Somebody's gotta make a beer run

We went to another neighbor party. This time we were actually, personally invited to, in advance, so it seemed like they actually wanted us to come. Our downstairs neighbor Matti is going to the University of Michigan for a year and this was his going away party.

Our gifts to Matti: a bottle of wine (obligatory German party gift) and a laminated map of Michigan and Wisconsin from an old National Geographic. We also let Matti and his girlfriend Saskia borrow our defaced American flag to use as a decoration. Saskia said that the holes we'd cut into it made it a lot easier to hang off the banister.

And the party went as most German-speaking parties do, in other words, awkward. I tried to make small talk in German with the other neighbors there and one with of Matti's friends from out of town. Brian sat nearby, kind of following along and talking to me or anyone nearby who wanted to work on their English. We did have the special distinction of being the only actual Americans at this party in honor of the host's going to America. We could have had a little booth with a sign saying "real Americans - ask us a question, only 10 cents". Someone wanted to know why Michigan's teams are named for a wolverine, which is not a very scary animal and doesn't actually live in Michigan. We also had to explain how a gopher is different from a groundhog, and describe various positions in American football.

Matti is studying law, so most of his friends are lawyers, or will be soon. They are not the slick, swaggering, courtroom-dominating kind of lawyers. They are the nerdy kind. They are the kind that  review contracts and never leave their desks. Add in the fact that they are German and what you get a bunch of not very outgoing people. But even nerdy lawyers like to drink beer. At about 8:30, the supply was already running low. A fatal German party flaw - everyone brings wine but drinks beer.

So we, as Americans, offered to go on a beer run. But, being German, Saskia said 'no, no, it'll be fine, don't worry, we'll manage'. Matti said the same thing, but with a little less resolve. So we started to insist. The breaking point was when Brian said to Matti, "Quit being so German and let us go buy you some beer"(a nerdy lawyer nearby thought this was hilarious). Going on a beer run is a thing that Americans will do for their friends. No one wants to be at a party when the beer is gone by 9pm.

And, honestly, it was nice to have a break from the party. A hot, crowded apartment where you don't know any of the guests and they all speak a foreign language can be too much. Plus, we had a job to do. As Brian and I walked down the street, each of us holding one side of the case, we were saving Matti's party. Or at least we were delaying the point at which the nerdy lawyers would start uncorking the wine they brought.

Stumbling stones

It's not usually a good idea to look down at the sidewalk while you stroll down the street. You miss all the action around you, get lost, trip, and in some places you make yourself a good target for something bad to happen. But in the case of the stumbling stones, being aware of your surroundings does involve watching the ground beneath your feet.

They are small, brass bricks. Each says "here lived..." then a name and birth date. There's a line below stating what happened to this person and their date of death. Each block is for a victim of the Holocaust, and is laid in front of the home where he or she once lived.

I saw these stones in Hamburg. The victims died at Bergen-Belsen, the concentration camp not far from Hannover

The stones are in front of the doorway to this house

The stumbling stones are a project of Berlin-born artist Guenther Demnig. He relies on local residents, schools and community groups to research the victims, find out who they were and what happened to them. Then he writes the information into bronze blocks and installs them in front of where the victims once lived.

These ones are in the Steintor neighborhood of Hannover

 

They are in front of this building, near the discos and casinos

There have been some complaints about the stones - that they are unsightly, or that it's disrespectful for passersby to walk on the names of the dead. A few have been defaced with swastikas.

The whole project makes me wonder about how you memorialize something shameful. It's much easier to build a monument to what you are proud of. In Washington D.C. we have huge war memorials, and in many places I've seen memorials to those killed in battle. But what does it look like to commemorate a genocide?  The Holocaust memorial in Berlin is striking, powerful, oddly beautiful in how you can walk around it and feel lost inside. And many if not all of the concentration camps are now museums, but they commemorate how victims died. These stumbling stones are, for me, much more real and personal.  The stones remember how they lived and where their suffering began.

Brian saw these stones and the ones below in Prague

Demnig has created and laid more than 30,000 bricks so far. They are laid into the very sidewalks where the victims would have strolled every day, looking straight ahead.

There's no place like...

I went home for a couple of weeks. And now I am home again. And when I head to St. Paul later this year, I will be home there too. I guess I’m not too picky. Home – is it where you lived the longest? Where you have most attachments? Where you feel coziest? How do you decide?

To be less fake-philosophical and more specific, I was visiting my family in, outside of, and around Chicago. Since I went alone and stayed a while, there was a lot of time for familiar things. I slept in the room where my sister and I once laid a line of tape down the middle of the floor, and showered in the bathroom where I once got ready for high school dances.  

And now so much time has passed that the neighbor kids I used to babysit are in college, and we took my nephews to the same pool that routinely turned my hair green in summer.

I don’t wish I lived there again. It’s been about 14 years since I have, and I don’t have much affection for suburbs. But I do have a lot of affection for the people who live there, big and small.

A few highlights of the trip were:

Staying the weekend at Powers Lake, where a bumper crop of mosquitos could not ruin a family picnic or afternoon at the beach.

Playing with Jaden, Jonas, Austin and Phoebe. I learned from them about Black Mamba snakes, mysterious animal bones found in the lake, Lego functions and how to heal a toy giraffe with a broken leg.

Riding a bike past the cornfields and over rolling hills, with Lake Geneva sparkling in the distance.

