My dork Brother

Fun with Dave! (This time captions courtesy of my husband.) Had a truly exceptional time. We hit Regensburg, Nurnberg, Cesky Krumlov in the Czech Republic and Munich. Not bad for 5 days, huh.

Fotos de Espana

(Notice there aren't any of our hellhole, I mean B&B. Choosing to remember only the good.)

Fall

Fall is here, but may not last much longer. One last shot of my garden. The trees are almost done changing here, but they've been beautiful. I love Fall. Sigh.

Well, we're off to Munich for the weekend. I'm taking a Yoga workshop with Seane Corn (very, very excited, hope I can walk afterward!) and Tim's coming with. No doubt we'll find trouble along the way...

Dance 10, Looks 3

Our 5th Anniversary was at the beginning of the month, so we decided to celebrate with a trip to Barcelona. I’d booked the trip a little while ago, but I had maybe waited until the last minute to find accommodations. (First mistake.) In my defense, I was waiting for the guidebook I had ordered from amazon.de which never came, and never came, and honestly, never came.

Tim’s and Heather’s Plan for Traveling: Pick a destination. Book a flight. Do not do any research ahead of time, but consider “planning ahead,” buying a guidebook. Bust it open for the first time on the plane to your destination.

Well, a couple of days before we left, I had realized that perhaps I shouldn’t dally forever and I started to look into a Bed and Breakfast. So far, we’ve had a wonderful experience with B&Bs. The place in Bruges felt like we were visiting long lost relative. One in Interlaken was a working farm overlooking the lake. Not to mention the vineyard in Italy. So, I took my chances, hopped onto a few B&B sites and sent out a bunch of e-mails.

Uncle Georg’s Wine/Life Tip: When I was traveling around Europe in 2002, my uncle Georg gave me truly wonderful advice. We (with my aunt Sue, of course) were at a German Winefest on the Mosel River trying to decide what wine to sample. His rationale was, “Never get the cheapest wine. You'll always be disappointed. The best deal is always the second least expensive.” Good theory, I thought. And this man knows his wine.

So I heard back from a few B&Bs and a lot of them were full. Panick set in a little. I e-mailed a few more, without really checking into them fully. (Second mistake). Good news, I heard back from a couple that had some openings. So, did I head Georg’s advice? Did I take the second from the bottom in price? Nope. Went for El Cheapo. (Fatal mistake.)

So we arrive in Spain, really without too much problem, show up to the address and look around. The street in front of us is lined with Pawn Shops. (Not a good sign.) We ring the bell and this little Spanish lady comes down to get us. We go up the narrowest steps ever on the planet to the apartment. We walk in and are hit over the head with a smell of, well not quite body odor, but maybe body oil. Instantly know this is gonna be a long stay. Not to mention all of this is happening as the women is freely bashing America because she thinks we’re German. That’s always fun.

I tell you what, whoever took the pictures for the website was a magician! He couldda made Quasimodo’s headshots look like Brad Pitt. The place was actually an apartment that this lady lets to students, but was free at the moment. (Can’t imagine why.) Come to learn later that she actually runs a Bed and Breakfast, but this is not it. There was a kitchen (ette) with water that tasted like sulfur and an overall smell of natural gas. The towels in the bathroom were as soft as sandpaper and put off an overpowering musty scent when wet. (I actually gagged once while toweling off. No joke.) The living room was about 3 feel wide, with an old futon parading as a couch. Not to mention the bedroom which had two single beds donned in orangy-brown spreads from the 70s and a wad of something that was supposed to be a pillow.

But the kicker was that over the headboards, in between the two Ozzie and Harriett beds was a rather large, extremely graphic and dark and honestly terrifying picture of the Crucifixion. I hope God forgives me for my next statement, but if that isn’t a mood killer, I don’t know what is. So…welcome to Barcelona!

The good news is that we’re never in our hotel rooms very much anyway, so this was just further inspiration to get out on the town. And, we did have free Internet, which was nice.

