding recently, my son Luke did the same thing. We told him he was like his cousin Clark, which made him very proud.

Once on a cruise when Clark was about six years old, his parents found him on a stage telling knock-knock jokes at a comedy open mic night in a room full of adults. The audience was cracking up.

Clark really lived. He swam with dolphins. He learned to boogie board. He wrote stories. He learned magic tricks. He did great impersonations. He loved old rock and roll and movies. He adored turtles. He loved sweet potato casserole.

He was sometimes messy and scattered. He once fell into the DuPage River while visiting my parents in Illinois. He often lost things. But I think that helped him to be a person who let things go. He was so generous. And he had so much to give.

Clark was unlike anyone else I ever knew. He was, without exaggeration, the most humbly spiritual young person I have ever known. He went to church even when the rest of us stayed behind, and his bible was very important to him. He prayed often and in diverse ways. Sometimes he would courageously ask the family to gather with him to pray, and even if it was uncomfortable at first, it always made us feel better. Last December in Texas, he said a beautiful prayer over my brother Mark’s deathbed that brought a measure of comfort to our family during that horrible time. His presence was peaceful and positive.

He deeply respected his Native American heritage, and he learned a great deal about it. He attended many powwows and gatherings. Just before he died, he attended a Cheyenne Sun Dance ceremony in Oklahoma, which is a ritual honoring the earth and its cycles of birth, life, death and rebirth. There he dug fire pits in the hard ground, prayed, fasted for days, watched dances, listened to drums, and simply found himself. After the ceremony, he took time to tell his parents how very much he appreciated them. He said that the whole experience left him feeling purified and renewed.

Predictably, though, he gave as much as he received at the Sun Dance. During the ceremony, his Cheyenne family presented him with a special blanket to honor his devotion. It was a sacred object to stay with him throughout his life and to eventually be buried with him. They never dreamed that burial would be only a few days later. The Cheyenne were, like all of us, shocked and crushed by his death. They have made food offerings for his spirit journey all week.

He was just starting to make great plans for his future. Just three weeks ago, he and I exchanged a series of long e-mails discussing his goals. He told me he really wanted to study the environment and do something philanthropic. He wanted to travel, he said, and was looking into the Peace Corps. We discussed study abroad programs and languages he might learn and how he could come visit me at my home in Germany. He seemed so excited about seeing our world and doing good things in it.

Now instead, Clark’s future will be played out in another world. I can’t imagine that God is done with him just yet. I have a feeling that He is using Clark’s gifts in a different way that I won’t understand until I leave this world myself. His love is just too eternal to be finished.

My children were inconsolable when they learned of Clark’s death. And practically, like a normal child, Luke was so worried because he had promised to show Clark all of his Lego creations when we all got together in August. I told him not to worry, that Clark could probably see them all from heaven. He liked that idea.

Yesterday morning Luke ran into my bedroom and woke me saying, “Mama, I had the most awesome dream! Clark was alive and we were playing together in our Colorado house. The whole family was there and we had so much fun! It was like he was really there!”

Clark had told me once that my house in the Colorado Rockies at Christmastime was the place he felt the most at home. I told Luke that I thought Clark really had visited him from heaven in his sleep. That made him so happy.

Later that day a butterfly landed on Luke’s hand and stayed there for a long time. He asked, “Do you think this could be Clark visiting me again from heaven?”

Why not? If anyone could do that, Clark could. He had the deepest, purest love I’ve ever seen. His love was his real super power. And the best part is, unlike Superman, Clark was real.

Mark Joseph Harvey

2009-12-10T18:13:00.002+01:00

Written Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Today is my 38th birthday. But I'm going to set aside celebrating my own life for today and instead celebrate my brother's. This afternoon in Glenrose, Texas, we will hold a funeral for my big brother, Mark Joseph Harvey. He was killed in a terrible car accident this past weekend. He was 45.

I realize that it might sound really terrible to say that I'd be celebrating at all. Losing him is devastating, and I miss him like crazy. All of our hearts are broken today. But my parents, my brother Si, my sister Carla, and Mark's three daughters, Sarah, Skylen and Scarlett have been sharing lots of stories about him. We alternate laughing and crying. I'm sure he's listening in and smiling. At the viewing last night and through calls and e-mails, so many people have expressed their love and admiration for Mark. I've heard so many examples of his generosity and good nature. That makes me proud of his life, and I just feel like celebrating him.

I'm sad to say that in the past six years, Mark and I saw each other only twice, and in the past twenty years we've not seen each other much at all. I feel lucky to have been able to hear so many stories this week from people who knew him well during the years that I missed. My brother Mark meant something different to each of us. To some he was a co-worker, fishing buddy, neighbor, Masonic brother, or friend. To others of us he was an uncle, sibling, cousin, father or son. What I can tell you about Mark is what he was like as a big brother. I am proud of the fact that, as the youngest in the family, I'm the only person in the world lucky enough to be able to call him big brother.

If you'll excuse me, I'll tell you something embarrassing about myself that will tell you a little about Mark as a big brother. When I was a little girl, sometimes I would wet the bed in the night. When that would happen, I wouldn't wake my parents because my daddy had to get up so early for work. Instead, I'd wake Mark. We're eight years apart, so he'd have been in junior high then. I remember that he'd always get up and help me get into clean pajamas, then let me sleep in his warm, dry bed with him. I'd lie there staring for the longest time at his clock radio glowing orange light until I'd gradually fall asleep to the sounds of the radio playing low, mixed with his heavy breathing.

Once, Mark broke his leg and was housebound for a while. I shamelessly took advantage of the situation by forcing him to play "wedding" with me. I wore a white nightgown like a cape, with a lovely hot pink feathered swim cap on my head to be the bride. He was my groom with a big white cast. Somewhere there is a silly picture of us that day, and it always makes me smile to think of it.

Now as an adult, I can appreciate how unusual it was for a boy his age to care to spend so much time with a little kid. But he did. He'd play games with me (Trouble was our favorite), read me comic books, and tease and tickle me. I adored him.

Oh, don't get me wrong. He knew it was in the big brother job description to torture his little sister with teasing, fighting, and doing all sorts of gross big brotherly things to me. And he certainly did the job well. Those of you who know what a "Dutch oven" is may understand what I mean. He also used to pin me down and rub my nose in his armpit and yell, "smell my roses!" I remember trying to swing at him while he held my head away from him with his long arm, keeping me just far enough away not to be able to hit him.

I also remember how, during a road trip to California in 1977, I had pestered him to play "go fish" with me so long that he finally got mad and grabbed my Donald Duck playing cards and threw them out the car window while we were speeding down the highway. I didn't forgive that one for a long time.
He didn't particularly enjoy babysitting me, either, but he did sometimes. When he did he'd always say, "I am your elder. You must do what I say." Once he even spanked me, which was probably the last time Mama ever let him babysit me.

But then there were the times too, like when he woke me in the middle of the night to give me a giant stuffed pink poodle that he had won for me at the county fair. Mama fussed at him for getting me up, but he was so excited that he couldn't wait. He always did love arcade games, and he'd often win things for me. Another time he won a giant Winnie the Pooh for me at Circus Circus in Las Vegas.

I remember so well the teenage Mark who fretted in front of the mirror for ages feathering his hair and deciding whether or not he looked cool in his bell bottom jeans. He did, of course. He was always cool, and the girls loved him. I remember his rock collection and his arrowheads. I remember the Charlie's Angels posters on his bedroom wall. It seems like yesterday.

Some of my favorite times were when he would let me watch him draw in his sketch book. He must have been influenced heavily by our granddaddy's art because he liked to draw dogs, guns, shrimp boats and hunting scenes. I always told him, even as an adult, how good I thought his drawing was. But he never would believe me.

I think that maybe, like so many of us, Mark didn't always love himself as much as everyone else loved him. Of course, that may have been impossible since we all loved him so much.

I feel so blessed that, at the very least, last week I got a sudden urge to touch base with him over the internet. I just let him know that I missed and loved him. He wrote a few sweet lines back to me in response, and his very last words to me were "I love you."

When I dig past all of the years that we spent growing apart, that is something that has never changed. In the end it is all that really matters. I'll always love my big brother and I know that he loved me back. And if I am to honor his life, I have to be grateful for the miracle of each breath and each heartbeat that kept him with us for forty-five years. He touched so many lives. He had a big heart. And I'm proud to announce that even though he's gone, his big heart will keep beating. He donated his organs and a transplant recipient was found for his heart just before he left us. That is such a comfort. A miracle, really. Mark would be so glad to know that even in death he's still helping somebody.

I'm thrilled to think of Mark in heaven, fishing with our granddaddy, running barefoot (as he always loved to be) with old hunting dogs, eating gumbo with our grandmother, Dee Dee, and looking down and blessing each of us. I know that when my time comes to join him, he'll greet me with open arms. That brings me peace. I can't wait to see him again.

Making the “Most” of Autumn Memories

2009-10-13T10:31:00.001+02:00

This weekend we enjoyed the best of autumn in Germany. Oh, it was rainy and gray. That is normal. But the leaves have changed color, people are wearing their wooly sweaters, and it’s fall festival season. If I suspend realization that fall is the opening act for the long cold winter, I can live in the moment and really enjoy the gifts of this time of year.

Saturday Dave and I attended a regional market and fest in Tübingen while the kids were in a theater workshop. Tübingen is one of our favorite towns, with its gorgeous bridges, old Fachwerk (wood-beam) houses, cobblestone streets, and willows bowing into the Neckar River. It’s a university town, so it is truly international and open, maintaining that delicate balance between progress and tradition. There we bought some goat cheese, farmer’s bread, candied quince, and Hollunder (elderberry) blossom syrup to mix with fizzy water for one of our favorite drinks. Oh, and I got a fabulous new pair of red high-tops, just to enlighten anyone who may have suffered from the delusion that I'd grown up.

On Sunday we went to the Holzgerlingen town fall festival and flea market. There we enjoyed drinking fresh apple cider (known here as Most, pronounced “m-OH-sh-t”) straight from the old wooden press. We walked through the town museum, chatted with local friends, and enjoyed eating shrimp scampi, fish ragout and calamari. At the flea market, Luke was thrilled to find a 530-piece (I kid you not) race track set with remote control cars. That afternoon he and Dave spent nearly four hours setting the thing up. Then we had to move furniture around to make room for it to stay up since once it gets taken apart, I doubt it will ever be put back up again.

Monday Dave was off for Columbus Day and the kids had school, so he and I spent the day filing and converting old home videos into DVDs. I laughed and cried watching babies learning to crawl, school concerts, Christmases and birthdays, long-gone pets, and family reunions. I saw us as young, sparkling new parents with that luster of idealism and energy about us. I’m not complaining, but it truly is sobering to realize how much the kids have aged us in eight years. Or maybe it was Iraq that did it. Or Hurricane Katrina. Anyway, we looked much sweeter back then.

Seeing those films of Luke and Claire as toddlers felt like reuniting with loved ones from long ago. It’s funny how much I’d forgotten exactly how my kids looked and sounded when they were small. It’s like at the end of each day my image of them gets shaken away like an Etch-a-Sketch, only to be replaced the next morning by a new image. After a while it’s hard to remember the earliest versions of them. It helps if I remember that growing up really doesn’t mean leaving childhood behind. Instead, it means growing new layers like an onion, so that somewhere in the center of each of us is still that very small child that needs love, attention, and affection. So when I tucked the kids into bed last night, I hugged each one a little tighter and said a thankful silent prayer that even when I am 99, they will still be my babies.

I was also reminded that I really need to take more video of us nowadays. It’s easy to think that we’ll never forget all of our rich experiences living in Germany. But with my memory as holey as a colander, I know better.

The King of the World and His Schultüte

2009-09-21T11:33:00.001+02:00

On Friday Luke celebrated his Einschulung, or first day of first grade. And when I say, “celebrated,” it is no exaggeration. I’ve never seen anything like this in America.

But let me back up a little. First, just like when Claire started at German school, we had to spend a minor fortune on school supplies, including his new Schulranzen, or sturdy tank-sized industrial-strength backpack with ergonomically correct back supports and reflective safety strips. These are expensive (70 to 150 Euros seems to be the norm) but extremely well-made and expected to last through the entire Grundschule experience (first through fourth grades). Then we had to buy folders and book covers in European sizes (even their paper is skinnier than ours). Then we finished up with glues, colored pencils and watercolor paints that are more like what we would buy in art shops in the States. Again, it’s top quality that is expected to last. Not much is disposable. When a color is used up in the watercolor set, you can buy individual color refills to snap in. The kids use nice pens (fountain pens in second grade and higher) with refills. There is a little elastic strap for each colored pencil, pen, pen refill and eraser in a zip-up folder called a Mäppchen. And Luke’s teacher color-codes the book covers and folders for every subject, which really appeals to the teacher in me.

So, after getting supplies in order, we had to make a Schultüte (Shool-toot- eh) or Zuckertüte. This is a long cardboard cone that parents fill with candy and toys for the children to carry to their first day of school. Luke and I used a pattern to make a cool monkey one. Some kids had really elaborate Schultüte with things like 3-D robots, ballerinas, soccer players, flowers, feathers, and superheroes.

The day before the Einschulung, we went to get Luke’s hair cut and the barber put in blue temporary hair dye. He loved it so much that he wanted to keep it in for the first day of school. The next day when we woke up, though, most of the dye had rubbed out. So I took blue finger paint and mixed it with hair gel and reworked it to his satisfaction. He then continued to fuss over his hair like a teenage girl all day, and worried that if it rained his new do might fall flat.

Okay, now, let me get back to the first day of school. In Germany this is a really big deal. Daddies take off of work. Grandparents drive in from out of town. In our town, the festivities begin in the town church, where there was an ecumenical blessing and prayer service to start the school year. The local churches gave each child a hard-bound picture bible, made with pictures of crafts and drawings done by local children, many of whom are friends of ours.

After the service, we all processed to the city hall for a brief presentation by the principal and parent group president. Then the older kids in the school choir sang some international songs (in several languages) to welcome the new students. Then the classroom teachers took the kids to their classrooms for half an hour to get settled while the parents had coffee and cake in the courtyard. Each child was presented a hardbound story book by one bank, a lunch box by another bank, and a fresh-baked pretzel by the town bakers.

But that’s not all. All of the neighbors gave Luke gifts that day too. He got a mini Schultüte full of candy and school supplies, 15 Euros, a packet of alphabet noodle soup, a fresh-baked raspberry torte, and a gift certificate to a book store. It felt like a birthday. We were all amazed.

That night Luke put on his gold cardboard crown leftover from his sixth birthday party, with his blue hair poking out of the top. He crawled into bed and said, “Mom, today I feel like I am king of the whole world.”

How wonderful that starting school made him feel special and empowered instead of intimidated. And how absolutely refreshing it is to see a community really celebrate education. I couldn’t imagine a more fitting beginning to a school career.

Laying to Rest

2009-07-09T10:48:00.009+02:00

Yesterday I attended my first funeral in Germany. Cancer had defeated Herr Weber, the gentleman who lived across from us. All of us neighbors gathered to support his wife. Together we bought flowers for the funeral, signed a card and collected money for her. Then we all went to the burial yesterday. I couldn’t believe how many of us neighbors came. Once again I was impressed with the community spirit of my little neighborhood.

My friend Steffi told me it is traditional for every guest to bring a single flower to throw into the grave, so I cut a lovely red rose from our garden. I worried that the color might be inappropriate since red roses are to me a symbol of romantic love. But my neighbor Monica said that the man would have loved it.
It was a cold, rainy day. But during the indoor part of the service, a solitary ray of sunlight illuminated the white lilies and roses by the casket. It was lovely. Then while we were gathered outside for the burial, a hawk kept flying circles above us in the sky. I found that poetic, too.

After the burial we went to a local hotel for cake and coffee, and among my friends the conversation turned to burial traditions and our own ideas about death. They seemed okay with my expression that I don’t want anyone to wear black at my funeral. I said I would want folks to celebrate both my life and my arrival in paradise. I want joyful music, colorful displays of photographs, and lots of great food.

But when I said I wanted to be cremated, I sensed disapproval. I learned from my friends that cremation is not very common in Germany and that for a good many the practice is still taboo. Funerary practices are strictly regulated here, and scattering ashes is illegal. A little more common is the burial of ashes at sea. My friend Astrid used to work in an urn factory, and she explained that urns made for that purpose are formed out of a sort of bread dough. Interesting.

Also very different is that most burial plots are leased here for thirty years at a time. If a family doesn’t renew the lease, the remains are dug up. I couldn’t get an answer about what happens to the body after that. That makes cremation sound even more logical to me.

My friend Sara watched the kids while I attended the funeral, but I could tell that they were affected by the idea of it nonetheless. Luke kept asking me about what funerals are like and what happens to bodies when we die (incidentally, he wants to be fed to fishies, but like our neighbors, he is horrified by the idea of cremation). And Claire woke up last night in tears because she had a nightmare that she was lost and couldn’t find her parents.

Coincidentally, yesterday was Dave’s and my fourteenth wedding anniversary. There is nothing like watching a widow grieving to remind a couple to value every minute together. Of course, unless we pull a “Thelma and Louise” and die together, one day one of us will have to carry on living without the other. Dave says he’ll probably go first since he is seven years older than me and because women usually live longer. But I say he’ll probably live longer because he is in better shape and I’m the one with high blood pressure and a lethal chocolate and French fry addiction. But either way, it’s good to have a bag full of memories to sustain whichever one of us is left, until we are reunited on the other side. That is good to remember when we get annoyed with each other, as all couples do.

So the four of us celebrated both Herr Weber's life and our anniversary by candlelight, eating homemade tortilla soup served on Sesame Street placemats. It may not have been all that romantic, but it made sense to include our children as an expression of our love for each other. And it was nice. Nobody even spilled their milk or had to be reminded more than twice to use their napkin.

At the end of the day, I think every one of us felt like we needed a hug. And those I was more than happy to provide.

Ch ch ch ch ch ch changes...

2009-06-30T10:59:00.003+02:00

I was biking back from the market this morning when it occurred to me just how much life has changed for us in the 16 months that we've lived in Germany. We’re living greener, less privately, and a whole lot slower. It's all good.

Take shopping, for instance. Back in Colorado I drove my big SUV (well, it was an Aztek, more of a big ugly half-breed between an SUV and a minivan that my uncle called “a Birkenstock on wheels”) five or ten miles to a grocery store, loaded up my cart while drinking a Starbucks coffee, checked out with credit card and let a bagger stuff my items into plastic bags. Now I grab my canvas shopping bags, my backpack or my bike basket and I cycle or walk a few blocks to the local farmer’s market or grocery store, where I pay cash and bag my own groceries in reusable bags and go on my merry way.

Back home I used to drive my kids to school. Now they walk.

There if the kids wanted to ride bikes, we had to load them up in the car and drive them to a safe, flat area that wasn’t on the side of a mountain. Here, the first thing the kids do after school is jump on their bikes or scooters and go riding on the bike path by our house. Oh, and Dave and I bike nearly every day too. We hadn’t done that in years.

We can’t be so loud living in a Doppelhaus (duplex). That's hard for us.

In the mountains we had tons of storage space, so I squirreled away tons of craft supplies, gift wrap, clothes and junk in our many closets. Here, in a house with no closets, we live cleaner, more simply, with less stuff. But it is still more cluttered than any German house I have been in.

Walking around half-dressed was not a big deal in a country house with huge trees and wide spaces between me and the neighbors. Now I have to wear a robe and pull down the shades so the neighbors can’t see in.

I used to have a cat and a dog to cuddle, feed, play with and clean up after. Now I just have the kids and Dave for that.

