Tojo

The town of Clonakilty, in County Clare, Ireland, is famous for its black pudding and for being the home of Michael Collins. But one of the most interesting stories about Clonakilty has nothing to do with revolutionary struggle or questionable meat products.

The hero of this story is a monkey named Tojo. He arrived in Clon aboard the Taint-a-Bird, a US warplane that made an emergency landing in 1943. The plane and had first flown to South America, where its crew picked up the monkey in Brazil, named him after the Japanese emperor, and took him along as a mascot. They also took along 36 bottles of rum. On its flight to from Morocco to Europe, the Taint-a-Bird blew off course and began to run out of fuel. Thinking that they were flying over Nazi-occupied Norway, the crew prepared for the worst and made an emergency landing. Instead of enemy forces, they found curious and friendly locals speaking English (though who knows if they could understand it under that heavy West Cork accent).

The crew was the toast of the town and the reason for a three-day party. They got plenty of attention from the local ladies and had way more fun than they could have every found in Nazi Norway. The only dark spot in the celebration was the passing of little Tojo. Whether he caught pneumonia or altitude sickness or alcohol poisoning from all that rum, we may never know. But his death did not go unrecognized. Tojo was laid out in a state and buried behind O'Donovan's Hotel with full military honors. And what would you do at an Irish wake for a dead Brazilian monkey? Raise a glass, I suppose.

Today, a statue of Tojo marks the place where we is buried behind O'Donovan's Hotel. And his fame carries on now that a local beer is named after him. Fittingly, it's an American pale ale.

With Tojo's statue

to Ireland

Much life has happened since I posted last year - Christmas shopping and years spent waiting in line at the post office, a three-day cookie baking bonanza, extreme nagging of high schoolers who haven't finished college applications, Jake and Viola's wedding, getting ready for my mother-in-law's visit, hosting her and then of course the big day when we celebrate Rudolf, the birth of Santa Claus and his brother baby Jesus.

Then we went to Ireland and left all that behind. We came to visit Jason - who worked with Brian in a pub in 1998 and later found him again via Facebook - and his fiancee Jenna. Jason picked us up at the airport in Cork and a few hours later we were standing on the beach at Spanish Point outside of Milltown Malbay, County Clare. Spanish Point is named for the wrecked ships of the Armada that crashed here in 1588.

Much of Jason's family lives in Clare. We stayed with cousin Jon who owns a guesthouse in Milltown Marbay and runs a pub on the little high street. The town is a destination for surfers - thanks to Neoprene, there was plenty of surfing happening in December - and for tourists driving down the Wild Atlantic Way on Ireland's west coast. From what I gathered the Wild Atlantic Way is nothing more than a lot of coastal country roads linked together with nice signage, and is remarkable for just how un-developed and well-marketed it is. The attraction, of course, is the beautiful coast line and the pretty little towns along the way. Even in the dead of winter, most of Jon's guest house rooms were rented out.

We took a walk on the family land in the Burren, which is a rocky inland region with its own mild microclimate. The grass grows here all year round. So do the wild goats, who we ran into on our hike up the hill.

That evening, we saw many of the dozen aunts and uncles who grew up on this land at the annual family holiday dinner. And Brian and I became part of the family. The wine glass never quite went empty and somehow I ended up at the head of the table. The two aunts who ran the show were pros - four courses for fifteen people and they didn't break a sweat. Then we headed back to the pub for a few, then a few more.

Fresh starts

Goodbye, 2016. You haven't been all bad, but it's time for you to go.

On the plus side, there have been a few babies born into our lives and some great trips to the Caucases, the US, Spain... But in world events things are not so hot. Police killings, ongoing wars, the refugee crisis, terrorist attacks from Miami to Istanbul, Prince, George Michael, David Bowie , Brexit, Donald Trump (oh please, Europeans, don't ask me about Trump).

So don't let the door hit you on the way out, 2016. We're ready for a new year, full of fresh starts. For Brian and me, there's half a year left to enjoy not working too hard in Europe, and to revel a bit in just how far we've come since stepping off that plane with an air mattress stuffed into a suitcase. We will make a big move back to what we know in Minnesota, and get to know it all over again.