We did a ton of wandering the city, as we always do, taking in tourist cites as well as trying to be somewhat Spanish. Highlights: Friday night, Tim and I took ourselves on a Tapas and Pub Crawl. Pretty sure we ate (and perhaps drank) at every tapas restaurant, ever. (Warning: Spanish wine goes straight to your noodle!) Saturday we took a Spanish cooking class through Cook and Taste http://www.cookandtaste.net/ led by the amazing Bego. Learned how to make Spanish Omelets and Paella, among other things. Met another American couple and a couple from Australia. (Tim and I are convinced that Australians might just be the coolest people on earth. Every Aussie we’ve met totally rocks.) Sunday night we hit Cirque de Soleil, which was absolutely unreal. So, overall, amazing trip. Great Anniversary. And guess what was on the doorstep when we arrived home---guidebook. Perfect timing.

Oktoberfest!!!

We came. We saw. We fested. We have now been to the biggest party on the planet. And no, I'm not joking, with over 6 million people in attendence, it is truly the biggest party. Ever.

And now for just a little hint of trivia. Oktoberfest is a 16 day festival honoring the 1810 marriage of King Ludwig (the first, not the crazy dude) with Princess Theresa of Saxe-Hildburghausen. (Take his married name, sweetie.) It looks like the party was so killer, they decided to make it an annual occasion. (I heart Bavarians!) Aside from the years when Germany was at war or battling cholera (sorry to bring you down), the party’s been going on ever since, although comically it’s been moved to September to avoid the sketchy October weather. Guess Septemberfest didn’t have the same ring.

I can't find the exact data for 2008, but came across the numbers for 2003
6.3 million visitors
6.2 million liters of beer (well, someone wasn't quite pulling their weight.)
36,000 liters of wine
487, 400 roast chickens
190,635 pairs of grilled sausages
56, 036 pork knuckles
91 oxen, whole on the spit.

I repeat biggest party on the planet!

More Jungfrau pics

These from their guide Krister. Unreal. Makes me nauseous just thinking about it!

Q. Why Did The Nun Cross the Road? --To Get To The Other Tithe!

I don’t want you kids going around thinking that all of my days are like today. Lemme just share with you my day on Tuesday to give you some context. It was the first day of my new class. I awoke late, as I always seem to do on first days, catapulted myself out of bed, into the shower and out the door in under 20 minutes. (Impressive, huh.) As I was nearing my school, what do I notice out my passenger window up ahead to the right? But of course, my daily nun. I was still down the road a stretch, so I took a moment to offer up a little prayer, as I do everyday when a sister crosses my path. In the meantime, what I believe to have happened, was that she had started to cross the street but decided midstream that the speeding car in front of me might just take her out. She must have been very busy that Tuesday morning and needed to get somewhere to further nun, because by the time I got to her she was spitting nails. I mean mad as H-E-double-hockeysticks. Now, I’m pretty sure she wasn’t actually cursing at Speedy Gonzales, but she was at least praying very loudly. And with a very angry face. So, a tad unnerving.

I get to class and settle in. (More on my new class later.) The first part of the lesson goes off without a hitch. But then disaster strikes just after our first break, right after I’d gotten a coffee out of the machine. (Can see what’s coming, huh.) Luckily, I was able to finish most of it before we jumped back into our discussion of Heinrich Steinweg (Henry Steinway.) Isa, my teacher, was explaining the german word for grand piano is “Fluegel”—aka a wing, as in a bird. Well I just didn’t get this the first go-round. So I’d asked for a second explanation, after which the light bulb went on and I got that the “wing” is the lid propped open. “Wing,” I say, “like the wing of a plane." And at that moment, I decided to gesture rather loudly imitating a crocodile’s mouth chomping and bump my notebook, which hits my water bottle, which I swear picked my little plastic coffee cup and sent it a-splattering.

At this moment, I try to jump into clean-up mode (probably before the damn thing had even overturned) but I’m sitting yoga-like with my legs in Indian-style (is that the P.C. term?) like I always do, which sometimes makes my feet go to sleep. So as I’m trying to unravel my 4-foot long giraffe legs, Isa and my new neighbor from the Ukraine have pretty much gotten things under control. Luckily, no coffee got on anyone’s books or clothing, so maybe the nun was blessing Senor Volvo and me...just maybe had a toothache.