My calendar was filled with volunteer obligations. I was always at MOPS, at the church, or at the schools. Now my calendar is filled with errands, kids’ school activities and travel plans.

Dave hated stumbling over coils of pipe and tape when I owned Hoopdydoo. Although I made a lot of hoops when we first got here, I haven’t in a long while. I don’t even get out to hoop much anymore, which is evident by the jiggle in my middle.

I always used to have a deep freezer full of local bison meat and roasted chilies from the Chili Festival in Pueblo. Now I have a tiny freezer and I barely have room for ice cubes (which we don’t really use anymore either).

I’m not taking nearly as much medicine for my blood pressure.

If I kept my workout clothes on all day back home, nobody thought anything of it. People don’t do that here. If I am still in my tennis shoes or yoga pants late in the day, my friends always ask me if I’m just going to work out.

Colorado had two seasons: blue skies with snow on the ground or blue skies with grass. Here we have four distinct seasons: a brilliant, bursting spring; a green, often rainy summer; a colorful fall; and a cold, gray winter. I don’t miss the surprise June snowfalls, but I love the variety.

And that’s just scratching the surface. The biggest changes are in us. Now Claire is completely fluent in German, and Luke and I are getting there. Dave is trailing, but studies when he can.

We get to travel to fun places like Malta, London, Spain, and France. As a family we get to experience new foods, traditions and cultures together.

Best of all, our marriage is as strong as ever. Dave and I have much more time for each other now that he doesn’t travel nearly as much. We play, laugh, connect and have fun together. I think part of that is living in a rented new house instead of an antique one that needed lots of constant TLC. Our free time is ours, and we spend it without a hammer and paintbrush in our hands.

But I think it’s also getting to neutral ground where we had to start over and reinvent ourselves in a new place. For two years after he returned from Iraq, we couldn’t seem to shake that weird dynamic that our friends, home, and life were mine and that he had to somehow figure out how to reintegrate back into all of it. It’s a common post-deployment problem that we somehow thought we’d be immune to. But that's gone now. We make friends together, make choices side by side, and hold equal parenting authority. That is huge, and it makes life sweeter for all of us.

So yes, I’m homesick sometimes. I miss my family and feel really bummed when I miss out on weddings, funerals, birthday parties and reunions. I miss my friends. I miss my gourmet kitchen. I miss using credit cards, shopping on Sundays, and being allowed to volunteer in the kids’ schools. I miss saying, “Hello, pretty mountain” every day when we passed Pikes Peak. Sometimes I wish I could run errands without having to lug my German-English dictionary around. I would give my left pinkie toe for some decent Tex Mex.

But all in all, we’re having the time of our lives. I don’t want to blink and miss a second of it.

Back on the Wagon

2009-06-24T12:30:00.004+02:00

For the past few months I’ve had some sort of weird mental block when it comes to blogging. Maybe it’s partly because a girlfriend showed me a semi-nude photo of herself that she had framed as a gift and said, “You aren’t going to mention this in your blog, are you?” (which I guess I just did, but I didn’t use her name and I won’t tell you who she is, so don’t ask). I started to worry that I was talking too much about people’s personal lives and I didn’t want to be a space invader. Or maybe it was that winter depression thing. My brain mimics the sun. When the sun shines, so do I. When clouds cover the sun, then my mind fogs up too. It was a cold, gray winter and we have had a lot of gray summer days too. But no, that’s not really it. I think that my mother really nailed it when we talked the other day. I was whining about “needing to blog but not having time” and she said, “It’s Facebook. Now you tell your stories on Facebook so you don’t have to blog.” By George, I think she’s on to something.

Nearly every day I catch up with friends, update my profile, or upload pictures to Facebook. Because I have told my stories in snippets to various people, I feel like I have told them to everyone. But each person I speak to only gets a facet of the tale. I need to sit down and write a narrative of these special years so we can look back later on. I’m just too busy living this life to write about it. Or so I tell myself.

So let’s see...highlights...

Well, we went to Malta in November, which was fabulous. We spent nine days and just barely saw everything we wanted. My only recommendation would be to go at a warmer time of year. We did enjoy two good beach days, but the rest of the time was gray and windy. More on Malta another time.

We got to the States over Christmas, which was great but exhausting. We crammed five states and seeing both sides of the family into a three-week trip. Add that to the fact that we had to lug half of Santa's sleigh in our suitcases, we had to pack for two climates (Wisconsin and Alabama) and the fact that Claire had to go back to school with jet lag the day after our return, and you have one tired family. We decided that this year we’ll stay here in Germany for Christmas and visit the States in the summer next time (sadly, not until 2010).

We spent a week in Italy, including Venice. That was a dream come true. And we loved our week in Malaga, Spain this May. We spent time on the beach, in the mountains, and at Alhambra and other amazing historical sites. That was exactly the "chillaxing" kind of vacation we wanted.

The exciting news is that many of our loved ones have been able to visit us this past year.
In March enjoyed a visit from Dave’s brother Chris and his family. They stayed for nearly two weeks and we took them on excursions to Bavaria and Switzerland. Luke and Claire loved playing with their cousins. They were sad to see them go. Then my folks came out for three weeks in April. We also took them to Bavaria and to Strasbourg, France, and I planned a train trip for them to Vienna and Venice. They had a ball. I cried like a baby when they left, knowing it would be a year and a half until I'd see them again.

Then our niece Alice (Dave’s brother’s daughter) is coming for the month of August. She has offered to be a live-in babysitter in exchange for travel opportunities. I’m not sure yet what adventures we’ll take her to experience, but we are looking forward to seeing her.

My sister says she is trying to plan a trip here, and my cousin Patrick is coming here next year too for a sporting event. The Newberry Inn may not be five-star, but it’s clean (mostly) and comfortable. The food is pretty good (if I say so myself), and you can’t beat the price (helping with dishes). So y’all come. We’re still keeping the steins cold.

Okay now, I'm gonna post this before I lose my nerve. It's like dieting or exercise: You just have to start somewhere. So here I go.

Dying and Living

2009-02-14T11:44:00.005+01:00

This week I found out that my good friend from high school died suddenly of unusual complications from the flu. Laura Lee Carter Myers was one of the bubbliest, most positive people I ever knew. Homecoming queen, parents’ pride and joy, mother of two young daughters, beloved high school teacher, talented baton twirler, Sunday school leader, loving wife, woman of faith. She was 37. My age.

I’ve been thinking about Laura a lot. I’ve thought about how it had been a year since I’d been in touch with her and how I should have written to her again. I’ve thought about her husband and the grief he must feel without the love of his life. Mostly, I’ve thought about her two little girls.

It’s hard to imagine a young girl not having her mother to talk to when her body starts to change. Or going to her high school and college graduations and hoping that mom would have been proud. It’s sad to think of her wedding day without a mother to check her makeup and reassure her before she walks down the aisle. I think about her being denied that magical moment of watching her own baby lie in the arms of the one who gave birth to her. I imagine a future generation of grandchildren who would never know their grandmother.

Then, as is the self-centered nature of humans when we are reminded of death, I thought about my own mortality.

I do not fear death, not really. I have believed in God my whole life, and I am secure in my belief that beyond this life lies a better, more complete one. I believe in letting people die with dignity and not being selfish about wanting to hold them here in this life when God has different plans. But when I became a mother, I also gave birth to a lurking anxiety about ever leaving my own children motherless. The thought of not being there for them is too much to bear.

And yet yesterday I had a small “aha” moment. Like most of my epiphanies, it is something that I somehow knew all along but had not yet brought to consciousness. It is this: If I am doing my job as a mother, although my children would miss me, they should actually be okay without me when I die.

Don’t worry. I don’t plan on going anywhere just yet. I love my life and I have a lot more living to do. But it’s like the philosophy that I’ve had about teaching for years, that a great teacher should become less and less necessary as she shares her knowledge. A secure, mature teacher knows that it doesn’t really matter what students think of her. What matters is what they think of themselves as a result of what she taught them. It’s not about teaching kids facts. It’s about teaching them the why, how and so what about those facts, and even more importantly, how to learn for themselves.

So it should go with motherhood. If I am raising secure, confident, able children, they should become more independent every day. I love that the German word for independence is “unabhängig” or “not hanging on.” But in order for them not to hang on me, I also can’t hold them back. I have to let go. I have to let them fail to learn those hard life lessons. I have to teach them self-care, mentally, spiritually and physically. I have to guide their choices but let them make them. If my daughter wants to leave the house dressed in plaids mixed with florals, it is okay. It is not about me. If my son wants to learn to cut his apple with a sharp knife, I should teach him instead of telling him to wait until he’s older. My kids should learn to play alone sometimes instead of needing me for every game, book, puzzle or art project they want to do. I need to not seem so indispensible.

I have to fight the part of me that wants to hang on to their babyhood, to do for them, to protect them from every nick, scrape, and disappointment. It’s also important that I not avoid the hard questions they ask. I look back and realize times when my weakness caused me to evade being totally truthful with them. Like, when we left the cat in America when we moved to Germany, we never should have agreed to an open-ended arrangement in which the cat’s caretaker could keep her or send her to us, “whichever worked out best.” It was easier to say, “we’ll see” than to be forthright and say that it was just too hard on our very nervous cat to fly her here. We didn’t want to be the bad guys breaking the bad news. That was a mistake and a disservice to the kids.

Kids are so much braver than adults sometimes. I am amazed at how fearlessly they chatter around in German, not worrying about whether the verb goes on the end or if a noun has the right article. In the time it takes them to plunge in and forge a new friendship in the park, I am still on the bench trying to formulate the perfect sentence in my head to speak to the mother.

I don’t want them to inherit my insecurities. I believe that insecurity is truly the root of all evil. So many atrocities are committed by people who are confused about who they are and don’t believe in their own worth. Because of low self-esteem, bullies hit, great novels don’t get written, cruel words lash out, wars start, the cosmetics industry thrives, dreams wither. Insecurity causes us to overeat, overspend, over-commit, and overload. Being insecure means not enjoying the pool because we look too fat in a swimsuit. It means eating a steak that is too rare just because we don’t want to make a scene in a restaurant. It means not saying “no” because we fear not being accepted. And it means not speaking up or speaking out for fear of confrontation.

Secure people are happy people. They don’t steal because they realize that all is God’s anyway and are grateful for what they have. Secure people know who they are and where they belong. They are people who don’t need to start fights to prove themselves. They are people who find strength within instead of looking for it in drugs, alcohol, sex or money. They are kind people who value all persons because they know their own value is neither more nor less than anyone else’s. Secure people are not afraid to ask for what they need, to fight for the oppressed, or to demand justice. They are in control of themselves and their own impulses and don’t try to control everyone around them.

So what does all of this have to do with Laura? Well, her death shocked me into the realization that I have wasted too many years living in fear for myself and my children. Faith in God and in ourselves means freedom to try and fail and still know that we are loved and worthy. That is so hard to believe sometimes. But then I think about how deeply and unconditionally I love my children and I realize how that is exactly how God loves us and how we are supposed to love ourselves. And they can’t learn that from me if I don’t show them.

So it is time to take some baby steps back to myself. Somewhere inside me is still a teacher, a writer, a lover, a dreamer. If I dig deep and let go of the fear that I won’t be liked or loved or approved of, maybe I can live a little before I die. As my five-year-old son said to me recently, “We get a little bit deader every day, and then one day we die.” That may be true. But I’d rather spend my life every day than to save it for a rainy day that may never come.

See www.kwtx.com for Laura's story: Sudden Death Of Popular Teacher Stuns Students, Friends And Colleagues

Feeling like Hallo-wieners

2008-10-31T14:12:00.006+01:00

Well, we’ve been busy around here. Dave is swamped at work, I’m busy with school and mothering and wifing, and the kids are busy being kids.

We finally got the Mini this week. We’re a little sad that it is not the Bimmer we had planned for, but it is adorable. And it gives us freedom that have missed the past seven months with only one car.

A couple of weekends ago we managed to get to Bavaria to Oberammergau. Dave and I had been there in 1997, but we thought the kids would love to see it. It is the quaint little old town in the hills where they perform an amazing outdoor passion play every ten years as a way to thank God from sparing them from the 1633 Bubonic Plague (which a teacher friend’s student in Texas once referred to in an essay as the “Bluebonnet Plaque”—but I digress). We want to go to the 41st performance in 2010 if we can still get tickets. They sell out early, even though the play is performed for five months while it is warm enough outside.

So anyway, we rented a small apartment for the weekend. We arrived at night in the pitch dark, so we couldn't see the area, but we could hear the cowbells coming from all directions. When we awoke the next day we were astounded by a breathtaking view of mountains, hills, and brilliantly colored changing leaves. It looked like God had spilled a bag of Skittles with all of the reds, oranges, yellows, greens and purples in the trees.

We spent our time hiking, taking a cable car to the top of a mountain, and visiting Schloss Linderhof, another one of Mad King Ludwig’s castles. It is a cool one, with plenty of ornate rooms, fabulous gardens, big fountains, play houses shaped like mosques and temples, and a secret grotto with a lake inside where the king would paddle around in a swan-shaped boat and play dress-up. Like Neuschwanstein, which we’ve not yet taken the kids to, its décor is based mostly on fairy tales and Wagnerian operas. It’s sort of like Disneyworld without the rides.

The following weekend we went to the Krauterfest (cabbage festival) in Echterdingen. That was fun. I’ve never eaten so much sauerkraut in my life. Awesome. The next weekend we strolled along the Neckar River in Tuebingen, taking in the relaxing views of willow trees hanging over the water as gondolas floated by. There we went to a jazz festival for kids in the city library, then let the kids jump in giant leaf piles in the park. I wish I had taken my camera. I’ve never seen such expressions of glee on my kids' faces.

So we’ve had some fun. Still, I would be less than honest if I didn’t admit that I’ve had to beat off some encroaching depression that threatened to pull me under this past month. I can’t really say what it was that had me so down. Maybe it was watching the warm summer slide past. Perhaps it was that my allergies have kicked in like they haven’t since I was a kid. Maybe it's a little homesickness. It could be worry about the upcoming presidential election. Or maybe I was just overwhelmed.

I realize how stupid it is that I set myself up for stress with ridiculously high expectations for myself. What else is new? This time it is about my language program.

I am working hard, and I feel like I am at the top of the heap in my class. But several neighbors have decided that I have until Christmas and then they will no longer speak English to me at all. It makes me feel lousy since I’ve not even been here eight months (most of which were spent getting settled and adjusted) and I’ve only been in a class for one month. The only German I knew before I came here was how to order a beer at Oktoberfest. They all studied English in school as kids, did studies abroad in England, Canada, and America, and speak my language better than I do. I’m already so self-conscious about the fact that they have to speak English to me, but I’m even more embarrassed to speak German to them. I know they are just trying to show support, but they don’t know how much pressure I already put on myself. I hate being in linguistic limbo, where I understand enough German not to be able to play dumb, but not enough to actually sound smart. I understand about half of what I hear, and I can only make a few grammatically-correct sentences. How the heck am I supposed to be fluent by Christmas if we won’t even cover all of the cases in class before then? I may just have to hide from my friends until I can make sense when I talk.

So today is Halloween. Last week we put out some cute but tacky yard decorations, just little purple and green goblins on tombstones. The neighbor kids were very curious about them. Some even poked them with sticks and backed away quickly in case they jumped up and said “Boo”.

The commissary ran out of pumpkins, so we will miss out on our tradition of carving jack-o-lanterns, roasting seeds in garlic butter, and making fresh pumpkin muffins. The kids are really disappointed about that.

I had heard that Germans are starting to do more trick or treating, but to be sure I asked my German friends. Oops. I think I hit a nerve. I got responses like, “We feel like that is just another American thing that comes over here like a tidal wave. We don’t have to do all of the things Americans do.” Or “But we are Christians. We don’t celebrate evil things.” Or “It’s only American commercialism that makes Halloween a holiday.” And “I think it is rude to teach children to ask for candy! Especially with a threat to do tricks on you if you don’t give it to them!” Surely they don’t imagine little five-year old Cinderellas and Power Rangers TP-ing houses if they don’t fork over the Gummi Baerchen.

I explained to them that we are Christians too, and that we always saw Halloween as a way to make light of evil, to make it less scary and to show it that it can’t have power over goodness. I hate the gory scary stuff myself. But the holiday has a sense of humor. The tradition of people dressing up started as a way to “trick” the evil spirits into passing them by. It is good, innocent fun. The word “Halloween” means “holy evening”. It is to All Saints Day what Mardi Gras is to Lent. I mean, I’m not saying it hasn’t gotten out of hand and commercialized over the years (like most holidays), but it is our tradition. I certainly don't expect them to partake in it since it is not a German tradition. But it is sad to me that I can’t share this celebration with my friends and that they feel so negatively about it. Dave had wanted to have a Halloween party and have the neighbors over to bob for apples, drink cider, and play games. But I didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable or feel like we were trying to take over with our obnoxious American-ness. Sigh. When in Rome and all that.

So instead, we are going to go bowling at Panzer because it is free to anyone in costume. Dave is going as King Arthur, I am Morgana (the witch in the King Arthur story), Claire is a Spider Witch, and Luke is Spiderman. Then we are going trick-or-treating at Patch tonight. Early on I had invited a few German friends to come, but nobody wanted to. Go fig. Anyway, we came up with a twist. This afternoon before bowling, we are going to knock on our neighbors’ doors and GIVE AWAY candy. We made up little orange and black baskets full of candy and toys to wish them a Happy Halloween. I just hope they won’t mind the gummy eyeballs and chocolate severed fingers. Surely they will get the humor. And the good intentions. I hope.

Ich spreche…what class is this again?

2008-10-09T23:22:00.004+02:00

I absolutely love my Volkshochschule Deutsch Kurs. My instructors are top notch and my international classmates are wonderful. We have 23 students from 14 different countries, including India, Brazil, Turkey, Uzbekistan, Bulgaria, Slovakia, Kyrgistan, Poland, America, Spain, Italy, Vietnam, Croatia, and Kosovo. I really think we ought to have a potluck.

My German is slowly improving. Helping Claire translate her homework for an hour or so each night really helps. But twenty hours a week in class is the real key. I love that we all speak different languages and have to use our halting German in order to understand each other. We don't hesitate together; we just jump in and try. Whereas I am all kinds of embarrassed trying to make a sentence in front of Steffi or Astrid, I feel comfortable stumbling through with my VHS classmates.

One of my favorite unexpected benefits of the class is that my Russian is improving too! I have had lots of opportunity to practice with the Eastern Europeans in my class. Sometimes I will have my American friend Sally on one side asking me questions in English and my Uzbeki friend Irina on the other side asking me questions in Russian and my instructor asking me questions in German. Sometimes I have to stop and think about what language I’m speaking. But it is so much fun.

I feel like I am breaking the code a little more each day. Every time I learn a new word, I see it everywhere, and it feels like a treasure hunt. It is exciting.

Uh oh.

Gotta go. Dave just came in from Oktoberfest, completely pickled. He went with guys from work and rode the train home. I was happy to stay home and steal a few minutes to myself. Poor thing. I haven’t seen him like this since his bachelor party thirteen years ago. Three liters of beer and three shots. Is he crazy? I’d better go hold his head so he doesn’t drown himself in the toilet.

The Cosmic “Kick Me” Sign

2008-10-09T23:06:00.003+02:00

You know that proverbial little straw that broke the camel’s back? Well, this week I’ve been dumped with pounds of those straws and I’m fixing to break. Seriously. Lord, y’all, where do I start?