Sharing music and crossword puzzles with my dad, eating fava bean bruschetta with my mom, chatting over wine and paint with my sister, fishing with my brother, and watching my grandma get a sweet young waiter to bring her free French fries.

There was a morning when my brother Pete and I went to buy bagels in a Jewish neighborhood, at a bakery that also sold churros and was staffed by Mexicans. These are the things that are cool about America.

And, ironically, bonding with complete strangers during my awful journey to Chicago, where after hours in the passport line and a long sit on the runway, my flight was cancelled due to storms and rerouted the next morning through Charlotte. 

People you meet while traveling form little snapshot friendships – you have a few hours (or more than a few) to know each other and open up. Then you move on. As long as your conversation is more interesting than the in-flight magazine, it’s a good one.

And yes, I shopped at Target.

But now I am really at home. It’s not because my stuff is here. It’s not where my friends live nearby or where I get my mail. It’s not philosophical question, and it’s an easy one to answer.

Home is where Brian is.

Economy class

There are a lot of ways I am tough. I can navigate foreign languages, entertain a room of 8th graders, and I make a mean salsa. This all happens when my basic needs of food, water and sleep have been met. But catch me after a bad night's night's sleep or too long between meals and I'm a cranky, whiny pile of goo. I realize this makes me unfit for battle, long desert treks, Antarctic exploration and probably motherhood. It also doesn't help in international travel.

I am in Chicagoland right now. That's right - the USA, land of SUVs, high fructose corn syrup and freedom. I was lured here by frequent flyer miles and these cunning characters:

My defenses were already down as I started the trip with a cold I'd caught from those snot-nosed kids at summer camp. This caused my ears to pop during takeoff and me to be generally whiny and snot-nosed also (I have only been really sick once on an airplane, after an Italian food poisoning incident. I was wearing my yellow rain boots and let's just say they came in handy). I traveled in the back of the plane. They used to call it "coach", which makes me think of quaint horse-drawn wagons. Now it's economy, which makes me think of financial responsibility. Really they should call it the class of "shut up and be glad you got on this plane at all, little miss free miles." This is what I am sure the flight attendant wanted to say when he shoved a cellophane-wrapped tray at me.
"Is this the pasta?" I asked.
"No," he said, "it's the gluten-free meal. I had you down for gluten-free."
"I never asked for that. I'd like the pasta."
My husband Brian would have kept his mouth shut and eaten the gluten-free meal like the team player he is. But I was hungry and tired and my ears were popped out. "Give me my gluten" is what I wanted to say, "in fact, I'd like extra gluten. Bring on the carbs or you'll be sorry! And I want that whole can of ginger ale."
He rolled his eyes and threw the pasta on my tray.

I bet in first class there is a salad bar and waiters in tuxedos and free champagne. I bet there is someone to tuck you into bed and gentle ocean sounds playing in the background.  Someday I'll make it up there... after I explore Antarctica.

The annual family photo - just photoshop Brian in and we're all set.

photo credits go to my Aunt Sue. Nice work!

Hi everybody. I'm on vacation (yes, again). I will get you some posts but not until next week. Stay tuned!

Independence day, German style

Yesterday was the 4th of July. How did I celebrate American independence? I started by waking up on a gym mat, tangled in a sheet, attempting to hide from the early-rising kids across the hall. It was the International School Hannover Region summer camp, which is a week of crafts and swimming and sports that all builds up to the big Thursday night sleepover at school. While the kids either slept in the gym or in tents outside, I curled up in a ball in the drama room, which has the advantage of thick, dark curtains. By noon the kids - one without shoes, a few still in pajamas, several nursing sunburns - finally grabbed their art projects, rolled up their sleeping bags and went home. I went home to a shower and a nap and my lovely husband. And to celebrate the 4th of July in the evening, we watched German soccer, of course.

One of the silliest questions I've ever gotten about living here is whether Germans celebrate the 4th of July. The Germans were celebrating last night but it had nothing to do with 1776. It had to do with 1-0 win over France in the World Cup quarterfinals. Our neighbors were having a barbecue and watching the game in the garden below us. Straight Norbert (there are 2 Norberts who live next door to each other on the 2nd floor. Brian and I tell them apart because one is gay Norbert and one is straight Norbert) invited us to join them. Even though they've been setting up for 3 days, straight Norbert saw us in the doorway and invited us 2 hours before the event.  We already had plans.
Later that night there were even fireworks, which looked great from our top floor balcony. But they were for the first night of Hannover's Schützenfest carnival, not for the 4th of July. Gay Norbert told us he'd be heading there after watching the game at home.

With a barbecue and fireworks and parties, were Germans celebrating Independence Day without even knowing it?

I did enjoy this article that Brian found in the Guardian about how expats around the world celebrate the 4th, or what they think about it. One quote that stood out from the article is this:  "Before leaving the US, I was certainly convinced that every country had an Independence Day that they, too, celebrated with such ferocity. But it wasn't until I left that I realised this isn't the norm everywhere else."

I think I feel the same way every October 3rd, when Germans celebrate the unification of their country by sleeping in and watching TV. There's no parade, no fanfare, no firecracker injuries.

I've spent my last 3 years of July 4ths working the summer camp, so I haven't done much celebrating. Even if I didn't do much for the 4th, at least I got up early, served about 300 pancakes and then watched TV. I even hung out with two other Americans and wore a red shirt. Maybe that means I was celebrating too, German style, without even knowing it.