After class I roped Laura into running with me to Ikea so I could return a carpet I had bought. (Which incidentally felt like you were walking on sandpaper.) But, of course, no gas. So I pull into a gas station but ended up with the pump on the wrong side of the car. This is not that big of a deal because normally you can just yank the hosey-thing around the back. Of course today, that didn’t quite work. So I pull into another spot. Get out again. Open the gas tank again. But for some reason the nozzle won’t go in my car. I try, try again, and again. Close the whole thing and reopen. Nope. No can do. Cannot figure out what’s going on. I finally call Laura out of the car and she takes two seconds to say, "This says ‘gas.’ Isn’t your car ‘diesel?’"

Thank you Lord (or maybe Sister Mary Curses-Sometimes) and even BMW for putting that feature on my car. Crises averted.

After I fed meines Auto, I go inside to pay the nice man behind the counter who’s been getting a kick outta my performance thus far. So I pay with my debit card, put in my pin number and we start to laugh and joke in German with the extremely classy and (naturally) handsome guy in a suit in line behind me about my brilliance at the gas pump. Mr. Benzine hands me my receipt and I go immediately for the pen on the counter and look for where to sign. He gives me a second, hoping I’ll get a grip, then gently puts his hand on mine in a not-at-all-sexual way and says is absolutely perfect English, “I don’t need your signature, you’ve already put in your pin number.”

Tshus and Danke. Got outta there as fast as I could. It appears that “Idiot” is spelled with a capitol ‘ME” after all.

I heart Europe

Our anniversary is coming up pretty soon here. 5 years. (Cannot believe Tim's put up with me for this long.) I think that's a pretty major feat and rather worthy of a celebration. So...today I kinda booked us a little weekend getaway to Barcelona. Ole! Yo quiero tapas!

As if that wasn't enough for one day, I got wind from Sarah, another expat (see http://www.regensblog.com/) that Air France was having a killer one-day sale on flights to Paris. So, whoopsie, I accidentally booked that too. Giggle. Barcelona AND Paris. Ah, good day. Very good day.

New Digs

Happy Anniversary Us and Germany

We’ll kids, we’ve been here one full calendar year. Does it feel like it? Do you still miss us at home? (Rhetorical question-there is clearly a correct answer here.) I feel that when you hit these mile markers in life, it’s a good time to glance back (I’m getting nostalgic, cue “Auld Lang Syne”) to see where all you’ve been and hopefully how far you’ve come.

So how far have we come? How do you measure a year? (Change music. “Season’s of Love” from Rent please.) Let’s try a quick list.

Year in Numbers:
Countries Visited—13
Number of Guests who’ve graced the Klaus Haus—30
Hours spent learning German—450 for Heather. 200ish for Tim. (And just so you know folks, he’s still kicking my kiester here!)
Weekends on the Road—24 (This number actually down from last year when we lived in Peoria. Shame on us.)
Kilometers driven—65,000 (No idea what that is in miles. You do the math.)
Calls home—Oh dear God, no idea. Thousands.
Tears shed—Quite a few.
Belly laughs—Twice the number of tears shed, without a doubt.

Nope, although interesting, the list doesn’t quite do it justice. I can honestly tell you that the ride so far has been a roller coaster. On the downside (grab your tissue) I wasn’t quite prepared for how difficult this was gonna be for me. I’ve struggled more than I thought I would with redefining myself over here. Next time I do this, someone please get me a few bottles of Prozac to take the edge off! On the up side, and wow, there are sooo many upsides. The travel, the meeting of new and exceptional people, the time I get to spend with my husband (which was normally spent at the dance studio), the great visits from our family and friends. The list goes on and on. I feel somehow like a new teacher freshly out of college. That first year is usually u-g-l-y, you ain’t got no alibi, defined a lot more by the mistakes you made (and learned from) and the very few, but hugely gratifying successes.

Anyway, long story short, so far, so good. And we can now say that we’ve got a year under our belt. Hopefully, my blunders through Europe now can be a little more graceful. Graceful…yeah, right. Shouldda spent more time in ballet class.

Tim's little Swiss climb

Tim and our friend Brian climb the Jungfrau Mountain in the Swiss Alps.

My 30th Birthday in LONDON!!!!