Tuesday I got to my German language class just barely on time. When I reached the parking garage, the car in front of me wasn’t moving. Cars began piling up behind me, waiting, and eventually blocking the priority road behind us. Turns out the machine wasn’t spitting out a ticket. So, after some maneuvering, I drove down the busy street and around the block to find a parking spot. This was going to suck since my class lasts four hours and the parkschein (parking pass) only lasts two. I'd have to go down later and move my car and buy another one. The first time I tried that I was late and ended up with a 5-euro parking ticket.

But that was a moot point anyway because when I got to the machine I realized I only had a bunch of two-euro coins and pennies, and the machine only took one euro coins and smaller silver money. So I jumped in the car again, spilling my coffee and polluting the air with some foul language, and I drove around the block to see if the garage machine might be working again.

Wow! Hope on the horizon! I saw the arm lift and a car go in. So I tried it too. But it did not work for me. The readout gave me a bunch of words that I had yet to learn in my class, so I sat there with my dictionary, trying to do a quick translation before another car might come and block me in. It turns out that I could have gone in without a ticket if I’d had a German debit card. Which I didn’t.

So I went back again to park on the street, and I dug around between the seats of the car and in the console until I came up with one single euro coin. I bought my parkschein and went to class. I wrote 9:53 in black ink on top of my hand so I would not forget to run out to the meter on time.

I finally arrived in class 30 minutes late. I made change with a friend and left class an hour later to buy another parkschein and move my car, trying not to interrupt our instructor as I did so. But, oh wait, I forgot my keys. So I went back into class and grabbed my purse. But then I realized my keys were in my coat pocket. So I went BACK in again, grabbed my keys and went to the meter. By then the garage entrance was fixed and I parked there.

When I got home to pick up Luke from Kindergarten, I found out that the day before he had painted his two American friends, sisters, with blue paint. They were wearing brand new matching Gymboree shirts (you know, the kind that cost more than my whole wardrobe) and the mother told me she had washed them three times with no luck. I of course offered to pay for them. She said she wouldn’t let me. I need to buy her a gift certificate or something.

So are you tired yet? There’s more.

I then spent my afternoon agonizing over whether or not to let Claire begin Girl Scouts that day. It would mean skipping her after-school German class that her teacher set up for her. But she had been saying that the class was way easy for her, that she was with a bunch of younger kids and they just colored and learned easy words that she already knows. German class is every Tuesday. Girl Scouts is every other Tuesday at the same time. As of yet she has no real extra-curricular activities, and she is not involved with any other American kids except the ones she plays with sometimes in the neighborhood. So we picked Girl Scouts with the caveat that I would speak to her teacher the next day about the class. (She is checking on it and will get back to me).

So Girl Scouts was fine, but I was instantly overwhelmed by the amount of work it would entail for the mothers. Wow. Cupcakes, crafts, catalogs, cookie sales. We moms attended a special meeting with the troop leader while the girls made masks and painted faces. When the cupcake list came around, I signed up to do the Halloween ones. The lady next to me said, “I’ll sign up for cupcakes on the 4th. That’s election day.” I said, “Oh yeah, that would be cute. You could make little red, white and blue ones with little elephants and donkeys on them.” She looked me right in the eye and said, “You mean Jackasses! Don’t get me started on them. I don’t want to swear in front of the girls.”

I sat there, stunned, wishing I had a clever comeback. I didn’t. Should I tell her, “Hey, not all of us Jackasses are so bad”? Should I say, “Maybe you should not assume that people you don’t know will agree with you.” Or maybe I could have said something about my being rubber and her being glue. I dunno. But instantly I realized just how little I really fit there. That woman felt it was safe to assume my political beliefs simply because of where I was (at a Girl Scout meeting on a military base). But she was wrong. My choices and opinions don’t really fit neatly into any box, and certainly not into hers. So I sat there like a 99th wheel, anxious to get out of there.

When I finally did, I found a nasty note on my car. I had parked in a lot with no signs in it, but apparently it belonged to housing and I had unintentionally pissed someone off. Yet again, I felt that old "I don't belong here" vibe. Suddenly I was in junior high again, desperately wanting to be liked and accepted by people I didn’t really like or accept.

That evening I fed everyone, read stories, got kids to bed, and drew myself a big bubble bath. Just as I got settled with my Fannie Flagg book, my dear sweet husband came in, all sweaty and gross from riding his bike. He wanted to join me. I love the man, and usually I’m happy to share a bath, but this night the last thing I wanted was a big sweaty man in my tub. So I just went to bed.

Yesterday was a little better, although a little neighborhood boy attacked Luke with a big stick out of sheer meanness (I watched him do it), I lost an earring, and for the first time nobody but me showed up to hula hoop group. Feel sorry for me yet?

Today I determined to set off for class early in case the garage machine was having trouble again. But as I left the Kindergarten I stepped in a warm heap of cat scat that I did not notice until after I had tracked it all inside the floor of my car. After getting myself and the car cleaned up (not an easy task), I was late again.

On the way home from class, my travel coffee mug leaked out all over my books and pretty much ruined my already battered German dictionary. I need a new mug. And a new dictionary. And a hug.

So that is why I wrote on my Facebook page this week that I felt like I had a cosmic “Kick me” sign posted on my butt. My friend Stephen wrote back and said, “But what if aliens don’t have feet?” I answered, “Or what if they have hundreds of feet?” He retorted, “Yeah, but what if their feet are tiny and their kicks feel like a nice massage?” So says the optimist to the pessimist.

Schule!

2008-10-05T10:07:00.003+02:00

I love autumn in Germany. The apples are ripe. The farmers are selling cider and the bakers are making strudel. The leaves are brilliant in their yellows, reds, oranges, greens and purples. It looks like someone spilled a bag of Skittles over the hills. Neighbors are flying kites every afternoon. We start pulling our sweaters out of storage. And, of course, school begins.

On the first day of the school year in Colorado, my friend Sara and her husband danced around the house singing “It’s the most wonderful time of the year.” I know how they feel. Kids are back in classes and out from underfoot. No more staying up too late at night, eating too many popsicles, loud yelling, constant bickering, high-pitched whining, or eye rolling. And the kids are acting nicer too.

But I love more than just changing our routine after a willy-nilly lazy summer. I love buying new school supplies, getting new school books, and filling in a new school calendar with classes, meetings, events and vacations. Although I always mourn the end of summer just a bit (I am solar powered after all) I love the colorful leaves, the autumn holidays, and the possibilities that a new school year brings.

This year Claire started second grade at a German elementary school. She loves it. But getting ready for the school year was more complicated this time. For one thing, I have to translate every letter the school sends home before I read it, which takes time. And the supplies she needs are really different. She has to use a fountain pen and colored pencils instead of a regular pencil and crayons as she would in an American school. She had to get new folders and paper because the European dimensions are different and they use two-hole binders instead of 3-hole ones.

She also had to get a schulranzen, which is a hard-shelled German school backpack on steroids. Kids wearing them look like little turtles. Claire didn’t want a girly one, so she got a red and orange one with African lions on it. It has adjustable padded straps and back supports, ergonomic fitting, and reflective strips to help keep kids safe from cars when they are walking to school. The inside has a matching mappchen, which is a pencil case with slots for every pen, pencil, eraser and fountain pen refill. It has a matching snack case, water bottle, change purse and sports bag. This thing is nicer than my luggage, and pricier too. German engineering. It’s a beautiful thing.

On Claire’s first day of school, Steffi came over with a schultuete for her. This is a German tradition for children starting the first day of first grade. Since Claire was not here last year, Stef said, she thought she should have one now. It’s a long cone (kind of like an upside down dunce cap) filled with candies and small toys, and secured with fabric and ribbon at the top. Claire’s was red with ladybug chocolates crawling up the side. She loved it.

And I loved mine too. My neighbor Astrid made me one when I started intensive German language classes at the Volkshochschule, which is like community education back home. Mine was decorated with sea shells and raffia and was filled with energy gum, rum-filled candies, powdered soda mix, coffee-filled chocolates, and little books. It was a great joke and a sweet gift. I loved it!

So what am I doing in school other than not finding time to blog? Well, I spend twenty hours a week in class (that’s four hours a day, five days a week) trying to learn how to string together all of the pearls of vocabulary I have learned. My instructors both said I was ready to skip a level and start at the second class, but I didn’t want to. I think I had them fooled because I know so many words and I understand nearly everything I hear. But I still can’t make more than a handful of intelligible sentences. Once I get the grammar down, I expect to move quickly. I’d better. Astrid and Steffi said I have until Christmas and then they will only speak German to me. I had better learn the language or find a good hiding place.

And the new baby is…a MINI?

2008-09-10T16:32:00.001+02:00

Okay, so I know I said we were getting the Bimmer. For the past month we were set on that choice. But the dealer couldn’t give us a delivery time or a firm price because the company hasn’t released the new price list for 2009 yet. We were going to have to order it anyway and find out the price at the end, which seemed really backward to us. So we ordered a Mini Cooper (also owned by BMW) instead. It will end up being just over half the cost of the BMW, which will allow us a little more freedom to travel in the near future. We will likely get our BMW when the Mitsubishi dies (which could be any day now since it is 14 years old already). I think the Mini will be cute, and much easier to park than either the BMW or the Galant. It will be an off-white Mini Cooper Clubman Sport with black racing stripes. So in mid-October, I will get to see Dave in a mini after all.

LONDON!

2008-09-10T12:33:00.009+02:00

One happy by-product of living in a Marriott for nearly two months, and of Dave’s frequent business travel, is earning the occasional free hotel stay with Marriott points. This time we scored big. We stayed at the five-star Renaissance Chancery Court in downtown London for an entire week. Free. Yes, FREE. And what’s more, since Dave is a member of the executive club, we had access to the club lounge, a free full English breakfast each morning, and free hors d’oeuvre and desserts in the evenings. We saved thousands of dollars. Breakfast alone would have cost us about $150 a day had we paid for it ourselves. Sheesh, I sound like a commercial.

It’s a good thing we didn’t have to pay for a hotel because everything else in London was super expensive. We paid 7 pounds (nearly 14 dollars) for three scoops of ice cream in a dish. It cost 70 pounds (roughly 140 dollars) for the family to see Buckingham Palace. It was outrageous.

But we had a blast. Here is a brief sketch of our itinerary, which overall worked pretty well:

Day 1: Awake 4:30 a.m. (3:30 in London) and take car to the Park and Ride for one euro a day parking; ride train to airport. Fly to London. Check into hotel. Walk along the Thames by the London Eye and watch buskers. Thai food for lunch. Double decker bus and boat tour. Early to bed.

Day 2: The British Museum, fish and chips, and The Lion King matinee, Notting Hill carnival, King’s Cross Station for Harry Potter photo.

Day 3: Buckingham Palace State Rooms, changing of the guard, the Royal Mews, Queen’s Gallery; picnic; Hyde Park.

Day 4: Tower of London, pub food.

Day 5: National Portrait Gallery, Leicester Square, Westminster Abbey, Spamalot.

Day 6: London Eye, Imperial War Museum, Victoria and Albert Museum, pub food.

Day 7: St. Martin in the Fields Church, brass rubbings, Picadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, walking and shopping, Spanish food.

Day 8: Fly home.

The Details:

Double Decker Bus and River Tour

This is pretty much a rip-off. It was recommended by Rick Steves, who has been our trusted travel guru for years. But I thought it was too expensive for what it offered. The guides were obviously bored and provided very little real information (“This is Buckingham Palace, home of the Queen.” Duh). We saw just as much on the regular city double deckers.

The British Museum

History, history, history. This museum is very cool with things like a piece of the Rosetta Stone, an Easter Island statue, and lots of real mummies. Dave loved it so much he went back on his own one night that it was open late.

The Lion King at Lyceum Theatre

My mom's brother jokingly refers to his relatives as "the Blubber Family". No, not like whale blubber (really) but the crying kind--because we all cry at the teensiest prompting. I illustrated that during the live stage production of The Lion King.

I never stopped bawling from the opening song ("Circle of Life") until the intermission. I mean it. I had tears puddling under my chin and running down into my blouse. Why? Well, I don’t know exactly. I think it must be amazement at the power of human artistic expression. I was awed by the beauty in the costuming and sets. I could not have been more impressed if actual giraffes and elephants had crossed the stage. I was mesmerized by the powerful dancing. And I was blown away by the orchestra and singers. Even though Tim Rice and Elton John (whom our bus tour guide called "London's second queen") wrote the music, it still sounded harmoniously African and it carried me back.

And really, that's probably the main reason for my tears: The play is about Africa. My Africa. The Africa of my blissfully safe and ignorant childhood. The Africa in the bushveld, far from cities, violence, political strife, AIDS, and warfare. It’s the glorified Africa that I experienced on safari. The Africa of the animals. The Africa where I changed my world view forever. It’s the Africa that I could never return to again, even if I tried. I always cry when I really think about Africa.

The Lion King. I loved it. We all did. It was, undoubtedly, the highlight of my trip.

Notting Hill Carnival

The lightbulb went off just as we exited the Tube at Notting Hill. Oh yeah…I read somewhere not to come to the Notting Hill Carnival because it is the most crowded festival in all of Europe. But, I reasoned, the brochure had said it was Children’s Day. Surely it wouldn’t be too rough? Oh, but I was wrong. My innocent little angels saw the first drunk people they’d ever seen. And tons of them. They also saw two fights start (from which we steered them away quickly). The trash was piled taller than we could see over. And I have never heard music so dangerously loud in my life. I hated everything about it. We tried to head straight back to the hotel, but it took two hours to get back due to the carnival traffic. The next day there was a riot at the carnival and people were killed. Now tell me, if it is such a terrible experience, why the heck would so many people want to go there?

King’s Cross Station Platform 9 ¾

Harry Potter fans of the world know what this is. We had to get a picture next to the magical wall that leads to Diagon Alley. We're a silly bunch of Muggles.

Buckingham Palace, the Royal Mews and the Queen’s Gallery

For eight weeks of every year the Queen goes to Scotland and allows guests to tour her palace at Buckingham. This year for the first time she also opened up the royal banquet hall with all of the tables set in the royal china and crystal as if for a state dinner. Very fancy. The fanciest. I don't think I could even enjoy a meal served on such precious material. I'd be scared to death I'd scratch it and have to sell my house to replace it.

The Royal Mews holds the collection of royal coaches, cars and horses, but they are impressive. It only took a few minutes to tour them.

The Queen’s Gallery holds one of the finest private art collections in the world. All three sites had coloring sheets for kids, but this one also had a cool eye-spy kind of game that kept the children excited throughout the tour.

These activities were all purchased with one ticket for the day. We also (sort of) saw the changing of the guard, which is free but very crowded. I didn’t mind not being able to see much since I had seen it twice before on previous trips, but I had hoped that the kids and Dave could see more.

The Tower of London

I could spend a week in this place and just listen to all of the great stories told by the Beefeaters. They are a bunch of cards, and the history of the place is as rich and enticing as its Crown Jewels. The diva and I especially enjoyed the supreme bling. Dave got to see lots of armor and weapons (yawn) so he was happy. And they had a wonderful interactive kids’ exhibit where kids could learn how to use a sword (medieval whack-a-mole), pull an electronic crossbow, measure gold coins, touch armor to hear what each part was used for, and lots more. We toured every tower, read as much medieval graffiti as we could, and had a thorougly fun day.

The National Portrait Gallery

This one was nice, but not one I’d repeat. But we did enjoy a children’s tour and activity where the kids got to make their own masks.

Leicester Square

This is the famous place to buy cheaper theater tickets. It would have been nice to have a guide of who had which tickets for sale and for how much because we had to do a lot of line hopping and shopping. We ended up getting crappy seats to Spamalot, and we didn’t save as much money as we had hoped. I’d recommend instead to go online beforehand like we did for The Lion King.

Westminster Abbey

This was free when I was there in the 80s, but now they charge a fortune to go in and see where so many famous people are buried. It is really neat to see where so royals were crowned, married, and mourned. I, the admitted word nerd, especially love Poet’s Corner, where I could see graves and memorials to Chaucer, Shakespeare, Wilde, Coleridge, Wordsworth, and more. Lots of history in that place. Wow.

Spamalot at the Palace Theatre

This one did not inspire tears of awe, but a few squeezed out from laughter. And I’m still humming tunes like “I’m Not Yet Dead” and “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life". After some research we decided to take the kids. They liked the music and the occasional fart joke. Any truly adult humor went right over their heads. The only negative was that our seats were not the greatest. Even though they were down in the stalls, the balcony obstructed part of our view of the upper stage where some funny things were, no doubt, happening. I really enjoyed the show, but I would only really recommend it to those who truly appreciate Monty Python humor. It was tacky, tasteless, and riotously funny.

The London Eye

Basically a huge ferris wheel, this expensive ride (or “flight” as it is billed) gives a great view of the city. If London ever had a sunny, clear day, I’ll bet one could see miles and miles.

The Imperial War Museum

You can guess who put this on the itinerary. It wasn’t me. I might have steered us toward some literary sites like the Charles Dickens Museum or the Benjamin Franklin House. No, it was the beloved war history nerd that I married. But you know, it actually ended up being kind of neat. There was an exhibit on war from a child’s perspective that the kids liked. There was an interactive inside of a submarine that the kids could explore (which made me miss my daddy). They had a life-like WWI trench that the kids begged to go into and then cried to get out of because it was a little too realistic for them. And the best part was a James Bond exhibit where the kids got to draw their own villains and take photos posing as evil bad guys. They loved it.

The Victoria and Albert Museum

This place had a little something for everyone. They had fine art, jewelry, clothing and artifacts from around the world. Dave rolled his eyes at the history of fashion exhibit, which the diva and I loved, but I reminded him that I went to a war museum for him. The least he could do was sashay through some vintage couture with me. And he did. Guilt works.

Then there was a live music and soccer demonstration out on the lawn that the kids loved. A man gave them some noisemakers with FCUK on them. I started to get all offended and take them away, thinking they were some kind of dirty, inappropriate things, but it turns out that FCUK actually stands for French Connection United Kingdom. Dang, I’m square.

St. Martin in the Fields Church

We saw a free piano concert here and went to the crypt below for a mediocre lunch. There we also did some neat brass rubbings of dragons, griffins and Celtic spirals.

Pubs and Grub

I used to love Guiness, but I really missed German beer on this trip, especially hefeweizen. I’ve gotten spoiled. We never really had a great meal the entire week in London except for some very expensive tapas our last night there.

One sort of sad trend in London is the purchase of so many little old pubs by one major mega-corporation so that they all have the same Bennigans-style menu. It’s handy in a way because the menu is kid-friendly and cheaper, but it replaces the appealing homemade London fare that pubs are famous for, like bubble and squeak, ploughman and Ruben sandwiches, and shepherd’s pie. But I guess this corporation supposedly buys organic and tries to keep the ambiance true to history. So it’s not all bad.

We did have some Cornish pasties and fish and chips on the streets. We also ate Thai and Spanish, but we never got Indian food, which I had expected to find easily.

General Observations

I had not been back to London since my trips there in the 1980s. Since some 80s fashions have come back in vogue, it felt a lot the same as it did then. I saw lots of skinny jeans, ballet flats, off-the shoulder baggy tops, and even a few punk rockers with Mohawks. But there were new fashion trends too, like wearing a keffiyeh (Muslim headdress) as a scarf (the look that got Rachel Ray in so much trouble) and women wearing tiny little shortie shorts with their butt cheeks hanging out, like in the old Nair commercials (“We wear short shorts…”) WITH big furry winter Eskimo boots. Interesting.