As for the world, I hope that in 2017 mankind can get its act together. I hope we can get up from the muck, brush ourselves off and help each other out.

It was good to ring in this year in Ireland, where the people are warm, the smiles are friendly, and the water at restaurants is free and has ice cubes. Brian and I needed a break from the grim German weather and the grim Germans' faces. Even at Christmas time, it seemed they had reasons to scowl. The Irish can even out-nice Minnesotans.

So here's what I wish for the world this year, though it may sound overly simple: I want us to help each other, to be kind, to share, not to do mean things because we are scared or we don't understand. That includes all of us and I want it to happen both in the neighborhood and in the international arena.
Yes, these are the same things your mother taught you when you were five. She was right.
This year let's all grow up together, let's learn to tie our shoes, share our toys and play nice.

Off to a hopeful 2017.

The last Thanksgiving

Don't let the title of this post scare you. Thanksgiving is not going to end. There are a lot of scary things Donald Trump has threatened to do, but outlawing turkey dinner is not one of them.

We had a great party on Thursday - 8 kilos (17+lbs) of fresh turkey from the farmers' market and probably the largest quantity of food I've ever produced from our sparsely-equipped kitchen. There were 15 adults, a toddler and and an infant at this year' friendsgiving. There were a couple of last-minute guests and four languages spoken during our meal. Every plate, fork and pan we own was in use. We didn't have enough chairs, so some of us sat Central Asian-style on the floor. I got to explain what goes into stuffing and what those tart red berries are called. I made my own gravy for the first time. And with only two other Americans present (one is a vegetarian and the other is married to me), nobody was comparing the gravy or sweet potatoes to their grandma's. As I put everything together following my recipes for a Hannover Thanksgiving from years past (sorry, no Lithuanian folk dancers this time), I wondered what we''ll be doing for Thanksgiving next year.

This Hannover Thanksgiving, number six, was our last. Brian and I are moving back to Saint Paul next summer. Like any important decision it's mostly exciting, a little bit scary, somehow liberating, and full of unknowns. Fresh starts only happen when something else comes to a close, and so it will be with our years in Hannover. I suppose it will be the same with this blog. With over five years of posts behind me, I think I can hang in there and keep writing until summer time. I'm sure you'll all be fascinated to read about how they move all the stuff down five flights of stairs and about who gets to keep my Ikea coffee table.

Some people have asked why we decided to leave Germany, and some haven't. Maybe those who didn't ask just thought it was always coming, or maybe they don't care. But since you didn't ask, I will tell you anyway. There wasn't only one reason - it was about having meaningful work and being part of a neighborhood and being able to visit family and coaching and yes, a little bit about the backyard. It was getting weary of feeling foreign. It was the need to be involved in the place we are from, and not just watch from the outside.

I've just been reading posts from Hannover Thanksgivings past and I'm a bit nostalgic. One of the things we will give up when we leave here is making Thanksgiving our very own holiday, something unique that we can offer to our international group of friends. After a few years, it has become a tradition for them too, though I don't know if anybody will attempt cooking a 8 kilo turkey after we're gone. Next year, I won't need to explain to anyone why I'm not going to work on the fourth Thursday in November, or why I am buying huge amounts of potatoes. Everybody will know because they will be celebrating too. And I will be thankful, to be with family and to know how far I have come in the last six years.  I will, however, have to make sure that my gravy is up to snuff. There will be way more competition.

Morning after

It's the morning when Americans are waking up to check the news shows, the internet, the newspaper. Some are hopeful, some horrified. This is the third time I have been living abroad during a presidential election. I confess that in 2000 I did not vote absentee. It was my junior year in college and I didn't have my act together. In 2012, I cast my ballot and everything seemed to go okay.

Today is another story. I have a feeling that this was a very different election, in a very uncomfortable way.

Today, the Brits and Germans I work with are asking for my opinion, my sound-bite. Whether I will never move back or whether I can really believe it. And as the American down the hall, I have to tell them something.