(push the little bubble icon on bottom left for captions.)

Goose Gottin'!

Four days after my parents left, we met up with Tim's good friend from college, Seamus, and his wife Tiffany. We intercepted them in Salzburg, brought them home with us for a beerfest, then headed on to Prague. Seamus mastered quite quickly the most important Bavarian phrase, "noch ein Bier, bitte," but wasn't satisfied with the normal hello of "Gruss Gott." Instead, the greeting went through a series of stages until Seamus landed upon "Goose Gottin", which honestly, we all liked much better.

Tim did an entire montage of pictures entitled "Seamus in Prague" but those are for a different day.

Stage Fright

Take a good look at the picture. Notice the water bottles? Hmmm--are these people around Como just REALLY thirsty? (I have heard that the lake is rather dirty.) But seriously what's the skinny? My aunt had heard that this is some kind of throw back to early times when weary travelers wandering by would need something to wet their whistle. (Noble, huh.) But alas, no, our Rick Steve's guidebook said that it's an altogether different type of wetting. The locals here in Como set these water bottles out so that stray cats, which are seriously all over this area, don't pee on their doorstep. Something about seeing their reflection and getting stage fright? Well, now you know.

More on Italy--Lake Como

(from our journey there the end of July)

Next stop: Lake Como. If it's good enough for George Clooney, it's good enough for me.

Como seems to be the hotspot for the Milanese (is that what you call people from Milan??) to get away from the city. No one does anything here except relax, read a good book, and eat absolutely amazing food. Check. Check. Chicketly-check. The highlight for us was definitely cuisine--amazing lamb dishes and the most wonderful handmade pasta that I could swear was stuffed with love.

Little Taste of Heaven

Never coming home. Our little Agritourismo, the working vineyard where we are staying, has to be the closest thing to Heaven possible. (Okay—Hawaii may be in the running too.) This may have just replaced Tanner’s Apple Orchard with my Happy Place. Again---I am never, ever, and I mean ever coming home.

Lake Garda

(Written Thurs. July 24.) Destination number two on the Hulsen’s Tour de Italia: Lake Garda. Thinking that this is the largest of the lakes in the “Lake Region,” but honestly that may be malarkey. No idea where I read that or who told me that. Not even sure what all the “Lake Region” entails, but there you have it anyway. (I do know that we’re still pretty far north up on the ole Boot, geographically speaking.) As I write, I’m sitting on a plastic lawn chair that I rented for 3.50 Euros. (I know, big spender.) My parents have booted me out of the car and are driving (hopefully not crashing) Tim’s car along the east coast of the lake (aka The Olive Riviera) toward the mountains.

My view here: Directly in front of me is the most adorable older Italian couple basking in the sun (I’ll come back to them in a sec.) Beyond Mr. and Mrs. Spaghetti, spanning almost the whole range of my peripheral vision is the most beautiful, crystal blue lake I have ever seen. A clear ocean-blue, dotted with bright white boats and an occasional sail. Not to mention, to my right are the tips of the Italian Alps. So I’ve got sun, mountains, a stunning lake, comfy chair, a good book…all I need right now is my husband and some French fries and I would be set!

The people watching here is exceptional. Looking dead ahead is the old Italian gentleman—lets call him Mario. Mario: head to toe. White hair. HUGE sunglasses. Gold cross on his leather chest. Olive-green checkered Bermuda shorts--he is honestly an exception here to his Speedo-wearing brethren. Not to mention dark socks pulled halfway up his calves. Completing the ensemble with some beige orthotics of some kind. Very practical.

Aaah, my ADHD just kicked in. A large Dutch family just set up shop just about on top of me. That reminds me that Lake Garda is a very popular destination for Germans and Dutch. I’ve heard plenty of both languages with some Italian sprinkled in. I’m doing much better communicating in German here than in English.

Oooh, missed my chance! Now my Italian couple just moved on (probably in search of gelato.) Boogers. Can’t quite remember what Mrs. Mario was wearing, but I will tell you that there seems to be 2 types of Italian women, from what I can surmise. Type 1: young, gorgeous, teeny-tiny, leggy beauties with dark eyes and always, always high-heels. Or…type 2: grandmas with huge, puffy, cotton-candy-like, brightly colored hair and even bigger sunglasses, wearing housedresses with horrible 80s floral print on them that look like tents. I will say that Mrs. Mario was unfortunately not belonging to the first category.