Overall we had a fantastic trip. And speaking our own language all week offered a good mental break. Dave really liked the Homer Simpson tee shirt that he saw that said, “English? Who needs that? I’m never going to England.” Indeed.

It was a little challenging keeping two kids from walking too close to curbs with double decker buses rushing by, from walking too far ahead or behind on crowded city streets, or from forgetting to “mind the gap” (watch for the huge crack between the train and station platform) on the tube. One night Luke even fell off the hotel bed and bumped his head so hard we thought he had a concussion. Again. So it wasn’t as relaxing as hanging out on the beach. But it was a trip of a lifetime, and I hope they remember it. I certainly will.

He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands

2008-09-10T10:36:00.001+02:00

A few Sundays ago at our church, St. Catherine’s Anglican Church in Stuttgart, an English lady I’d never seen before stood up and invited all single people to her house for dinner that evening. Later, as we were having coffee and cake after church, she approached us and invited our family to come too since not many singles had accepted her offer. I declined, explaining that we had two young children (who, I was thinking, would destroy her fancy dinner). But she was insistent, and something about her seemed so likable and sincere. I let her talk me into it with the caveat that I be allowed to bring food too.

So we drove into the hills that evening to have dinner with people we had never met before that day. We took wine, homemade tortellini salad, and a bag of toys to entertain the kids. We were all excited to make new friends when I suddenly panicked. Who are these people? Why did they invite us if they don't know us? Oh Lord, what if they are going to try to sell us Amway or get us to join a cult?

But I need not have worried. We ended up having a lovely evening. Twelve adults sat around a long table and the four children sat outside at the patio table. We enjoyed four delicious courses, including squash soup, salads, stuffed pork chops, and three German desserts. But the most wonderful part was the diversity of our group. There were two Nigerians, one New Zealander, two Germans, two English, four Indians, and five Americans. We all laughed and drank wine and talked about Monty Python, soccer, travel, food, theater, and family. Nobody brought up politics or religion. Claire and Luke ran and played tag with two beautiful little Indian girls. It was lovely. We started out as strangers, and after an evening of conversation we became friends. What a gift. And not once did anyone try to sell anything. How many people would open their home and spend all day cooking wonderful food for strangers for no reason other than to be kind? It’s sad that we expected an ulterior motive. This was a genuine act of generosity that was truly inspiring.

Polter Abend

2008-08-13T08:35:00.005+02:00

This week Dave took some time off and we visited the onion festival in Esslingen, a biergarten and the castle in Ludwigsburg, and the local pool. We had dinner at Steffi’s house and the adults stayed up talking and drinking wine around the fire pit until 2:00 in the morning. We had fun.

Perhaps most memorable event of the week was attending our first polter abend. Polter is German for “noisy,” as in poltergheist (“noisy ghost”). Abend is just “evening.” So a polter abend is a noisy evening that celebrates a couple’s upcoming marriage. Our neighbors, Petra and Markus, are getting married this week. So our neighbors Monica and Thomas invited them over for dinner, to secure a spot on their calendar. Then, when the couple drove home from work that night, they were greeted with a huge surprise party in the middle of the street. We had grills and beer kegs lined up on the sidewalk, food tables in the garages, dining tables down the center of the street, kids playing, and lots of fun. I had even made bride and groom hula hoops for the occasion. His was gold, white and black. Hers was gold and white with lace. The couple hooped in the streets and laughed a lot. We all enjoyed good food, conversation, and beer. There was a wasp that liked the beer too. I didn’t see it in my stein and it stung me on the tongue when I took a drink. I had to drink more beer to numb the pain.

But wait, I didn’t tell you why they call it a polter abend. The reason it is so noisy is that, according to German tradition, all of the guests bring old ceramic dishes to smash in the street. Smashing ceramics brings good luck, but glass is forbidden since glass represents happiness and you don’t want to break that. For extra good luck, the couple sweeps up the mess. Then throughout the evening people sneak over and dump out the trash can so they have to do it all over again and gain more good luck. Then someone new shows up with more dishes to break and the couple has to clean again. This went on for hours. It was a riot. We had such a blast.

The kids loved sneaking over to dump out the cans and being destructive without getting into trouble. It was a three band-aid night, but they didn’t care. Luke’s American friend Mimi was there. He announced to me, “Mom, I asked Mimi if she wanted to get married with me and she said yes. Then we can have a party like this too.” I’d better start putting aside some old china.

Be sure to check out our photo album on this page for photos of the polter abend!

Mainau with the Royals and Eigeltingen with the Critters

2008-08-05T22:13:00.003+02:00

This weekend we joined friends at the Bodensee. We took a boat to the Island of Minau, which is owned by Swedish royalty. The entire island is an amazing botanical garden with playgrounds, a butterfly house, and restaurants. The kids loved the wasserspielplatz (water playground) that had climbable wooden rafts floating in a shallow pond. We had a ball.

Then that evening we drove to our hotel in Stockach, only to learn that our prepaid reservation was not held for us. They showed us two tiny rooms that they did have available, each with two thin twin beds, and a toilet and tub down the hall for nearly 100 euro. We left, discouraged, intending to go home.

But instead, we stumbled upon a really cool place called Lochmuehle, which is an absolute kids’ paradise. In order to park, we had to wait until an alpaca and a herd of goats cleared the road. For 100 euro in this place we got a two-story apartment with a kitchen. They had a hot tub, swimming pool with slide, and a really cool playground with construction equipment and bumper cars. They offer all sorts of cool activities like carriage rides, a ropes course, paddle boats, zip lines, four-wheelers, and lots more. Animals were everywhere. There was a pig roasting on a spit by the entrance, which didn't seem to bother the living fat pig that made himself at home in the children’s sand box. Sheep rested under bridges. Pigeons fluttered about. Bunnies hopped. Shetland ponies inspected our pockets for treats. We had to watch our step to avoid stinky landmines. It felt like a regular day around my house.

We swam for a while and had dinner in the restaurant to a band that played songs like How Great Thou Art blended with Aloha-oi, all to a Polka beat. While we waited for our food, Luke kept asking me to dance with him. He led me around the dance floor, his crown only reaching as high as my belly button. It was adorable. The food was good too. Claire and I had venison goulash, which is a new favorite for her.

The next day we awoke to a rooster crowing and went down for a huge German breakfast. We ended up staying most of the day there before driving home. We had lunch in the biergarten, which was great except for the flies. It seems they really liked the animals too.

Confessions of a Bunko Virgin

2008-08-05T22:05:00.006+02:00

Last week I attended my second bunko night with my German gal pals. I’m sad to report that I am still a bunko virgin, the only one among us. Thirty-six years old and I've never rolled three of a kind on that number round of the game. Sad, truly.

It has nothing to do with the fact that I am the only American in the group. I just don’t have luck with dice. Good thing I’m lucky in love.

I took a hula hoop that I’d made for a white elephant gift. They loved it! It was a big hit. The gals good-naturedly fought over it, which was flattering.

After bunko night my head is always swimming with new German words. I get a headache from trying to understand all of the conversation. I always leave bunko night feeling both elated at my progress and disheartened by how much I have left to learn.

The next day I went on a hospital tour with a group of Americans, most of whom had only recently arrived in the country. We visited four hospitals in the area, which is helpful since in Germany each emergency requires a different type of specialized emergency room. One hospital cares for cuts but not broken bones. Another handles kids but not adults. And so on. It's all very muddling.

One of the ERs had a television set in the corner, which the guide told us was inspired by the German doctors’ visit to the Patch Barracks clinic. One of the men in the group noted, “Wow, that kind of show ought to relax anyone with an emergency.” We all looked up in time to see naked people engaging in some serious...well, they were getting pretty friendly with each other. Oh, and did I mention we were in the ER for children? Wow. Toto, we are SO not in America anymore.

Anyway, on that tour I started to realize how much German I’ve really learned. I translated lots of signs and words for people. Here, let me give you a quick lesson:

Krankenhouse = “sick house” = hospital
Krankenschwester = “sick sister” = nurse
Kranken wagen = “sick wagon” or ambulance
Krankheit = sickness (sounds like Cronkite, as in Walter)
Gusundheit = health
Antibabypille = birth control pills (logical enough)
Notfall = emergency
Teufel = devil (not really relevant, except that it was the doctor’s last name and I thought it was funny)

Now I am really considering taking German classes at the VHS (volkshochschule) which are like our community education classes in the states. If I commit, it would mean 20 hours a week in a classroom. I would be in classes exactly the same time that Claire would be at the German elementary school. Man, I can’t wait to be able to put a sentence together. Jawohl!

Biergarten Birthday

2008-08-05T22:01:00.003+02:00

Luke turned five on July 20. We had a great birthday party for him at Jaegerholz-Sliders Biergarten. Yep. A kids’ party at a bar. But it’s not like you might think. They have a great playground, mini-golf, kegelbahn (like bowling) a soccer goal, and a big grassy area for running and playing. The kids had a ball. The theme was Legos, so we had a Lego table for playing and a table with crayons and Lego pictures to color. One table had face paints and two of my very artistic friends took turns coloring kids. I brought my hula hoops for both adults and children and we played games and hooped our hearts out. Sliders served up chicken tenders, fries, calamari rings, fried mushrooms, mozzarella sticks, nachos, and pitchers of beer for the adults and soda and apfelsaft schorle (carbonated apple juice) for the kids.

I tried to bake three Lego-shaped cakes using loaf pans and muffins for the dots. They flopped. So I switched to marshmallows for the dots, which worked better. But I overcooked the cakes and the icing was too thick. I felt a little betrayed. On the Betty Crocker website it had looked so easy. Come on, Betty! I expect Martha Stewart to make us moms feel inferior, but you are our saving grace! You enable us to whip up last-minute cupcakes for school parties with a box, an egg and a cup of oil and feel like we accomplished something. But not with this recipe. It was tough. Or maybe it was just me. To redeem myself, I also made a carrot cake with a Duncan Hines mix, throwing in some real shaved carrots and pecans to make it seem more homemade. I used cream cheese frosting from a can and sprinkled the top with pecans. I then spelled out LUKE in Legos. It was pretty good. But I was embarrassed when one of my German friends asked for the recipes for the cakes. I said, “Well, they’re secret American recipes from my Aunt Betty and Uncle Duncan.”

The Americans got it and laughed, and I was forced to explain. Talk about embarrassing. I assured them, though, that I had plenty of homemade cake recipes if they wanted something authentic. I don’t really want them to know that most of us American moms are way more like Betty than Martha.

Decisions, Decisions

2008-08-05T21:53:00.005+02:00

Yoohoo! Here I am. Did you think I had fallen into the cyberspace abyss? Nearly. I was sucked into the vortex of car buying. Yikes.

It’s a long story, but the short of it is that we decided to downgrade and then to upgrade and then to upgrade again. We were going to buy a 2007 BMW 335i, then a 2008 BMWxi, but then the plant closed for the German summer holidays, so now we are ending up with a 2009 BMW 335xi (4-wheel drive sedan) in Montego Blue with warming Saddle Brown leather seats, xenon headlights, and a bunch of other nerdy stuff that I’m just too girly to remember. Phew. It will be here in September.

This has been some crazy discernment process, let me tell you. First we had to choose between a small commuter car and a family car. With the Galant on its last wheels, we decided to opt for something that could step in and take its place if need be. Then we decided between a BMW and Mercedes, which is a feat considering that here the rivalry between the two is akin to the vicious Ford versus Chevy truck debate between the Texas farm boys of my youth. Then after that we had to decide whether or not we truly deserved a car so nice. That was the biggest hurdle.

All throughout this deciding period I kept thinking about a great quote from Dorothy Alvarez that I swiped from my friend Amber’s Facebook page: “I want a new car. God wants to redeem the universe. Therein lies the problem.”

Was it responsible to buy such an extravagant car when people are hungry in the world?

We wrestled with the question for weeks. We want to save for our kids to go to college. We want to be able to travel home to the States when we want and to travel within Europe while we are here. And we want to be good world citizens and live generously. BUT we also considered that Dave has worked hard for a long time. He has driven the old clunker Galant for 14 years, and he drove his Jeep for nearly as many years before that. He’s 43. Life is short. We don’t waste a lot of money and we are in good shape financially. So why shouldn’t we get the car we really want if we can still live in financial balance?

We already have far too much guilt in our lives. What it finally came down to for us was a realization that it’s not an issue of deserving. Does anyone deserve nice things? We don’t deserve a BMW, but we are blessed to be able to get one. For us it is about gratitude. If we are blessed with something good, we must be grateful. Taking good things for granted, well, that would be something to feel guilty about. After all, if we felt guilty we couldn’t enjoy our new car and then it would truly be wasted. Right?

Beaming!

2008-07-15T10:08:00.006+02:00

I had thought I was going to get to see my husband in a purple mini. No, he’s not a cross-dresser. Mini Cooper. We test-drove a few and they were cute and fun. But unless we got the Clubman stretch model, my kids were squished in the back seat. I can’t imagine a road trip with even more whining (“Mom, Luke keeps sticking his knee in my ear. Oh, wait, that’s my knee.”) And unless we got the turbo sport model, it drove like a tin can on casters.

So we drove a BMW 120 series, and although it had way more oomph and a bit more backseat space, the funky rounded ergonomically-correct seats made the car seats sit at an angle facing each other. Now we had two kids with feet touching and, well, you know how that would go over.

I wonder what kind of car we’d have bought if we had no children? Something with only two seats, no doubt.

But we finally found a winner. It’s big enough to be a family car without being nerdy or boxy. It’s dependable, safe, fuel efficient and cool enough to get us through the inevitable mid-life crisis that will be upon us before long.

We are now the proud parents of a bouncy Monaco Blue BMW 335i! Its due date is in two weeks. I can’t wait to hold it, stroke it, to hear its first sounds. I can’t wait to smell that clean scent of a Bimmer fresh from the bath. I sure wish Grandma lived close enough to visit.

But this baby will rarely use a child safety seat. No, the 335 will be Dave’s commuter car. I will keep the 1995 Mitsubishi Galant for my occasional errands that are not within walking distance. It’s old and beat up, but it has been a dependable car and it still gets really good gas mileage. We’ll use his car for long trips, maybe, and perhaps occasionally on weekends. But I have to declare this publicly so that we will stick to it: THERE WILL BE NO EATING IN THE BMW! As it stands now, you could feed a family of twelve for a week on the fries and gummi bears found between the seats of the Mitsubishi.

I’m really excited for Dave to have a great new car. He has worked so hard for so long, and I think he deserves to have a big reward. And I’m even more thrilled that now we each have transportation when we need it. I’m so tired of doing the one-car tango and being house-bound.

Now, I have to admit that there is one major drawback to owning a BMW. We live in a neighborhood full of Mercedes employees. My American neighbor, the one who had told me that our old Galant was “bringing the neighborhood down” now warns me that our BMW will “get us excommunicated in this neighborhood.” This is from a man who himself owns a “Bay Em Vay” (as the locals call it), but who reminds me that he had his before he moved here so he is exempt from criticism. My reply to all of that is easy. When Mercedes starts offering decent deals through the American military sales folks, or when our Mercedes friends are able to offer us a discount, then we’ll talk. In the meantime, we have a killer new baby that we were able to pay a good price for in dollars (which is how we get paid). And anyway, our Mercedes friends are nice. I don’t think they’ll slash our tires. They won’t have a chance. When this baby isn’t on the autobahn, she’ll be safely tucked in the garage each night.

P.S. A little trivia for you. Do you know why it is called a “Bimmer” and not a “Beamer” or a “Beemer”? It’s because Beamer is slang for a BMW motorbike. Bimmer is the car. I’m sure people get confused because new BMW owners “beam” when first get behind the wheel. So there. Ain’t I just a well of useless knowledge?

Ich Spreche Deutsch Nicht So Gut

2008-07-11T16:17:00.006+02:00

I have been working on my Deutsch when I can. It’s coming, but not fast enough. It’s in my personality to crave immediate gratification and perfection. I want to be able to cite long dramatic monologues, keep up with gossip and events in our village newspaper, and be able to scan through school notices without having to look up every third word.

So far I can order soup and find a loo when I need to. Hey, it’s a start. I’ve had to tape my dictionary together because I take it everywhere. I learn something new every day. But I am to the point that I really need some structure. I need a framework of grammar on which to hang all of my newfound trophy words.

The kids are learning too. They are adapting to German schools far better than I had imagined they would. They are plenty smart. It’s just that it’s my job as their mom to worry about how they will cope with being the outsiders at school, left out of jokes and conversations. I worry that they will fall behind in German, and then in English. I worry about how they will fit in when they go back to America and realize that it doesn’t seem like their home anymore.

I remember that homeless feeling when I was a kid. We had returned from three years in Africa and I had to adapt to a Texas junior high school. I didn’t know what MTV or Nike shoes were. I didn’t fit neatly into a labeled category (Jock? Popular? Nerd? Old money? Ah, yeah, Band Geek.). I was just that weird kid with the accent. If I talked about Africa, it was considered bragging. So I learned not to mention the most formative three years of my life so that I wouldn’t stick out and be rejected. It was hell. But I digress.

Anyway, my kids are not me. I do my best to hide my anxieties, to not hand them my baggage. They seem happy and confident. They have each handled a bully successfully. A boy at the kindergarten tried to flush Luke’s spare clothes down the toilet. Luke said that instead of telling the teacher, he told the boy to stop and he did. I was proud. But I do wish he’d talk to the teachers more. He says that when they talk to him and he doesn’t understand he just says, “Okay” and walks away.

The bully at Claire’s school was a little girl who helped her draw a rainbow mural on her desk and told her that it was allowed. When Claire got in trouble the girl just laughed. Claire cleaned the desk (it took a long time) and I helped her to write a long letter of apology to her teacher in German. Since then she says she is polite to the girl but that she doesn’t interact with her. And best of all, she didn’t let it spoil her positive attitude about the school. She is still on the trial period where she goes only twice a week until summer break. But she has made friends with some sweet girls with whom she walks to school. Every time she comes home she has a new freunde buch (friendship book) to fill out. We’ve spent hours finding photos to paste in and translating the questions (What is your favorite book? What is your greatest wish?) and figuring out the answers in German. It’s a great way to get her to study.

Still, I worry. A month ago she told me that when she plays with a large group of kids who only speak German she feels “invisible.” I know exactly what she means. When I am not heard, not understood, I feel as if I am not seen either. I feel truly handicapped, as if I know what I want to say and where I want to go, but my limitations forbid it.

I imagine myself sounding really stupid when I speak German. It’s like when we watch “Jay Walking” on the Tonight Show where Leno asks people easy questions and they have no clue how to answer. Dave and I make fun of the stupid people, especially the teachers, who can’t even name our first president or find Africa on a map. But now when Germans ask me questions and I try to answer auf Deutsch, I imagine a big camera in my face broadcasting my broken, idiotic reply. And I imagine someone sitting on a couch, thinking, “Lord, that stupid lady needs to just go back to America…”

I hate feeling ignorant. I know that I’m a smart girl, but when I can’t get my ideas across, I may as well be an idiot. I wonder how anyone could possibly want to befriend me if they don’t understand my stories, my witticisms, my feelings? But come to think of it, maybe it's a good thing to learn to keep my mouth shut and listen for a change.

I do feel incredibly guilty when my German friends who speak good English have to speak my language to me instead of my speaking theirs. They are sweet about it, but in the back of my head I hear echoes of a few narrow-minded old men back home saying awful things like, “Those damn foreigners come to our country, and if they can’t speak our language they need to go home!” I always hated that attitude, but it embarrasses me that now I am one of those “damn foreigners”. I want to show respect for my host nation, to connect and make lifelong friends here. My worst fear is being branded “Ugly American.” Adapting is just a lot of work sometimes.