I don't know what to say. I am in disbelief, though maybe I should have known this was coming. I am uneasy. I'm worried that a culture of fear and isolationism will take over. I'm worried that bigotry will become socially acceptable. I'm worried that people will believe in a fictional story about the America-that-once-was and the America-that-we-all-want... Except we don't that America if we are people of color or college-educated people. We don't want it if we are urbanites or intellectuals or single moms or immigrants. But democracy is funny that way. The people who speak the loudest often win. In this case Trump not only spoke loudest, he found the people who felt like no one had been speaking to them.

I don't know a ton about politics, but I know that few presidents accomplish all that they promise in their campaigns. I hope that as all this dies down, people worry less about the White House and go work on crafting their own stories of America in their own neighborhoods. Make change where you can, and hope the rest goes okay. That's a lot to tell my coworkers, and I don't know whether they would even understand. I am hoping you will.

This is a very different election because it could, and I really hope it does, change the political game in the future. I hope that next time around, someone with integrity can stand up and ask for our votes. I hope the feeling of discontent that mobilized people to support Trump doesn't go away. I hope that, instead, it can bring in a leader that unites people. But there are four years to go before I vote for a president again, and a lot to do before then.

So call me an idealist, but I ran across this quote from writer Suzy Kassem which validates how I'm feeling today:

“Choose a leader who will invest in building bridges, not walls. Books, not weapons. Morality, not corruption. Intellectualism and wisdom, not ignorance. Stability, not fear and terror. Peace, not chaos. Love, not hate. Convergence, not segregation. Tolerance, not discrimination. Fairness, not hypocrisy. Substance, not superficiality. Character, not immaturity. Transparency, not secrecy. Justice, not lawlessness. Environmental improvement and preservation, not destruction. Truth, not lies.”


That kind of a leader would win my vote.

Not for sissies

Brian and I had our eleventh wedding anniversary on the day we flew back to Germany. There wasn't much chance to celebrate. By that I mean no candlelight, wine, tablecloths that sort of thing.

But if you call sitting at a brightly lit airport bar, watching playoff baseball, and waiting for a delayed flight celebrating, then we had a great time. Actually, it was sort of romantic. I even got a public display of affection out of it. Sitting together in the middle row on an eight hour flight wasn't so bad either. There's something entirely sentimental about flipping up the arm rest.

I am not an expert on anyone else's love story but my own, and eleven years (or seventeen to be exact) isn't that long in the scheme of your whole life.

What I can tell you for sure is that love is not for sissies. Don't forget that your bloody beating heart is the hardest working muscle in the body. No wonder that's the symbol we use for love. If it were all about roses and cherubs, then the symbol would be... an earlobe or something.

Maybe on our anniversary next year, we will go out to a nice dinner like normal people. We can have candlelight and tablecloths and all that crap. Maybe we will go on a three hour bike ride, or stay home and watch movies. We will certainly not be on a transatlantic flight... but more on that later.

What you do the very day isn't what matters. It's every day that does. So happy anniversary, Brian, whatever day you read this.

Mega

In Kansas City we saw a couple of mega churches.
My first reaction is that the mega church seems like a marketing scheme - go bigger, get more for your money, if all these other people believe, then you should too! Two salvations for the price of one! Americans drive big cars, drink big sodas, wear big belt buckles. Why wouldn't they want to pray to a super-sized Jesus?

But then when you think of it, mega churches are not just an American thing. And they aren't new either. What about the great cathedrals of Europe? The mosques in Egypt and those ones in Uzbekistan my husband wants me to visit? I haven;t been there, but I know there are huge, elaborate temples in India and China. And the mega Jesus statue is in Rio de Janeiro, not on the Rio Grande.
The mega church isn't really so American or so modern after all.

But will these evangelical temples will stand for centuries? Will their drywall crumble and their roofs get mossy? Or are they built to last? It will depend on whether super-sized Jesus will continue to draw bigger crowds than a high school football game. Or if not, whether the church becomes more of a museum than anything. Will people want to preserve the mega church? Only the great Big Guy upstairs knows for sure.