Have yet to mention where we are staying, mostly because we haven’t spent much time there thus far. We’re on a working vineyard. (Yep, thought my dad would be pleased to be so close to the grapes. Just taking out the middleman!) All I know so far is that we’ve been drinking coffee out of a bowl. Quite good, but gets cold fast. I’ll keep you posted…

Ah...Venice

Last time I was in Venice, my boyfriend (now my husband) and I spent some serious time searching for the library building featured in Indiana Jones, the Last Crusade. Picture Marcus Brody saying, “It looks like a converted church.” (Funny, the things that drive your travel experience.)

This time around, I believe the point was just to get as lost as possible. (Total Success.) Mom, Dad and I LOVED the wandering. After all, we’re on an island—how far can we really go? Strolling through all the little back streets, over something like 400 bridges, was just about as charming as you can get. Not to mention, sailing down the Grand Canal in a water taxi reading the history of the city and palaces along the way. My dad-being the eternal boater that he is-was quite happy.

For me, and this I can’t quite explain, but there is just something very New Orleans-esk about Venice. Both places seem to be…well…kinda…rotting. It’s not so much that the city is sinking (as is the common thought), but more that the water--due to things that a dance teacher doesn’t get (i.e. wind off the coast of Africa, the barometric pressure of the Adriatic sea, and throw in a little global warming)--is rising. So the first floor of most of the buildings here floods something like 100 times a year. Not to mention that the facades of the buildings are peeling and crumbling off. Unfortunately, Venetians aren’t allowed to fix them due to codes for historical preservation. Depressing on one hand, but fascinating on the other. Not to mention that every other little store here sells Carnival masks. Mardi Gras, anyone? What is it with my fascination with these corroding towns?

Anyway, we liked Venice, but two days was just enough. Time to find the source of the wine…

Neglect

I haven’t written in so long, not even sure I remember how. Hi Computer. It’s Me, Heather. Member me??? Tall, blond, crazy hair? Oh, say that reminds me. I got told by the Bulgarian guy in my class that I had ‘golden ringlets,’ which of course I ate up like a double dip of strawberry gelato. I took a moment to picture myself as Goldilocks, or maybe even Rapunzel. Ah… BUT, no fear, no need to knock my ego off its high horse. My German teacher took care of that in no time. She happened to mention that Germans also call curls like mine “snails.” Great, so I have snail hair. Moving to Bulgaria where I sound prettier.

So, my Mom and Dad arrived about 2 weeks ago. Yeah-scray! Thus, I’ve been so busy playing tour guide that I haven’t kept up the blog with what we’ve been doing. For starters, we just got back from 9 days in Northern Italy. Goodbye beer, Hello red vino! I kept some notes (wouldn’t even go as far to call it journaling) along our journey. They may be a little scatterbrained since I can’t read my own handwriting. Anyway…enjoy.

Bruges

What does anybody know about Belgium? Not much, is my guess. All I knew was that it neighbors Germany and that they brew good beer. That, my friends, was the extent of my knowledge. So last week, Tim and I had the opportunity to do some investigation. We came up with a theory. We think Belgium is doing something really horrible, like smuggling drugs or selling small children or ripping tags off of mattresses because it falls just a little under the radar. Even here in Germany, no one seems to know much about their neighbor. For example: Tim found out they have a King. Did you know that? How come he isn’t painted all over the tabloids like Chuck and QE’s fam? Curious, I say.

Anyway, Tim was working most of the week south of Brussels, which is in the French speaking part of Belgium. (Belgium Random Fact: They speak French in the south and Flemish in the north, which is essentially Dutch, although neither the Flemish nor the Dutch will claim the other’s language.) So I picked him up on Friday there and we drove on to Bruges. What an absolutely beautiful city! Belgium, like the Netherlands, is considered a “Low Country” so picture a lot of canals, not to mention absolutely beautiful gothic buildings from the Middle Ages.