I try to teach my kids that ignorance is only a crime if you aren’t willing to correct it. I try to give them permission to make mistakes in the name of learning. I’m just struggling to practice what I teach. After all, there are plenty of days when I feel as though I am discovering clues and pieces to a magnificent puzzle each time I understand a new word in context. I just have to give myself a little grace while I learn this very hard language. (Lord, grant me patience, and hurry up about it!)

I think that the key for me is making some wonderful German friends. Ruth, a mom from the kindergarten, has invited us over for a barbecue. Our neighbor Zilka has had me over for coffee. We moms stand around and watch our kids play on our street. And Steffi has even invited me to join her bunko group. I had a blast on my first night. There were thirteen German women and me. Some spoke English with me, but mostly they spoke German. After a couple of glasses of wine my German was better (or at least I thought so). And by the end of the evening I was even understanding most of the jokes. I need to have more times like that where I can observe and interact in a friendly and forgiving environment where the stakes are low.

I just have to remember that this is a relatively short season in our family's history, that it is an opportunity to change our worldview and make lasting memories and friendships. And anyway, you just can’t beat the chocolate.

I Just Want To Celebrate

2008-07-11T16:14:00.003+02:00

Last weekend we attended three outdoor events. The first was the Fourth of July festival on Patch Barracks. It wasn’t particularly ambitious, well-attended or fun. And even though I love German food, I was disappointed to see only wursts there and no traditional Independence Day hamburgers or hot dogs. Luke and I were home asleep before fireworks, but Dave and Claire snuggled on a blanket and enjoyed a good show.

The next day we attended a 4-km hike and picnic with Luke’s kindergarten. That was fun except that I mis-translated the announcement and thought we were supposed to bring tongs and meat to put on a grill. Instead, we were to bring knives to carve long sticks to cook meat over a campfire. Oops. Chicken legs don’t cook well on twigs, so we just ate salad and bread. No big deal. The kids really enjoyed the playground that they had. There was no bathroom, which was interesting with 100 little kids.

The next day we had the Katherinenfest at St. Kat’s Church in Stuttgart. It was a mixed gathering with our English-speaking Anglican congregation and the Old Catholic German congregation. I had made an awesome buttermilk chocolate cake, the kind that my Mississippi grandmother might have taken to our little white clapboard Methodist church in the woods back home. I knew that it wouldn’t be like an old-timey Southern church social, but part of me really hoped it would feel like one.

The church service was bilingual, and it was great that we had a written translation of the sermon. We were told the kids “just had to” go to the children’s service during the sermon, but it ended up just being a table with crayons. After church we went out and bought tickets to buy food, which consisted of catered German wursts and potato salad. There was really no place to sit. Because a king years ago gave the church land for its building and not the surrounding grounds, the church had to rent its own lawn from the city. There was so much dog poop (like in France) on the grounds that we couldn’t find a place to put our picnic blanket. We tried to put it on the sidewalk, but we were told it was a public pathway. There were a few tables, but not nearly enough. So we had to balance our glass plates and cups and try to eat that way. When it came time for dessert and coffee, we had to buy that too. So I had to buy a piece of my own cake to see if it came out okay. I’d much rather have made a flat donation up front and been done with it, but that’s not the way it works here. Oh, and did I mention that it poured rain? I did not feel very warm and fuzzy about the whole experience.

Next year I think we will go away for July 4th weekend like all of our American friends did. If we’re not going to be in America for the 4th of July, it really doesn’t matter where we are.

Homesick Blues

2008-07-11T16:09:00.003+02:00

We’ve been in Germany for 18 weeks now, and although I love it, I’m feeling sharp pangs of homesickness. I’ve missed family and friends all of this time. I’ve wished I could share every new experience with them, call to chat when I have a moment alone (which is when everyone back home is sleeping), or just put on a big pot of gumbo to share. But these feelings are especially acute since we discovered we can’t make it home this summer. Rather than pay $1000 per ticket, we are waiting until Christmas when we have less travel time but can use frequent flyer miles. Makes me wish I knew more German swear words.

Life carries on back home in the U.S. A.. Cousins marry. Parents have birthdays. Relatives have reunions. People are living in our Colorado house. And yet here we are, still trying to figure out life in our new home. In a way it feels like we’ve been on a wonderful vacation, playing house and stepping out of our routine for a while. As with every vacation, there comes a time when you’re just ready to go home, catch up on the mail, reconnect with friends, and get your life back in order. The problem is, we’re already home. It just doesn’t feel like it yet. I keep thinking that one day I'll wake up and feel completely comfortable and settled. One day.

What’s Up with the Kinder

2008-06-24T16:44:00.003+02:00

Hey y'all. Forgive me for being absent for the past three weeks. I’ve been busy, but I’ll try to catch you up. Since most of my time and attention has been centered on my kids (what else is new?) I figured I should spend this blog catching you up on them.

The Diva

Claire graduated first grade nearly two weeks ago. To go out with a bang, on her last week of school she won second place in the category “Fastest Looking Car” at the Patch Elementary Pinebox Derby. Not bad, considering there were around 100 entries. Dave had helped her carve it, she had painted it herself, and I helped her glue on the details. She was upset initially because a wheel fell off just before her race and she didn’t have time to align it properly. So, despite appearances, Fire Blaster 3000 (as she named it) was not very fast. But she is pleased as punch with her prize for the way her car looked. She lost the wheel for good on the bus on the way home, but she didn’t much care. We framed her certificate and proudly displayed the three-wheeled car in front of it in her room.

That week she also lost her third tooth. But it was the first tooth ever to make it home to hide under her pillow for the Tooth Fairy. The first one she dropped in the snow at school and lost. The second one she dropped in the car and lost (see a pattern here?). But alas, the Tooth Fairy in Holzgerlingen is truly lame. She forgot until morning and had to sneak a euro coin under the poor girl’s pillow while she was dressing. And the worst part is that she thought she grabbed the tooth, but she dropped it by mistake. So Claire found the tooth next to the money and was thrilled that she was allowed to keep it. I told her that the Tooth Fairy sometimes does check-ups and lets you keep the tooth as a souvenir. Phew. She told me three years ago, before she ever lost a tooth, that she didn’t believe in the Tooth Fairy. But she hasn’t let on since then. We all play along and it’s fun.

Yeah, she is a brilliant, sweet, smart little girl who lives in her own little universe of cluelessness. Last week she was playing with some real metal handcuffs that I had from an old sorority costume. They were engraved “Sigma Theta Tau” and they were party favors for our Jailbreak Informal Dance at Trinity University. We did the parental thing and warned, “Be careful. Don’t latch them shut” to which she retorted, “But I have the key right here.” What she didn’t count on was breaking the key inside the lock. We spent a good twenty minutes with some serious tools trying to break her free. Jailbreak indeed. I threw away the mangled pieces of metal that were, after all, a part of a former life anyway.

Last week, walking home from school, she had her umbrella up to ward of the spitting rain. There is truly nothing more dangerous than Claire with an umbrella. After poking her brother in the eye and bonking me in the head numerous times, she somehow managed to trip over it (which is amazing since it was supposed to be over her shoulder) and break every single spine of the umbrella. More mangled metal. What is it with that girl?

She’s clumsy like her Mama, but creative like her too. Since she’s been out of school she has spent a lot of time doing her favorite thing: painting the faces of all of the neighborhood kids. Face paint is apparently super expensive here, so the kids line up to have her paint rainbows, butterflies (smetterling) and flowers (blumen) on them. I think it is great that boys don’t get hung up on gender-specific images. I remember painting faces at birthday parties back in Colorado and boys asked for things like “a fighter jet” or “a three-headed monster on a Harley” or “a guy with a knife in his chest.” It does my heart good to see seven-year-old boys with butterflies on their cheeks. That’s the kind of innocence I want for my kids.

This past weekend Claire attended her first Girl Scout event, which was a camp. She had a blast, although she was a little freaked out sleeping in a tent with new girls she didn’t know in the middle of the woods in the dark. The troops were divided up into teams named for nations of the world. Her team, Australia, won the gold medal for the most points scored in all of the sporting events. They played pool noodle hockey, paint handprint high jump, archery, water balloon toss, volleyball, soccer, pillow jousting and sock wrestling, the event that I oversaw. It was great fun. The troop leader did tell me, however, that Claire left a trail of stuff everywhere she went, that she lost her flashlight and water bottle repeatedly, and that she didn’t follow directions putting her sleeping bag on a plastic mat and ended up sleeping in it all damp. She also refused to try the team sports like volleyball and soccer. I feel a bit guilty for that. I have not been good about teaching the kids sporty type stuff. It would be like the blind leading the blind. Knitting, cooking, painting, that stuff I can do. But give me a ball and I turn into a total spaz. Unless it's a ball of yarn, that is.

Claire lost tooth number four her first night home from camp. This time the Tooth Fairy had it together and gave her some funky girly bath salts and a US dollar (for what it’s worth in this danged economy). Lately Claire loves taking froo froo baths with candles, bubbles, and scented oils. Diva indeed.

Today she experienced her first day at Berkenschule, the local elementary school. Steffi’s best friend Ute came over last week to meet with us and tell Claire about the school. She is a gorgeous tall blonde lady who is so sweet and helpful, just like Steffi. She met us this morning in the pouring rain to show Claire her classroom. I spent the first hour with Claire, trying to help her feel settled. The teacher spoke some English, so she tried to help her as best she could. They were learning the letter Z and words that start with that letter (Zoo, Zirkus, Zahn, Zimt). I learned a lot and I hope Claire did too. It seems weird to see her in a class that is just now learning letters and reading and to see her barely understanding when in English she reads a chapter book a day. But I think this will be so good for her. Claire likes that German schools are only in the morning, that she would have her afternoons free. She will need to learn the German cursive, and the teacher Frau Hahn (Mrs. Rooster) gave us some books to practice. She was very nice and helpful too.

I pray that she will develop a more receptive attitude toward learning German. She understands more than she lets on to me because I hear her using German with the neighbor kids. My heart warmed when she told me this morning, “By the end of the year I will speak German and all of the other kids will know English through me.” But it’s hard to get her to willingly sit down and study with me. You know, you can lead a stubborn donkey to water, but you can’t make her drink it in. I know that if she put her mind to it she could do anything. She is amazingly smart. Now, if I can just help her to be more disciplined and tenacious she will be unstoppable. I know, I know…more blind leading the blind. I procrastinate and get distracted all the time (like, I just took a break and ate an entire Ritter Sport chocolate bar, folded some clothes and came back). But I’m trying.

Master Luke

Luke’s love affair with trains is as passionate as it was when it began three and a half years ago. He will turn five next month and he wants to have a Lego themed birthday party with a Lego Train as his major gift. I’ll invite the neighborhood children and some American friends too. I’ll have to figure out some simple games that I can easily explain in simple German and English.

When Luke is not at his train table, he can often be found in Steffi’s sandbox across the street. He loves getting covered from earlobes to toenails in powder-fine sand that will inevitably end up on my floors and all over the laundry room. He started German kindergarten on Monday and he loves it. It is a lot like his preschool in Colorado, Ruth Washburn, in that it is completely play-based and fun. They don't allow sugar or junk food. They play outside in nearly any weather. And they have really cool toys.

But there are major differences too. Parents are not encouraged to volunteer or stick around. Safety doesn't seem to a huge concern. Kids check in at various times, then have free run of the entire building, which is full of little rooms with teachers spread about. One room is for dolls and pretend play, one is for art, one is for building blocks and marbles, one is for games and puzzles, one is a gym, and so on. They even have a tool room for building with real hammers, nails, saws and wood and NO goggles or really much supervision. There is a kitchen where the kids can go any time they are hungry. They just go and get their snacks from their cubbies, grab their cup for water, and sit down to eat. They can go out on the fenced playground anytime they like as long as they "sign out" (put their photo in the playground box on the board). They gather in their groups for circle time, story time, gym time, or things like that. They do field trips nearly every week, usually just hikes into the woods. There isn't really a curriculum. It's more about having fun. But he is learning a lot of German and making friends, so those are the real benefits. They sing songs and present little concerts and such. He's doing great.

Oh, and one thing that I like at his kindy is that they had the kids go through magazines and cut out pictures to glue onto posters announcing which foods are healthy and allowed in school and which are not. Then they took real wrappers from yoghurt, gummi bears, cereals, and so on and glued them on another poster. Then next to each one they glued sugar cubes representing the actual amount of sugar in each one. It was really a great visual for kids, especially for things like juice drinks that they seem to think are healthy.

Luke is energetic, dramatic, emotional and sweet. He loves to build things and dance. And he still says the cutest things. He can’t say Halleluiah, but he says “Halleyoolah!” And he often says “otherwise” meaning “and anyway” such as “I don’t really need my rain boots today ‘cause otherwise it’s not even raining.”

Last week at dinner Claire was not using her best manners and Dave said, “Claire, don’t eat like a Barbarian.” A few moments later Luke chimed in, “Dad, Claire’s doing it again. She’s eating like a librarian!”

Right now he is at a friend's house playing (what else?) trains.

Losing our Marbles

Boy, my kids love TV and computer. The other day Luke offered me money to let him watch just one more show. Instead, I started a marble system. They earn marbles for good behavior, for doing chores, for studying German and the Bible, and for special treats. Then they “rent” TV and computer time at the rate of one marble per half hour. They can lose marbles for bad behavior, and they have goals. Each has a marble jar with lines marking the quarter-, half- and full-way marks. Each milestone has a list of prizes from which to choose, from kids’ choice of family night activity to a trip to an amusement park to a new Venus flytrap plant (Claire’s idea). So far it is working well. When one of them is bankrupt, they can read or do chores to earn their TV time. I love it. I'd much rather give my marbles away than lose them altogether!

About the House Already

2008-06-04T20:03:00.001+02:00

Thanks for Sharing

First off, thanks to those of you who have emailed me to say that you enjoy the blog. It seems crazy to me that the self-indulgent musings of a middle-aged mom are interesting to anyone else, but I’m flattered. My favorite comment was from a friend with no kids. She said she usually hates hearing all about her friends’ kids, their birthday parties and so on, but that mine wasn’t nearly so boring. Cool. I’ll take it.

The White House

So I’m getting a lot of heat from some of you for not writing about my house. We’ve been in it for nearly six weeks now, but I’m overwhelmed by getting settled. We decided just last week to stay put and not buy the other house since the banks are so skittish about giving loans to Americans (can you say 20% down?!?)

Here’s the scoop:

We live in a brand new four-story house in the Schonbuch forest, in the 1001-year-old town of Holzgerlingen. Our house is a brand new white cement block that might look like something out of the Soviet era except for the bright red door, A-frame top floor and Spanish tile roof. It is wonderfully bright and cozy inside. It has plenty of floor space, a big kitchen by German standards (Barbie sized instead of Polly Pocket sized) and an amazing big sunroom on the top floor. We have never had a family room before, and it feels good to have a common area where we can hang out and relax while still keeping the main level neat for unexpected visitors, which we get more often here than we did in the mountains.

Our road dead-ends into a bike trail that runs along farm fields and through a tunnel into our town. Over the hills you can see bright yellow mustard fields, apple orchards, and the quaint little town of Altdorf. The entrance to our street has a sign telling drivers to approach at walking speed due to children playing. And boy, do they! Our kids have discovered that they are, indeed, kids. They finally learned how to ride bikes (remember, we lived on a mountain slope in Colorado—not so good for learning to bike). And they have already made friends with several little German kids who love coming to our house for the ice pops (the kind that you freeze as you need them; we got a box of 200 of them for $7.00 at the commissary). They also like our “eis wurfel” (ice cubes). Germans don’t use ice too much, so playing with our ice is fun. I’ve had to wash neighbor kids' muddy handprints off my ice bucket twice already. The new rule is that everyone has to ask me and I'll get the ice out for them, thank you very much.

The Neighbors

The neighborhood is what we love best about our new home. Our first day in the house, a lovely older gentleman knocked on our door with a bouquet of roses to welcome us. He is a seminary professor who plays cello by his window and keeps a beautiful garden. His English is more eloquent than mine. There are at least four great playgrounds within two or three blocks of us. The neighborhood parents are conscientious and watchful of all of the kids. It feels a bit like a college dorm, where people leave their doors open and pop heads in and say, “Hey, want to come over for a glass of wine?” We have block parties often where everyone brings salads and meat to grill in the streets. Many of our neighbors speak very good English. Most of them work for Mercedes, Daimler or IBM. A good many of them have traveled to or lived in the States. Their children have embraced mine, and it is fun to watch them teach each other new words in each other’s language.

Then there are a few neighbors who don’t speak much English at all, or at least won’t admit that they do for fear of embarrassing themselves. Those neighbors wave and look away. We have one American neighbor, a Navy fellow who has two cute little yorkies. For a while he was the only one on the street who would hula hoop with me. Everyone else was too reserved. They looked at me like I was crazy. But I have finally won some of them over. The other day we had three moms and about eight kids hooping in the street. I’m actually making hoops as gifts for two of my new neighbor friends. That's good for me. It’s no fun to spin alone.

Unpacking the Junk

Ah, but the boxes. I wish I were exaggerating when I tell you we moved more than 500 of them. A sickening amount of stuff. And you would not believe the way our Colorado movers messed with our heads. I can’t believe we bought them lunch for four days in a row and tipped them all generously, and then got here and found Christmas ornaments labeled “towels” and novels labeled “toys.” Even though I had lined up shoes side by side for them to pack, we had to open box after box to find the mate to any particular shoe. And we figured out that the label “décor” just means “I don’t know what this #$%@ is and I’m too lazy to ask.” I mean, really, are my panty hose really décor? And how do items from three separate rooms on three different floors get into the same box?

All of that means, of course, that our movers on this side of the ocean put everything in the wrong place because they went by what the idiot movers in Colorado had written on the outsides. And remember, we have four levels. So now I’m not only earning buns of steel from going up and down stairs all day, but I’ve had sore arms from lugging boxes up and down.

But to get the full effect of how hard unpacking truly is for us, I want you to do a little experiment with me. Get up and walk into your closet. See all of the stuff. Now imagine that there is no closet and all of your things are on the floor in your room. Now do the same in your bathroom. Open your medicine cabinet and see all of the pills and moisturizers and Preparation H. Now imagine that there is no medicine cabinet and the items are now on the floor in a box. Are you getting it? Remember, most German homes don’t come with any closets or storage at all. We have spent a fortune on cheap laminate closets from Ikea that one needs days and an engineering degree to put together. And we are kicking ourselves for getting rid of shelves and storage pieces that we thought would be too big for a German house. Now we are re-buying those same items all over again.

So anyway, we are here and getting settled, and the Newberry House will soon be ready for visitors. Give us a month or so and we might even have pictures on the walls.

Alsace and Lorraine: From Potty to Shining Potty (and lots of fun in between)

2008-05-28T10:29:00.001+02:00

For the long Memorial weekend, we decided to visit the neighbors. France. The border is an hour and a half from our house, so it makes a good place to go for a short vacation.

We always used to joke that my mama knew every rest stop across the U.S.A. Our first stop in France was at a rest stop just inside the border. I wonder what Mama would think of this one? My kids were amazed. They had never experienced squat toilets before. For those blissfully ignorant of these little contraptions, let me see if I can explain. Ever hear of a hole in the floor? Yep. That’s it. Oh, they do have little foot rests for your comfort and convenience. I had to hold poor Claire around the waist and hold her dress tail so she wouldn’t fall backwards. Luke just thought of it as a huge urinal. What fun!

We drove into Lorraine, down to Lunéville (which we called Looney-ville just for fun) and were lured into town by a sign that said the town was known for pottery. We never did find that, but we found a neat palace and garden to run around in. And the old town was beautiful. Our old Mitsubishi didn’t know it could squeeze through those narrow ancient streets.

Then we went on to Nancy, Lorraine and walked around Place Stanislas, a gorgeous square with two churches facing each other and museums on the other two sides. There are little shops and outdoor cafés along the edges, and in the middle is a huge statue of some famous dude that did some stuff once. In the corners are golden gates and fountains. We sat beside one of the fountains and ate some sandwiches we had made before we left (we had American bottled tea with German sandwiches on a French square and took photos of the whole thing on our Japanese camera). They have cool red bicycles on the square that tourists can borrow free to travel around the town. When the kids are bigger we might try that sometime. I know several European cities offer the same.

We visited the Musée des Beaux-Arts de Nancy on Place Stan (which the locals call it). It had wonderful pieces from Picasso, Matisse, and more. There was art from many periods, which mixed it up a bit for the kids. But I have to say, I hate how trusting Europeans can be with their art. Huge 500-year-old paintings hang floor to ceiling with no rails to keep little kids away. I can’t tell you how many times I panicked that one of mine would accidentally brush up against one. Because I am the meanest mom ever, I told them that if we had to pay to repair one of those paintings, it would cost so much money we’d have to sell all of their toys (and probably our house) to pay for it. That helped a bit.

We checked into our hotel, which was a funky modern Suite-Hotel with trundle beds, sliding Japanese straw panels, and a TV that had shows in Italian, French, English, German and Spanish. We cleaned up and walked back into town for dinner. We had forgotten that the French restaurants don’t open before 7:00 p.m. So we walked around for an hour and a half looking for food. We stopped in a little grocery store and bought some wine and yummy bergamot hard candies, a specialty of the town. They taste a bit like hard marmalade with black pepper in it. Claire especially loves them. We sat at the café square, but the waiter kept telling us he’d be right with us. We believed him for forty minutes, sitting and waiting for menus, and then got mad (or smart) and left. We walked along the Meurthe River, looking at the boats and made it to a family restaurant by the hotel instead. We ate three hours after we intended to, which made all of us cranky. But the kids got their ice cream inside plastic cow toys that they could take home, so that was a mood-saver.

The next day we walked to the square for a breakfast of bread, croissants, café au lait and jus d’orange. Then we walked to the aquarium and zoological museum, which the kids really liked. The coolest thing there was a huge digital clock powered by electric eels. We had to watch our step with all of that walking. There are stray dogs, and thus their leavings, all over the town. More piles than I care to recall had footprints through them. We dodged that bullet and none of us stepped in it, but we did have a good talk about not putting our shoes on seats or beds. Or in mouths (never assume anything with kids, you know).

It was Sunday, but it happened to be Mother’s Day in France so the flower shops and candy shops were full of lovely treats. We stopped at a patisserie/chocolaterie to pick up some tiny quiches (what Lorraine is known for), pain chocolat, and an éclair for Claire. It was a teaching moment. I explained to her that éclairs are so named because the word means “lightning” in French, and the icing pattern on them is usually a zigzag like lightning. Her name means “light” in French. She liked that image of sweet, bright and powerful being both a pastry and a girl. C’est parfait, non?

Oh yeah, Dave and I got to oil up our rusty old college French and we did pretty well. I was impressed. We understood nearly everything we read or heard, which was a nice change after being in Germany where we understand only about a tenth of what we read or hear. Sometimes we would forget and answer in German (“Ja, I mean, oui!”) Once, Dave answered a guy in Spanish by mistake (a leftover from his days living in Panama). I pointed it out and he said, “Wow, I didn’t know my Spanish was so good!”

So after that we went to Musée de l’Ecole de Nancy, which is a house full of gorgeous Art Nouveau furniture and art. This is Dave’s favorite kind of art and architecture, along with American craftsman style. I enjoyed it, but the kids were completely underwhelmed. But they did like running amok in the rose garden afterward.

We drove down into Baccarat, famous for its crystal. Yes, we took two bulls into crystal shops, and I once again had to panic as my kids walked too fast past 7,000-euro vases. Claire wanted her souvenir from that town. Yeah, but...no. Not if she hopes for us to help pay for college. Luke did get his souvenir there, though: a big owie from doing a face-plant in the parking lot. He has had souvenir facial scars from nearly all of our vacations. There is the scar between his eyes that he got tripping over a rock in Mesa Verde, Colorado. He's had a black eye and a concussion from two different visits to Mississippi. He has a scrape on his leg from a biergarten playground in Stuttgart. And now he has a lovely strawberry on his forehead to remember France. Ah, France.

Then we drove into Chenevieres, where we bought some eau de vie, which is a strong colorless brandy that the region is famous for. We got the kirsch (cherry) kind but it is not sweet. It is so strong that it will truly knock you on your derriere. I think it’s cool that eau de vie means “water of life” in French and that vodka means “little water” in Russian. Euphemisms. Gotta love ‘em.

We drove into Les Vosges mountains, which looked a little like the Smokies back home. They were lush and green with bright yellow forsythia growing everywhere. We made it to an adorable little town called Ste. Marie-aux-Mines, which is known for silver mining. All of the buildings were old. The beautiful St. George Church was built in 1220. We spent the night at a 412-year-old winstub. The room was 55 euros for a double bed, a single bed that the kids shared, and a baby bed that neither would touch because “it’s for babies”. It had a bathroom in the room, so we didn’t have to share a hall bath like we have other times in Europe. We had all we needed except for washcloths, which the first hotel didn’t have either. What’s up with that, France?

The inn had a resident dog that came and went as she pleased and did her business –yep, you guessed it—in a pile on the cobblestone sidewalk just outside the front door. The inn was decorated with little witches everywhere. The innkeeper explained that they were bonne chance (good luck) to the silver miners. Claire thought the witches were creepy, and what’s more, they didn’t have a POOL (quel horreur) and that made her mad. But she changed her mind about the place after the yummy dinner, and that stay ended up being her favorite part of the trip.

The inn served wonderful Alsatian cuisine. Dave had baeckoffa (roasted lamb, beef and pork cooked in a clay pot with wine, potatoes, carrots, and juniper berries). Luke had wonderful ham. Claire and I had Coq au Riesling. For dessert we had apple sorbet and some kind of ice cream cake. After dinner the innkeeper asked in French whether or not we wanted coffee. I said no. Then she said something about a port. I thought that sounded good after dinner. But instead of a wine, she brought over a piece of paper with a five-digit number on it. Dave and I looked at each other, perplexed. The dinner could not have been more than 50 or 60 euro. What was this 241 euros? Was the port that expensive? Then I noticed that there was no decimal point. I told the lady, “Je ne comprends pas cet numero.” It turned out to be the code to get in the door. She was talking about the porte (door) not port that you drink. Duh. We had a good laugh about that.

The next morning we got up and we were the only people in the whole building. The innkeeper had never asked for money for the room or the food the night before. Nor did we get a key. There were only about five rooms, which they left unlocked. But I think we were the only ones there that night. We waited around. We then wrote a note and were prepared to leave it with money to cover the bill, when the lady finally walked in. She asked if we wanted breakfast. We sat down to bread, coffee, juice, and some sort of cheese that smelled like the old high school band hall after marching practice. In the summer. We paid our bill and everything was really reasonable except that breakfast. It was 24 euros! That is $36 for bread, stinky feet cheese and drinks. Ah, well.

We drove on along the Alsatian Wine Route ("whine" route for the kids since it was more of an adult’s idea of fun). We tasted wine in St. Pierre (they completely fill the glasses, more than just a taste, so we didn’t try too many) and bought some bottles of the local bubbly and a Riesling. The lady there gave me a little Alsatian cookbook, which was a thrill for me. Alsatian food is a lovely mixture of the best of French and German cuisine. Dave pointed out that you get the hearty meats and potatoes of the Germans with the wines and light flaky breads of the French. So wonderful. It’s rich, though. I seriously need to detox after all of that pork and butter.

We drove past several beautiful old castles, which brought to mind Monty Python with the French soldiers in the castle (“Your father was a hamstah and your mother smelled of elderberrrries!” You either love or hate British humor. I love it.) There were irises blooming everywhere and the rolling fields were green. It was pretty. Would have made a great honeymoon trip.

We drove through Selestat and on into Strasbourg, Alsace that at one time was part of Germany. Then France. Then Germany. Then France. And so on. We went to the old town, an eye-shaped island called Petit France. It is attached to the main land by a series of beautiful so-called covered bridges (they have not been covered since the 1700s). We took a glass-top boat tour along the Rhine, which was made more interesting by an audio tour in English on our headphones. We learned that Gutenburg printed the first newspaper in Strasbourg. And though they didn’t mention it, we learned later that the Nazis had burned the town’s gorgeous synagogue during the war and that in 2000, Islamic extremists tried to blow up the cathedral. So sad.

From there we went to that amazing Strasbourg Cathedral, which in the 1400s was the world’s tallest building. We ate sandwiches on the steps beneath the watchful eyes of carved saints. Then inside we stood for a moment at a monument honoring American soldiers who had died in the war (a fitting tribute on Memorial Day) and then watched an old astrological clock chime the hour. Cloaked figures spun around while a skeleton representing death ominously tolled the gong. The cathedral is where the kids finally found little souvenirs they wanted. Luke got a prayer card with a medal of St. Christopher embedded in it. He liked it because St. Christopher is the patron saint of travelers and there were pictures of planes and boats and trains on the card. Claire got a silver cross pendant with purple and pink stained glass in it.

I really liked that in Strasbourg we could speak either German or French and be understood. That is how we communicated best. We filled in with words we knew in one language but not the other. I asked at an ice cream shop, “Pardonnez-moi. Avez-vous des glaces mitnehmen?” I knew ice cream in French, but “to go” in German. It worked. I got it across. But we still decided to go inside to sit. We had the best peach melba I’ve ever had (I should hope so for 6 euro). Then we piled into the car, tired and satisfied, and headed back to Germany.

The closer we got to Germany, the cleaner and neater things got. And since I started this entry with a mention of French potties, I will end with one about German potties. We stopped at an Esso station that took the American gas coupons (so we could pay 4 euro instead of 8 per gallon) and went inside to use the restroom. This one let kids in free (what a bargain!) through a little kid-shaped cut-out in the wall, but adults had to pay 50 euro cents (75 American cents) to go through the turnstile to get to the bathrooms. They were so fancy and clean. Everything was automatic, including the little arm that came out and wiped your seat (the toilet seat, that is, not yours) all around with sanitizer after you flushed. And it occurred to me that the potty metaphor fit pretty well with my impressions of France and Germany. France makes for a fun and exciting experience, if not always clean. And Germany is pristine and inviting but very expensive. I love them both, and I feel pretty darn blessed to live within a stone’s throw of adventure any day of the week.

Now I Know How Not to Flip My Tank

2008-05-23T09:25:00.001+02:00

Well, y’all, we are really connected now! We just hooked up our AFN box that we bought used from a deploying soldier. That’s the cable box that allows us to receive American Family Network free on our TV. We get twenty-something channels of U.S. shows mixed from cable and public networks and aimed specifically at military families overseas. I think they air it in Europe, Korea, Iraq and Afghanistan.

But of course, as with everything, AFN has a catch. There are no commercials at all, but in their place are cheesy and often depressing PSAs. Between guests on Leno we learned not to drink and drive, not to beat our children, how to report sexual abuse, how to defeat a gambling addiction, how to use our right to free speech responsibly, and to drive our tanks slowly so they won’t flip over. Sound advice. I’ll try to remember that. There is also plenty of patriotic propaganda, just in case we forget to love our country. (No risk of that from me, even though I am very much aware of its foibles. It’s kind of like I feel about the Church and family – I love it, even though I don’t always love all of its choices).

After two months away from American TV, Dave and I sat transfixed until late last night. We watched old reruns of Friends and Seinfeld, caught a bit of Desperate Housewives (which neither of us had ever seen), some of Jay Leno, John Stewart, and Stephen Colbert. We are now saturated. We had gotten used to not having TV, and frankly I prefer the quiet. Although, it was neat to see some familiar faces and hear jokes in a language I understand.

At the Marriott we had German TV, and I sort of miss that because it really helped my language. Kids’ programming was about the level of German I could understand. I think we can still get German TV somehow, but it is expensive.

So without German TV we may not know what is going on with Spongebob Schwammkopf or Thomas und Seine Freunde. And without regular commercials we may not know what kind of toilet cleanser works best on those tough stains or which shampoo will evoke ecstatic reactions in the shower. But I guess we will get by. And at least we won’t flip over any tanks.

Book Learning, Hoopdydoo, and All That Jazz

2008-05-22T14:23:00.001+02:00

I have had emails from several of you asking me the same questions, so I want to take a moment to address them.

1. Are the kids attending German schools or American?

Claire started at the elementary school on Patch Barracks while we lived at the Marriott. Our new house is outside that assigned zone (see previous blog entries all about that) but she is allowed to finish out her year where she started, so that is what she is doing. Next year she could attend the elementary school on Panzer, which is in our zone. Or, if she gets accepted into the German Immersion Program on Patch (which we wouldn't find out until the Friday before school starts), she could be exempt from the zone rules and continue going to Patch. That would require that she continue to ride the high school bus 45 minutes each way as she does now, which I don’t really like. Also, Luke would be with her at the kindergarten so he would ride too.

The third option, and the one that seems most appealing right now, is to put both kids in the German schools near our house. Claire has met three kids in our neighborhood who would be in her class, and they are very nice. She is scared about not speaking German, but I have met one of the teachers, who is the best friend of my wonderful neighbor Steffi. She has agreed to assess her informally and address any questions she has. She would sort of mentor her in the school. She said that Claire’s class would be a good group of kids. Since German schools start more slowly than US schools, they are behind academically the first couple of years. That is good for Claire since it will allow her to focus on learning the language. She is already really advanced in her reading in English, so that is good.

Luke could attend the kindergarten three blocks from our house. We visited and nobody spoke any English, but again, my wonderful neighbor Steffi rescued me. She went with me the next time to translate. Luke’s German is coming fast, so I think he will have no trouble.

Both of the kids’ German schools would go only half days year-round. They get tons of German holidays off, as well as several weeks over the summer and at Christmas. Although instruction is in German at both schools, the Americans I have spoken with say that if kids can hang tough through four or five months of awful tearful days, they will be rewarded with complete fluency and lifelong friendships. I will just have to hide in the closets so the kids won’t see me cry. Oh, wait, we’re in Germany…we don’t have closets. I guess I’d better toughen up, then.

My one concern is that in German schools parents are not encouraged to volunteer. I fear not having any way to observe or give help to my kids if they need me. This, compounded by the fact that my German is still of the “me-Tarzan-you-Jane” variety, makes me scared I might miss an important rule, announcement, or assignment. My second fear is that I’ve heard from many Americans that the German style of classroom management is very hands off, meaning that if a bully runs amok, kids are expected to work it out themselves. And unfortunately, American kids often fall at the bottom of the pecking order because the language barrier. I can’t stand the thought of my babies being picked on. It brings out the angry mama bear in me. I’m scared I might have to open a can of ugly American whoop-bootie if that happens. But we’ll cross that bridge if we get there.

2. How is the hula hoop business going?

Well, this one is painful (darn, where IS that closet when I need it?). I started Hoopdydoo in October, making custom hoops out of irrigation pipe, connectors, water, marbles, beads, ribbons and designer tapes. They were so much fun! Already by February I had hoops in six toy stores, had done numerous parties and school events, had mailed hoops all over the world, and was looking into corporate and recreational events for the coming months. I had already made and sold hundreds of hoops and I was especially excited about getting to experience the busy summer market with fairs and shows and lots of outdoor fun. Hoopdydoo was doing great! Ah, the potential.

But then suddenly we had a chance to realize our 15-year dream of moving to Europe. I had to make a choice between the happiness of my family and pursuing my own creative ambition. It was easy. Hoopdydoo would have to die.

It was kind of like sitting down at a big feast and having the plate taken away after the first bite. But at least I had tasted sweet success. And I guess it’s better to have it go while it was still hot than after it had gone stale.

So why can’t I do the biz here in Germany? The reason is that the rules about spouses of US government owning businesses here are so restrictive that it could never work for me. Here are some of the rules: Because the government paid for our car to be shipped over, I could not use it for deliveries. I could never buy supplies or gas on post to use for the business. I could not use my house as a home base because the government pays our rent. I could not ever advertise or sell on base. I could not use my APO address to ship hoops. And I haven’t even touched on the issue of German taxes, which would have meant doubling my prices just to make it worthwhile. So what does that leave me? There was one loophole where I could sell at craft shows on post if the government did all of my advertising and got 20% of all sales. But that sounded weird to me. I like to represent my work my own way.

To rub a little salt in, before I left the US, another hoop seller across the country had already lifted verbiage straight off of my website for use on hers. She even stole names of some of my designs (I found my hoops sold much better when I named them things like “Neopolitan” or “Raspberry Swirl” or “Tree Hugger” or “Citrus Squeeze”). My first response was a very unladylike desire to throttle her. I had worked so hard on my first attempt at a website, on all of my marketing and design ideas. But my next, more sane response was to let it go. What could I do? I had some great marketing ideas and I wouldn’t be able to use them anymore. Why shouldn’t she gain from them? It hurt like Hades, but I figured if my words made someone else successful, that was okay. After all, I am first and foremost a teacher, and helping others succeed is supposed to be my mission in life. Still made me &*#$ mad, though.

Oh, and by the way, my German neighbors won’t try hooping with me. Occasionally they will joke about it, but they are too dignified to make fools of themselves like I enjoy doing. They think I’m crazy. Maybe I am. But that is what makes life so much fun. Life’s too short to worry about what everyone thinks.

3. Have you and Dave had any dates since you have been there?

One. They had a parents night out on post where the kids were watched for five hours. So Dave and I went to an amazing old Jazz Hall in downtown Stuttgart and acted like real-live grown-ups. We dressed up, had drinks, and remembered what it was like to get through an entire dinner without someone spilling milk or whining about the vegetables (in other words, I was on my best behavior). It was so cool to see a 20-piece big band blaring the best of American jazz and big band standards to a packed room of enthusiastic listeners. Here is how the MC sounded: “Damen und herren, German word German word German word “Girl from Ipanema” German word German word.” It was great. I was really proud to sit and listen to music so uniquely American that my country contributed to the world. It was American entertainment that didn’t involve car chases, hoochie mamas or blowing things up. Just good old Cole Porter, Satchmo and Sinatra. It made me tear up a little with patriotic pride. And this time I didn’t even think about needing a closet.

Elephant bites: Beer, Roman soldiers, bugles, evacuations, and biking bliss (and we never did make it to the castle).

2008-05-18T21:05:00.001+02:00

Hey y’all. I am finally back online after a couple of weeks of waiting for our connection in our new house (which I will blog about later). I have been buried under boxes without phone, computer, TV, newspapers or radio. I couldn’t have told you what was going on in the world to save my life until a few days ago. It’s so depressing, though, that I kind of want to crawl back in my hole and be ignorant of earthquakes, elections, and war. But other than that life is pretty good around here.

I have so much to tell you. It’s like that old joke: “How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.” I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed because I have so much I want to write about from the past few weeks and so little time. But if you will hang with me, I’ll try to take a few small bites of this big ole elephant.

I’ll start with today and catch you up on the rest later. Dave returned yesterday from Virginia (his second US trip since we’ve been here). We got up and I made crepes with fresh hot strawberry and peach filling and whipped cream. Then we set out to tour the Schloss (castle) in Ludwigsburg.