Quick history on Bruges. Back in the 12-1500s Bruges was a big trade city due to its proximity to the North Sea. But in the middle 1500s, their Queen-type person fell off a horse and died at about the same time the canal to the sea filled up with silt. Not so good for the Bruggian economy. Thus, the town got pretty much wiped off the map for a few hundred years. They were so poor that they couldn’t even afford to tear down the old buildings to build new. But, that misfortune later became their good fortune. Because they had no money, the town got kinda pickled in the Middle Ages and now enjoys a pretty kickin' tourist industry. (Yippee--Happy Ending.)

Tim and I got in on Friday evening and stopped first at our Bed and Breakfast. Just perfect. It’s an old leather mill turned into a home right in the middle of the Old City. The woman that runs it lost her husband a few years ago and essentially takes you into her house to enjoy your company. Saturday we spent the day sight seeing: cruising on the canal, checking out the Gothic Cathedrals, climbing the Belfry, and perhaps tasting the Belgian beer.

At dinner that night, I left our table for absolutely no longer than 2 minutes, came back to find that my husband had befriended an entire Scottish family of 10. Before we knew it, we had been adopted and spend the evening with Gram and his wife Gail, his 2 small children, his Aunt Doreen and Uncle Billie (who live in Malaysia,) his cousins, his dad-Papa David and his mother, which he lovingly referred to as “the Dragon.” The Scottish drinking songs entertained the whole restaurant and the Guinness and whisky flowed like water. So apparently, when in Bruges…do as the Scots do!

A truly wonderful weekend.

Filtering

Quote for the day. Heck, quote for the past 10 months. Tim and I were trying to sum up our Ex-pat experience the other day as we sat in this beautiful garden on a canal in Bruges (more on that later). I mentioned that for me, learning this language and culture has been 80% amazing and 20% “Oh Dear God, What Did I Get Myself Into.” I’m finding that right now I’m doing a lot of filtering, unfortunately, when I can’t quite understand the people around me. Yep, pretty sure I have the vocabulary of about a 5-year-old. (But a really bright 5-year-old, dad-burn-it!) Not sure if you remember being that age, but there’s a heck of a lot that you just don’t get. Thus, one method to deal with your unsure-ity (is this a word?) is to completely tune out. This is what Tim and I lovingly call, "Screen Savor Mode." I know this place well.

Tim, as usual, put it a lot more eloquently. He said, “It’s like trying to get a drink out of a fire hose.” Amen. Welcome to our world.

My Hero

Bad Dancer. Seriously Cool Guy. Check it out.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bNF_P281Uu4

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zlfKdbWwruY&feature=user

Seven Sleepers Day

I’ve figured it out!!! I no longer need a Meteorology degree to predict the weather here. Next Wed is Siebenschlaefertag! Seven Sleepers Day, which is the German version of Groundhog’s Day. Ok, so, my details are a little shaky, and I’m gonna warn you that my normal research (aka google-ing and wikipedia-ing (Dude, I’m sooo gonna Wiki that!)) have left me with some holes. My recommendation: Use your imagination and make it up. That’s my plan.

Sooo—Seven Sleepers Day has a couple of meanings from what I’ve come across. It is both an animal (a cute little hibernating dormouse), and also an old Christian Legend. I’ll start with history and work my way into cute little furry creatures.

The Tale
Picture the year 250. Seven men are accused of “Christianity” by the pagan Roman Emperor Decius (Rome didn’t become Christianized until Constantine in 315ish) and, of course, the guys are persecuted. The de-ci-ent Decius (laugh here), gives the seven dudes time to repent. But, in the ways of all martyrs, the Seven give all their money to the poor and go off to a cave to pray. Where they promptly fall asleep. (Whoops.) During their slumber (persecution must be REALLY tiring) Emperor Decius has the cave sealed off. Fast forward now to about 400 a.d. The Landowner of the cave decides to open it up to make cattle pen. And lo! What do his wandering eyes did appear? But seven guys starting to wake up from a long winter’s nap. Long winter’s nap of about 150 years! (Time varies here depending on whom you ask.) The men thought they’d been asleep only one day (crazy Christians) but were thrilled that crosses had replaced the pagan gods. So the sleepy seven become saints—thus Seven Sleepers Day.