We drove to Ludwigsburg and stopped at a biergarten on the Neckar River where had a very European lunch of beer, coffee, champagne, roasted mushrooms, pizza toast, and an assortment of cheeses, breads, and sliced meats. The kids ran back and forth between the table and the playground. Their favorite part was the sculpture of a naked rear end that supported a drain pipe that emptied from…well, you know.

Then we went downtown, intending to go on an English-language tour of the Schloss but instead got sidetracked by a very cool Pferd Markt (horse market) and parade. It was so neat! The parade featured the history of Ludwigsburg marching in chronological order. We caught it beginning with the Romans. The people were in amazing authentic-looking costumes. There were centurions, medieval monks, a king in an ermine robe, men in powdered wigs, women in bustles, horses in full regalia, and all the way to modern times with ballroom dancers and even an American square dancing team!

Instead of passing out candy to kids, the marchers handed out cups of beer and wine from old casks and glass yards to the adults. Some people got souvenir glasses and others got plastic cups. We got neither because we were too far back. But after beer and champagne at lunch that was probably a good thing.

My favorite part was the marching bands. I always tear up when the horns and drums pass by. I can’t help it. I loved marching in bands when I was younger. I didn’t see any of my beloved French horns, but I did see wonderful drums, bugles (you have to respect marching while playing without valves!) and fancy scrolled vertical bells. The uniforms were incredibly ornate. And I really loved the multi-generational aspect. These were not high school bands. There were young people marching next to seniors and they were so precise and professional-sounding. Gave me goose bumps. But then, so did the rain, which came in buckets and drove us running, diving under awnings and splashing through puddles all the way back to the car.

Then we went to Panzer Kaserne to the PX since on Sundays all the German stores are closed. While we were there an alarm sounded and we had to evacuate the building while the MPs looked around. Nobody ever said why. So Dave drove the kids and me home where I roasted chicken for dinner, which is harder than it sounds given that I have to get used to low altitude cooking, converting Fahrenheit to Celcius, the martian symbols on German ovens (and the user’s manual is in German of course) and electric versus gas. How many people do you know who cook with an oven mitt on one hand and an English-German dictionary in the other?

Meanwhile, Dave drove back to the PX to pick up (oh I’m so excited I can’t stand it) MY NEW BIKE! I have not ridden a bicycle since I was 12 years old (that's 24 years ago, y'all). When he got home I jumped on that sucker in my sandals and in the rain, throwing caution to the wind, not even stopping to put on my helmet and pads. It was so energizing! I rode and rode along the bike trails, past the mustard fields and apple orchards, totally exhilarated. I’d have whooped and hollered if not for the German quiet laws on Sundays. The kids joined me when I returned home and we did a few loops around the neighborhood together. Then I parked, stirred my rice, and ate a nice dinner with my family. And my dear hubby is now getting kids to sleep so that I can write this to you. You gotta love that.

So, we never did make it to the castle, but it was a truly great day.

Moving on up

2008-04-22T00:31:00.001+02:00

This morning my dear sweet husband set me up. He took Claire downstairs for breakfast while Luke and I stayed behind to get dressed. Our two hotel rooms are connected by an inside door that we leave open. Luke was in his bathroom and I was walking into my room to get dressed. I had just slipped my burgundy nightgown over my head when I looked up and saw a Chinese businessman looking right at me from down the hall. I don’t know which of us was more embarrassed. The love of my life had left the door wide open. I could have killed him. I mean, I am no prude. But I don’t want strange men seeing me the way the good Lord made me. At least not first thing in the morning before I’ve had my coffee.

Ah, well. I think it was my mama who once quoted what someone said to her: “It don’t matter if somebody seen ya nekkid. If they seen it before, it won’t be they first time. And if they ain’t seen it before, they won’t know what it is anyway.”

While I’m telling on Dave, I have to tell you a cute one from our first couple of weeks here. Dave saw a pretty fountain flowing from the side of an old building in Waldenbuch. He said, “Look, finally, a drinking fountain.” I asked, “Are you sure?” He said, “Yeah, it says trinkwasser right here. That means drinking water.” So he took a big fistful and gave Luke a drink. Then I looked closer. “Oh no! It says KEIN trinkwasser! That means NOT drinking water!” Well, that will teach us to learn our German!

Today we signed the papers to rent our new house. Well, actually, Dave signed them. According to the Army, wives are incidental. But what else is new? Anyway, we saw our home finished for the first time. The last time the floors were not down, there was no kitchen and the walls were not painted. Now it looks shiny and new and fresh. A clean start. Well, maybe not so clean. The movers are coming tomorrow and it is supposed to rain all day and the landscaping is not finished. MUD. Yuck. But I hear that German movers put down blankets everywhere, so that will be good. If they don’t I will have to whip out my dictionary and give them what for, as soon as I figure it out.

The style is modern, a huge departure from our lovely old Victorian back in Colorado. The kitchen is about a third the size of my Colorado kitchen, but the appliances are jumbo sized for Germans (about jumbo dorm sized for Americans) and the countertops are black granite, which is virtually indestructible (but then, they haven’t met Claire). I can cook a normal sized turkey in the oven and the fridge will hold enough food for the week. But we will have a larger one downstairs for parties and such, provided by the Army. I sort of like that. It will force us to live more simply and not stock up so much.

It is still weird to me that the rooms have no closets. There are no pantries, medicine cabinets, shelves or anything. That is where Ikea comes in. Plus, the Army will provide schranks, these huge ugly particle board wardrobes. That will help.

It has a large sunny loft on the top level. There are four levels. The next one down has three bedrooms together with a full bath. Then the next level down is the main entry, with kitchen, dining room, living room, and another full bath. The bottom level is a finished out basement and laundry room. German houses are almost always 3-5 levels. Land is precious, so they take advantage of vertical space. We have a postage stamp-sized yard, but that just means less mowing. But it is enough to hula hoop in! The other half of our duplex is owned by a guy who works for Mercedes. Hey, I wonder if they have a friend and neighbor discount…

Really, though, it feels good to have a place to spread out. There are three cool playgrounds just spitting distance from our house. The kids are excited about seeing their toys again. I can’t wait to cook. And now, if I want to run around my house naked, I’m pretty sure no Chinese businessmen will be hanging out in the hall.

Lego diving, iron maidens, cheap dates, etc.

2008-04-22T00:01:00.001+02:00

Well, the kids and I made it to Legoland and back safely. In fact, the drive was--dare I say it--leisurely. I maintained a steady 110 km per hour (relax, Mama, that is 65 mph, remember) and I did just fine. I love how trucks have to stay in the right lane going slowly like a long train. But of course, on the left people were zooming by me at about 100 mph. Crazy. We were told not to try to drive like Europeans in American cars. Our cars are generally not made for that kind of speed. But I don’t think any car should drive that fast unless on a racetrack. That is my opinion as a mother. Of course, when I was an indestructible teenager with fast reflexes and no sense, I routinely drove 75 to 85 miles per hour on the highways. Stupid stupid stupid. I definitely had some guardian angels looking after me.

Anyway, the kids and I had a great time together. It was a bit of a bummer that a lot of the rides required one adult per child, which is not the ratio we had with Dave in Virginia. But it was still fun. We had bought an annual pass the last time we were there, which is very much worth the money. Also worth the money is the box of Legos we brought home from the bargain tent gift shop. They had mountains of miscellaneous Lego pieces and we dove through them together for over an hour until we had filled our little bucket. It was such fun, like a real treasure hunt. “Look, I found another wheel! Oh wait, here is a starfish. Wow, look, here is a Viking head. Has anyone seen a pirate flag?” It was a trip.

We have tried to enjoy a few family outings around here before we get settled in a house. Last week during spring break we went to Rothenburg, one of the best-preserved medieval towns in all of Europe. Dave and I had been there 11 years ago on one of our trips before children. We once again visited the Crime and Punishment Museum, which was cool but sometimes hard to explain to kids, what with the chastity belts and iron maidens and such. Instead we decided to focus on the funny things like the tickle torture contraption and those used to hold two arguing people together until they could get along (we threatened to buy one from the gift shop).

Of course, we went to the several touristy and overpriced Kathe Wohlfahrte German souvenir stores there. Geesh. Her stuff is not all that special, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was made in China. This place, too, was not kid-friendly. The salesladies stalked us like we were wild thieves, which of course made us very uncomfortable. If one of my kiddos so much as pointed too closely at a cheaply painted Christmas ornament they would reprimand them. Then after that we went to the antique toy and doll museum which, despite its name, is also not a great place for children. My kids were not impressed for long with the glass cases full of old toys. Every time they stomped too hard the glass would rattle and I would get all stressed out. I was so glad to get out of there where the kids could chase pigeons in the town square and be kids. They also loved running on top of the wall that still surrounds the city. Very cool.

Oh, but there is one particularly child-friendly place here. It’s the mammoth Swedish chain store, Ikea. Man, I love that place. First of all, it’s cheap, which is rare around here. They have wonderful toys and furniture for kids’ bedrooms, and they have little play stations with wooden games and puzzles in every department. The best part is that they have free childcare with a ball pit and everything. Luke loved it and came out proclaiming he had met several new friends, though he didn’t know their names. Claire, on the other hand, was mad. The German caregivers apparently fussed at her and she didn’t understand what for and then they fussed again. Okay, so that was bad. But Dave and I really did enjoy the 45-minute date, the first we have had in two months. We held hands and daydreamed about cheap laminate nightstands and super-organized closets until time to spring the kids. Romantic.

But with springtime finally here, we are spending more and more time in the ultimate kid-friendly places: playgrounds. And Germany has tons of cool ones. My kids especially love the hugely tall climbing structures and birdnest swings. There they can really be monkeys. I mean kids.

The world's best loved parasites

2008-04-18T00:07:00.001+02:00

Today I was thinking about when I was pregnant with Claire and I read that if I didn’t eat enough calcium that the baby would leach what she needed from my bones. Eeeeuw. That made me feel like I was hosting a parasite. If I didn’t take care of myself, my kids would suck what they needed from me anyway. And guess what? I have learned that it doesn’t stop after childbirth! They still suck every ounce of energy, creativity, patience and time from me whether or not I have it to spare. They can’t help it. They are little kids.

Don’t get me wrong. I absolutely adore my children. But with Dave in Virginia this week, my patience is stretched thin. They are wild, whiny (where did they get THAT?) and fighting with each other and they are driving me to a padded cell. Remind me again how I did this for 15 months while he was stuck in the big sandbox (I don’t even like to say the “I” word anymore).

But ya know, it’s hard to take care of myself when--get out your hanky here—the few friends I have made have moved out of the hotel and into houses, I’ve been living in hotels for nearly 8 weeks, I have no house, I’m getting chunky from eating in restaurants all this time (not healthy), my hula hoop is in storage, I’m out of my blood pressure meds and I have to wait for them to be mailed across the ocean, I can no longer use childcare on post except in emergencies (due to the expected influx of 600 families this spring and summer. Thank you, Africom.) and my chocolate supplies are running dangerously low (Get this girl 200 CCs of Godiva—STAT!). Yeah, it bites.

Ah, but back to the kids. I do love them. They can be so sweet that they melt my heart, looking it me with those big blue eyes that they got from their daddy and saying how they love me. Sometimes they are so cute I could eat them with a spoon. Like when Luke says “very” as an adverb (“Mom, I don’t very like it.” Or “I don’t very want to go there.”) Oh yeah, and when he calls Chip and Dale “Chicken Dale.” Or when Claire comes home, as she did today, with a card she wrote for me proclaiming me the world’s greatest mom. That is a title I value more than winning any Oscar, Grammy or Pulitzer. And I treasure it, too, because I know that one day she will be a teenager and I will be demoted to “the meanest mom ever”. That is, if I’m doing it right.

Tonight my job description included “doctor” since I had to perform minor surgery on Claire’s infected and nearly impacted earring with a dental pick and tweezers. I know it hurt, but she is SOOOOOO dramatic. She screamed like I never did even during natural childbirth. All I had was some Neosporin lip gel to put on her earlobes. I hope I did okay. A hug and a story seemed to make it all better.

I guess I played doctor twice today. Luke fell in the park and scraped his arm on a stick in a scummy pond (yikes, speaking of parasites…) but I got him cleaned up. He chose the pink Hello Kitty bandaids. Whatever.

And by the way, going to the park was about the best self-care I have given myself this week. It was sunny for a change and I demanded that we get out with our sandbox toys. Being solar powered as I am, I realize that if I don’t get my sun I get grumbly. Now I understand why Germans love to sunbathe nude in public parks (they have a much freer attitude about nudity than us Puritanical Americans. But that is fodder for another blog). I think it is that they want to soak up sunshine into every pore before the clouds come back again. Which they will. A lot.

Tomorrow the kids really want me to take them to Legoland since Claire is off school for a teacher work day. I guess I will go. It is supposed to be sunny again. I’m not thrilled about an hour and a half on the autobahn, but if it is not wet it should be okay. You know how that autobahn scares me. If my beloved, adorable parasites are well-behaved in the back seat, that will help a lot.

Wish me luck.

Would you like pommes frittes with that?

2008-04-07T16:43:00.001+02:00

We swore when we moved to Germany that we would not eat American fast food. It’s not good tasting and it’s not good for us. But we have found that while on the military bases, there isn’t much available other than Popeye’s, Burger King, Pizza Hut or Subway. So we have eaten fast food several times between meetings out of necessity. But off post, we have tried to avoid it when possible. They actually have a KFC and a BK down the street from the hotel. It’s funny to see ads for kid meals with toys featuring Spongebob Schwammkopf (“spongebob spongehead” in German).

But alert, alert: fast food is a relative term. We discovered that when we broke down and went to BK for lunch one day. In the States we order at the counter, step aside to wait for our food and let another person order. Not here. You order, wait for them to process every part of your order, you pay (a lot), and then you leave. It takes a while. The other difference is that when you order by number (menu #3 or whatever) you are usually not ordering a value meal. It is often just the sandwich and you have to add the fries and drink separately. And when you order, you say “cheeseburger” and "Coke" and "ketchup" in English, but the fries are called pommes frites, which is French for “fried potatoes”. French fries. If you say it in French I guess you don’t have to say the word French. The German (and Russian, incidentally) word for potatoes is kartoffel. So here is a good example of how having studied French and Russian helps me learn German (I'm glad it's good for something). Anyway, so you get your pommes frites, and sometimes it advertises that the price includes free mayonnaise (retch, vomit) or ketchup. That is a good deal. But you just get one packet. If you want more it costs 30 euro cents per packet. That is, roughly, 50 cents American. You didn’t know, did you, that when they throw a handful of ketchup packets in your bag at the drive-thru, you are sitting on gold, my friend.

Ah, but the Germans love their pommes frittes. And, who am I kidding, so does our family. We have had them with nearly every meal, even in fancy restaurants. They usually dust them with paprika, which is surprisingly pleasing. And you know, it’s a good thing fries are veggies (and ketchup too, according to the senior Pres. Bush), because you’re not going to see a whole lot of others at restaurants. I mean, you can get a nice green salad, usually served topped with sauerkraut, shredded marinated carrots, and maybe a tomato or cucumber slice. I really like their salads. But at dinner it’s usually a breaded meat, bread, spaetzle (noodle) and/or potato. That’s it. We’re so desperate for green that we routinely eat the garnish (“Dibs on the parsley! Hey, hands off my lettuce leaf!”) God bless the Adkins dieters. Germany is miles from South Beach, and even farther from the Zone. Throw in the usual dinnertime beer (cheaper than the soda or mineral water) and you’ve got yourself a carb-lover’s paradise. I worry about folks with "the sugar". Diabetics would have a hard time eating out here.

Oh, and white meats are hard to find too. You can sometimes find a turkey breast on the menu (called “puten”—the source of many a dinnertime joke) but as the old lady in the Wendy’s commercial could have yelled, “Where is the chicken?” (we’ve already found the beef aplenty). Chicken is cheap. Why it’s not more popular here is beyond me. It’s enough to drive a girl screaming to KFC for a bucket of chicken with pommes frittes. Hmmm, do you think they serve that garnished with parsley?

"Oh Lord, Won't You Buy Me a Mercedes-Benz"

2008-04-05T21:31:00.001+02:00

Yesterday we went to the tiny Porsche Museum, which was neat. They are building a new one soon to compete with the very cool Mercedes-Benz Museum here in Stuttgart. We went there today. It is amazing! Think Guggenheim with a huge 8-story spiral looking down on a massive hall. We saw the first motorcycle, the first Daimler and Mercedes cars, Princess Di’s Mercedes (that she was pressured by the royals to return in favor of a British-made car), war planes, the SUV used in the second Jurassic Park movie, and even the Pope-Mobile! We had a ball. With all of that, Luke's favorite part was being able to climb on a city bus they had on display. Go fig.

It is still so odd to me that you really do see more Mercedes here than any other kind of car, even BMWs, Volkswagens, or Opels. I rarely see a Ford, Honda, Chevy or Kia unless driven by Americans. Because Mercedes is based here, all of the buses, trash trucks, construction vehicles, and such are made by them. There really is something to the idea of excellent German engineering. You can actually get a ticket if your car breaks down or runs out of gas! That worries me since our 14-year-old Mitsubishi Galant has some quirks. But it gets 36 miles to the gallon, which is great! We are lucky that we can buy gas on base for roughly what Americans are paying back home. Germans are paying about the equivalent of $8 a gallon (after you convert dollars to euro and liters to gallons). They think we are a bunch of crybabies.

But American cars are huge compared to European cars. I know an American lady who has four kids and drives a Suburban that she brought over from the States. It’s so mammothly huge that she can't park the thing anywhere but the hotel and on base! What I'd like is one of those little Smart cars. You see them everywhere here. Mercedes makes them (of course). They look like little wind-up toys. It's like they took a regular-sized car, chopped off the trunk and back seat, squished up the engine and viola! Smart. Except it’s pronounced “shmart”. It literally takes up about half a parking space. They make Smart sports cars and even Smarts for four. But Dave wants a Mini Cooper, which is about the second most popular car around here.

I don’t care what I drive as long as I can take back roads instead of the autobahn. I can’t seem to get my GPS to recognize that. Oh, and by the way, I got my German drivers license Monday. I now know that the person to the right always has right of way unless the signs say otherwise, including on roundabouts (think about that one—it means you have right of way coming on, not when you are already on). I know that you can get a ticket if you sit with your engine idling for more than 30 seconds. You are required by law to carry an emergency kit in the passenger side floorboard as well as a parkschein, which is a cool little blue card with a clock on it that you dial to indicate the time you park in the city. The hardest thing for me, though, is remembering to watch signs at all times to see whether or not I have the priority road. That gives right of way, even in situations you don’t expect like coming onto a major street. I’m getting it, though. I just won’t drive with Dave in the car. It makes me too nervous. I really am feeling more confident on the road little by little. But until I feel 100 percent on target, I am glad I have my old clunker instead of a brand new Mercedes. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

Alone at last, alone at last, great God a’mighty…

2008-04-05T21:29:00.001+02:00

Okay, let me start with an apology to those of you who actually read my blog (hi mom) for my not writing in the past two weeks. We’ve been in class, house hunting, and staying really busy. But the main reason is that I have not had one single second alone except what I have stolen away in the tub. And my laptop doesn’t so much like bubble baths. But tonight my dear husband has taken the kids to Jolo’s for some fun and I have some glorious time to myself without listening to Alice im Wunderland or Zach und Cody blaring in German on the TV.

Jolo’s is kind of like Chuck E. Cheese’s, except without the Chucky. It is basically a big warehouse full of cool climbing structures, bouncy things, giant Legos, bumper cars, a little train, and even a giant crocodile into whose mouth you climb only to crawl out his nether regions as croc poop. My kids love it. And Dave likes that he can drink a beer while watching them play (grown-ups are not allowed on the play equipment or else he’d be in there with them). In fact, all of the indoor playgrounds we have seen have a bar right beside them for the parents.

Today we had a meeting with a really cool builder named Lothar (I think of the SNL skit “Lothar of the Hill People” every time the poor man says his name). We are working with him through an American realtor to possibly build a house for us. Actually, I think the way it works is that he builds the house how he is going to build it and we can just pick tile, flooring, etc. We have certainly come a long way in a month, although at times it has seemed like slow progress. We have looked at homes in nearly all of the major little towns south of Stuttgart. We have considered buying, renting, penthouse condos, doppelhausen (duplexes), row houses, you name it. We were working with a German realtor who was showing us some great houses for rent, but who was adamantly opposed to showing us anything for sale. She showed us a house we liked a lot in the town of Schonaich (“Beautiful Oak”) but only for rent. She told us it was not for sale. Then on our own we saw it advertised for sale and it sold on Easter Sunday before we could move on it. So we were going to rent with this same realtor a house that we saw with her in Waldenbuch. We had given her a list of criteria and this house fit them all in theory, so she was really pushing us to go with it. But something just didn’t feel right about it. So we finally contacted an American realtor who was recommended to us by friends and she has been great. We feel a lot better about our search now. As I mentioned, we are considering renting Lothar's house while he builds one for us a few streets over. We are still researching that idea.

I’ll try to be better about checking in. I’ll let you know when we have a home.

Not So Merry in the Marriott

2008-03-14T13:12:00.001+01:00

This morning Dave nearly had a heart attack. There was a bill outside our hotel room door.

“What! 60 euro for phone calls?”

I tried quickly to think. Now did I call China? Africa? The moon? What on earth…

It cost us 60 euros (about $95 now with the dollar continuing to plummet) for two calls from the room to local cell phones. Let's see, the first day we were here I phoned Dave’s boss’s wife to follow up about the accident. Then one day we phoned a realtor to discuss some houses. We figured they might charge for local calls, but we had no idea that it would cost 2 euro a minute to call a cell phone!

I know people think we are terribly spoiled living in a Marriott. And they are right, mostly. We are grateful for the good breakfasts and excellent service. But eating out for three meals a day for weeks on end is getting old. For one thing, it is hard to eat light when eating out and my hula hoop is still in shipment (translation: belly bulge). And for another, meals here take a long time. And we have so much to do. Claire noticed yesterday, “We seem to spend most of our time at restaurants!”

We do love the turn-down service. Every night we have either a chocolate or gummi bears on our pillows. I make the kids earn their candy each night by telling me at least one German word they have learned that day. Luke nearly always says “zug” (train) but I make him come up with more. He is actually picking the language up really quickly.

We are also glad to have free access to a washer and dryer. But man, it’s Barbie sized! And I had to use my dictionary at first just to do a simple load since the dials are in German. The machines are so very different from back home. The dryer has three separate filters to clean each time. And because it is a condensation dryer, you have to empty about a gallon of water between cycles. And it’s not efficient. The first time I tried to dry a small load, it took 3 hours. Now we hang clothes in the room to dry. On laundry days it looks like our suitcases exploded.

Appliances in general tend to be much smaller here. The houses we looked at had dormitory-size mini fridges and ovens large enough only for about a 14-pound turkey.

I keep having to remind myself that we moved to Europe to slow down. But the process is like detoxing from a bad addiction. I’m having DTs just thinking of driving through McD’s and paying with a credit card on my way to Walmart to buy flip-flops, 10 pair for $2.00.

Dear Lord, did I just say that?

The Cost of Living in Limbo

2008-03-14T13:03:00.001+01:00

You know, I don’t want this blog to sound like a gripe-a-thon. I really don’t. So here is what we LOVE about Germany, and especially this area:

--It is green, green, green (the upside to all of that rain).
--The food is amazing.
--They have four distinct seasons (unlike home in CO where you can get snowed out on Independence Day)
--Americans are generally treated well here.
--The food is wonderful.
--Nearly everyone is middle class or better. You don’t see much poverty around here.
--The food is sooooo good.
--Everything is clean.
--Food is real. Butter. Cream. Sugar. No chemicals or unpronounceable ingredients.
--Crime is extremely low. People have to lock their cars by law, but people don’t worry about getting mugged or accosted here.
--Oh, the food. Awesome.
--Germans really do a lot to preserve the environment, and it’s easy to recycle and conserve here.
--People are friendly, and we are greeted constantly by strangers with a cheery “gruss Gott” (God’s greeting to you) or a “guden Tag” (“good day”)
--There are few markers of “Generica” like McDonald’s, Walmart or Starbucks.
--The food is to die for.
--Don’t even get me started on the amazing chocolate.
--The beer and wine are the best.
--Oh, and did I mention the food?

So alles gut. But Dave said to me yesterday, “Why is it that people here make less money than Americans, pay higher taxes, and are still able to pay such high prices for homes?”

He didn’t even mention all of the many weeks off they get for various holidays.

I have a theory. It’s radical. Wanna hear it? Okay, here goes: They save their money instead of blowing it on junk.

In the States we are used to buying things 10 for a dollar, whether we need them or not. Germans seem to buy 1 thing for 10 euro, but only if they really need it. Thus they buy good quality that lasts a long time. People have a few outfits and they wear them a few times before washing them so they last. Each week they buy just enough fresh meat and produce to last the week. There isn’t the “more is better” Sam’s Club mentality here. Homes are also smaller, meaning less storage space for purchased items.

Cars have extremely high emissions and mechanical requirements, meaning that people take better care of them (and since it costs about 1500-2000 euro for kids to go to fahrschule, driving school, not a lot of cars are being ragged out by overzealous teens).

Also, people don’t carry credit cards. Around here almost nobody takes credit cards, even malls, gas stations and luxury item stores. So you have to make sure you have enough cash on hand to buy what you need. How many Americans would avoid debt if they spent what they had instead of on credit? Enough to bring our weak little old dollar back into competition?

Doll House for Sale

2008-03-13T08:57:00.001+01:00

Yesterday we looked at an adorable little doll house in Waldenbuch. It is, of course, in the wrong school zone. And it costs 370,000 euro (about $555,000) for about 1200 square feet. But it is precious. It stands on a hilltop and has idyllic views of a storybook German town. It is next to a freihof ("peace field" or cemetery) which means quiet neighbors. It has a large terrace and a lush green garden. The whole place has been remodeled so it is clean and bright. We got rid of most of our furniture, so the fit should work. But there is low clearance in many spots. When my dad (6 feet 4 inches tall) comes to visit, well...I guess I will just have to teach him to swear in German. Oh, but the best part is that the town has a chocolate factory. You know Ritter Sport chocolate? That's from there. We stopped yesterday and loaded up on chocolate. After all, the rich beers and fresh breads needed help in expanding our waistlines.

We have an appointment to see more houses today. We have seen 9 so far. I understand that most people look for at least a month before they find something. We have been here 10 days. It will happen.

We went to Media Markt last night (like a Circuit City) and bought a GPS system. We had to pay cash for it since even a big place like that won't take credit cards. We got back to the hotel and the dang thing won't work. We are going to try to return it if we can get anyone to understand us. My German-English dictionary is getting a lot of use.

Immobilien Blues

2008-03-13T07:59:00.001+01:00

The German word for real estate is “immobilien.” Sounds like immobile in English, meaning "not moving". Yeah, not moving. So far that’s us.

Unless you have inherited a house from a long lost German cousin, have a fairy gott mütter or are just extremely lucky, finding a house here is probably not going to happen quickly. We thought we’d be an exception. We were in for a big steaming pile of disappointment.

The first complicating factor is that in Germany there is no such thing as a multiple listing service (MLS) like we use in the U.S. Instead, each real estate agent has his or her own listings. In order to really know what is available in an area, you really do have to meet with every agent there. And only a few of them speak English.

We have to figure square meters in feet and dollars per euro for each listing, and we are learning German real estate phrases and trying our best to decipher house ads in office windows and newspapers. Online it is easier because we can translate with alta vista babel fish or other such service. But the translations aren’t always accurate or entirely understandable (like one that said a house had “mad views and children friendliness with warm feeling”).

Secondly, the dollar is as weak as rice paper these days. Add to that the already high cost of living, and you are easily paying 400,000 euro (about $600,000) for a tiny row house with an avocado green toilet and a kitchen so small a gal can’t bend over in it.

And then there is the darkness factor. I can’t tell you how many houses we’ve tried to view in the dark. It is the German way that when a family leaves a home, they take with them all of the light fixtures, cabinets, and external hardware. Sometimes they take the showers too. Built-in closets raise the tax rate for a homeowner, so rooms are just blank squares and people use wardrobes (which is tough since rooms are already smaller than in the States). We’ve looked at plenty of houses in which the realtor was proud to exclaim, “And the kitchen stays too!” In other homes, the “kitchen” was an empty room with outlets and pipes. Each renter or buyer would have to provide cabinets, sinks, appliances, etc. We even looked at a place that boasted a sauna room, only to find an empty space with an outlet where a sauna once was.

Germans don’t flip houses like we do in the States. Houses are sold after many years, and not always for a big profit. People don’t come and go so much, which means there isn’t often a large selection available at a time. It also means they don’t remodel much, which means lots of harvest gold tile and disco boogie brown appliances.

The buyers’ market is better than the renters’ market now, which gives us something to consider. We’ll be here 3-5 years, and then we could rent the home out. But here, when you rent out a home that you’ve purchased, you can’t really charge more for amenities like wine cellars and hot tubs. It’s strictly a figure based on the square meters of living space.

The final hurdle for us is imposed by our own U.S. military. There is a limited area covered by the Department of Defense (DOD) school bus service. And we want to use the bus service (contracted city buses) to avoid going through long security lines at the base gate every day. Every school falls within one of three zones. People living in any area are assigned a zone and their kids have to go to that particular zone school, even if they don’t take a bus. Every year, and often several times within the year, the DOD folks switch the zone lines. That means that it is extremely hard to predict whether or not one’s home will stay in a desired school zone. We like Patch Elementary, and our daughter is there now. But the houses we like are in the Panzer school zone. Will they be next year? Next month? Or should we skip the whole discussion altogether and send the kids to German schools?

So for now we truly are immobile, making our home at the Marriott, complete with a pool, maid service, and even a built-in sauna that really stays! Sure, it’s a nice gig if you can get it, but after a while I’d like to use my own bathroom and cook in my own kitchen -- even if it is the color of guacamole.

More from the Newberrys

2008-03-09T22:40:00.001+01:00

I know people think we must have fallen off the end of the earth. We have been out of touch since we got here except for a couple of short emails to my mom and sister. Our Internet connection at the hotel is spotty, and we get booted off a lot. We have yet to set up Skypes or Vonage on our computer so we can call home. That will be good to have since even local calls in Germany cost 45 cents from your home phone. We did get a “handy” (what Germans call cell phones) last night. We got a prepaid deal since we hear that getting out of contracts is really hard. Plus, we weren’t allowed to do anything more than that without a permanent address. Also, we had only about 75 euro in cash, which is what it cost us. They don’t take credit cards in most restaurants, mall stores, etc. Cash is still king in Europe.

So many things are different, either cutting edge or charmingly old fashioned. For example, while I have yet to come across a pay toilet (thank Gott), I have seen every conceivable method for flushing one. The most common, and think wonderful, is a two-choice option flusher. Usually there is la football-sized oval with a tennis-ball sized oval inside it. The big one gives a huge rush of water for big jobs (if you know what I mean) and the little one is for smaller deposits. Very practical for saving water.

If one desires water in a restaurant, it will inevitably come bottled, not from the tap. Sodas are still bottled in glass, which makes them taste better in my opinion. Everything is recycled here. Each home has a series of color-coded bins for recycling and composting. Americans must seem so wasteful by comparison. Even here, we have talked to Americans who would rather take their trash to dumpsters on base than be bothered to take the time to sort recycling. Oh dear, does that sound anti-American? It’s just that I’ve finally found a place to live that fits with my obsession with environmental conservation. In the States I often felt like a fanatic. But here that fanaticism is mandated. I love it.

Yep, if there is one thing Germans seem to hold dear, it’s playing by the rules. There are so many of them, and every day I’m afraid of breaking one unwittingly. For example, when driving, one passes quickly on the left and gets right back in the right line as soon as possible or else risk getting run over by a zealous Mercedes truck driver, middle finger extended. When sitting in a car waiting at a railroad crossing or idling looking at a map, you have to turn the car off if you are going to be more than 30 seconds. And heaven forbid you run a red light or try to turn right on red. There are traffic cameras everywhere.

In restaurants wait staff won’t bring you a check until you ask for it (“Zalen, bitte.”) Unlike in the U.S., it is considered rude to rush the customers to pay. Meals are also more leisurely, and there is no such thing as fast “fast food”. Another difference is that tipping is just rounding up to the nearest euro, usually no more than 10 percent. That makes the math easy, which is good since the tradition is also that the waiter takes your money, makes change and gives you a receipt right there at the table. When they bring the check, they stand there until the business is done and then you leave.

Children are rarely seen in public, and when they are they are expected to be quiet and well-behaved. If kids touch anything in a store, shop keepers are quick to get on to them. Dogs, however, are everywhere. They are also model citizens.

While not model citizens, our kids have been pretty good overall. Jet lag has been tough on all of us. We’ve been getting up early every day to be bounced around like ping pong balls from one office to another on base. We’ve been to housing, central processing, the credit union, the bank, the I.D. card office, child services, the schools, real estate offices, and so much more in our brief time here. We have also looked at four houses. Through it all the kids have been mostly patient, with relatively few meltdowns. But whenever they see English TV on base, they are glued like little zombies. Right now here at the hotel they are watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse in German.

Today is the first day the kids and I have gotten to sleep late. Usually we are rushing around like crazy people, but today (don’t tell Dave) we didn’t wake up until 10:45 while Dave got up and went to meetings. We almost missed the awesome breakfast at the Marriott. They have a huge buffet of fresh squeezed fruit juices, teas, coffee, jams, honeys, fresh cut fruits, cereals and granolas, pastries, breads, yogurts, cold cuts, bacons, hams, sausages, roast pork, cheeses, eggs cooked any way you like, waffles with a variety of sauces, even pickles, salads and herring. Still, the last two days I have had to fight Claire to eat anything at all. She is simply too tired in the morning and I think she is fighting an oncoming cold.

A couple of funny things have happened this week. Last night Luke asked me, “Mom, how do you say house in German?”

“Haus,” I answered [pronounced “house”].

“Yeah, house.”

“Haus.”

“Yeah, how do you say house in GERMAN?”

“Haus.”

“Yeah.”

“Haus is how you say house.”

It was hilarious, a regular Abbott and Costello moment. It reminded me of a moment when we lived in South Africa when my mom was asking where an OK store was and she kept saying, “OK, okay? Okay!”

The other funny thing needs a little back story to be funny. Last week I sent my mom a package from Colorado, and in it was a cute little white soap shaped like the state of Mississippi, our home state. She called me, cracking up. She said, “You know that white chocolate Mississippi you sent me? It didn’t taste very good!”

Flash forward to yesterday. Every evening a lady knocks on our door to ask whether or not we want a “refresh” (new towels, hangers, anything). We always say no and still she hands us four new little packages of soap like they use in most hotels in the U.S. I thought it was odd that we were accumulating so much soap, especially small ones when we already had large half-cyli.nder shaped bars already. So last night when she came, I told the lady we didn’t need any more soap. She said, “Soap? It’s chocolate!” Oh man. We had a stash of delicious German chocolate that we didn’t even know about. Like mother like daughter. At least we can laugh at ourselves.

Okay, I’m going to attempt to log on and send this now. If you can read it, I was successful. Eventually.

We've arrived in Germany

2008-03-04T20:28:00.002+01:00

Well, we made it. We emptied our house with three kinds of moves (unaccompanied baggage for the stuff that will fly over, the shipment that will go by boat , then the storage). We sent the dog and cat to new families for love. We painted walls and cleaned for our hope-to-have-soon new renters. We had a fantastic going away party. We hugged our friends goodbye. We flew from Colorado Springs to Chicago to London to Stuttgart. We are here and we are tired.

The kids were great on the trip, and they really enjoyed the upgrade to business class on the long leg, thanks to Dave's frequent flyer miles. We almost didn't get it, as there was a system gltich, but at the last minute it worked out. And were we ever glad! There was a large selection of new movies on the personal TV that each of us got with noise-cancellation headphones. The huge comfy seats had adjustable leg and head rests and even a massage feature. There was inflatable lumbar support, an over-the-shoulder craned book light, and real ceramic dishes with our meals. We each had a little refreshing bag with eye mask, ear plugs, a toothbrush, toothpaste, lotions, face cleanser and socks. Our kids have become even more spoiled. And with all of that, none of us slept. It was kind of like being in the hospital, being checked on every few minutes.

So when we got here, we were exhausted. Dave's boss's wife, Michelle, met us at the airport and took us around to check our mail and sign in on base. Dave's boss is out of town for the week, and since he is our sponsor, he has assigned her and others to show us about in his stead. She also let us borrow her minivan for a day or two since the Army won't pay for a rental car. So generous and trusting. Perhaps too trusting.

We had a reservation at the Marriott in Sindelfingen, where Dave had stayed before and had a good experience. Plus, it was in the right zone for the schools we were interested in. But then the Army said we had to stay on any base that had rooms available, which meant Robinson Barracks 45 minutes away from where Dave would be working. We were really bumming, especially when we got there and realized it had no pool, no breakfast, and nothing nearby. But when we went inside, we were told that because we are civilian, those rules didn't apply after all. So back to the Marriott. We were so excited.

But then as we were backing out of the parking space in the rain, Dave hit a little VW parked directly behind us in our blind spot. Well, actually, with three months' worth of suitcases in the back, the whole back was a blind spot. And the VW was the only car parked on the street behind us. An MP just happened to be rounding the corner when it happened and he saw the whole thing. So we spent an hour or so filling out papers and filing a report. They didn't give us a ticket. The kids were asleep in the back seat (finally) and slept through the whole thing.

The good news is that the van had no damage. The bad is that the VW had a dent in the door. Michelle was really sweet about it. We just hope they don't get in trouble for letting us use the car. So to put it in perspective, Dave hit a car with his boss's van before he even met the man. Crazy.

Okay, so Dave just walked in with Chinese take-out that he ordered in German from across the street. More tomorrow.

My First Blog Entry

2008-03-04T19:54:00.001+01:00

I have resisted the trend of blogging for some time. I don't know why, exactly. Well, yeah, I do. I guess I felt like it would be arrogant to assume that anyone would care to read about my day-to-day existence. That, and I worried that I would feel like my thoughts would be in a fishbowl for the world to see. I feared I'd slip up and say something stupid, insensitive, or wrong. And I realized that once a word is written and published on the web, it is as indelible as if it were carved in stone. Words are so powerful. Maybe I was afraid mine would be lame.

In any case, here I am, blogging my little heart out. And the reason I have converted to a blogger is that I have now moved to Germany and I want to share my stories with those who live so far away. The Internet has a way of making the world feel closer together. I'm hoping that this blog will connect me with the people I miss the most. Also, if I have a sense of mission, I am more likely to sit down and record my adventures.

So here I am. I hope you enjoy my words.

Auf wiedersehen!

Kim