The Tail
There actually is an animal the ‘Siebenschlaefer’ that’s some sort of a dormouse. (Actually, believe he’s called the “Edible Dormouse” which makes me think twice about eating sausage.) Anyway, he hibernates not really for seven months, which one would think, given his name, but from about September through the end of May. Now how a dormouse correlates to seven Christians I’ll never know. Makes about as much sense as a fat guy in a red suit coming down your chimney on Jesus’ birthday, huh.

So what does this have to do with weather you ask? No idea. Just that June 27th happens to be called Siebenschlaefertag, and according to the German version of the Farmer’s Almanac, this very day will predict what the weather will be like for the next 7 weeks. Or throughout July. (I’ve read both, so not sure.) They’ve got cute little rhyming things here like:

*Wie das Wetter am Siebenschläfer sich verhält, ist es sieben Wochen lang bestellt. (How the weather behaves on Seven Sleepers Day, is what we order for the next seven weeks. Sorry—no attempt at rhyming.)
*Ist der Siebenschläfer nass, regnet’s ohne Unterlass. (Is the Edible Dormouse wet, then prepare to get seriously soaked. Yep, I took liberties with the translation of that one.)
Or my fav:
*Wenn die Siebenschläfer Regen kochen, dann regnet’s ganze sieben Wochen. (Which I think translates into something like we’re gonna get real wet here if we happen to cook the edible dormouse in rainwater. Blechhh.)

Here’s the kicker. Looks like this forecast is not so accurate for Northern Germany because of the Jet Stream. BUT…in Southern Germany, where we live, it’s 60-70% accurate. Halleluiah! Happy Seven Sleepers Day to all! And to all a Good Night!

Wie ist das Wetter?

Many of you have asked what the weather is like over here in these parts. Well, to tell you the truth, I have no clue. I am truly not smart enough to figure it out. I cannot, repeat: cannot, understand the weather here in any way, shape or form. So don’t ask me what to pack for those of you coming to visit, for I will inevitably tell you the wrong thing. We are not in Spain, so the rain does not stay mainly on the plain.

Let me tell you a little of why I’m rather Confucius.

Before we made this move, we had heard that the weather here was basically a milder version of the Midwest. Take, oh say Peoria, and drop about 10 degrees off either end. The colds shouldn’t be so cold and the hots shouldn’t be so hot. Ok. Easy-peasy. Well, let me just tell you that if I ever figure out who told us this load of horse manure, I might just haul off and shoot that messenger di-rectly!

Midwest weather, although miserably humid in the summer (which turns my hair into a beast that resembles the blond version of whatever dead animal Diana Ross has on her head nowadays) at least has seasons. Summer—hot. Winter—cold. Fall—crisp. Spring—grab your umbrella. Even things like March—in like a lion, out like a lamb are truly helpful in “How do I let my kid leave the house for school this morning?” Or in my case, “How do I let myself leave the house for school this morning?” (Don’t forget your sack lunch!)

Let me pause here and give a quick sidenote with one of my theories: There is truly no bad weather, only bad fashion choices. I love rain, as long as I’m not wearing dyed satin shoes (as per Homecoming senior year.) No one celebrates snow as much as I do, carefully donned in hat, gloves, scarf and heavy coat. Sun’s out? No problem, just throw me a visor and perhaps some SPF 15. I love seasons. I love storms. I love to run in the rain, because somehow being out in the elements makes you feel more alive. After all, my dream job is to be a mailman, errr woman, that’s how much I love weather.

Let me now add what has been my German experience, because honestly, it’s all I got.

Screens
Germans do not have air-conditioning. We have giant windows that open like doors or tilt back to let air in. So you would think we would have screens, right? Nope, you thought wrong. Most homes are sans screens. And anyone who tells you that Germany doesn’t have bugs is a liar-liar-pants on fire. As we haven’t gotten into truly hot summer yet (assuming it exists), and seeing as how we have indoor cats, I have NO idea how this is gonna pan out.

Meteorolo-huh?
I have no idea when I leave the house in the morning what the day has in store. Just because it’s sunny and warm in the village where we live, it may be cold and rainy in Regensburg, which is only 12 km away. I find that half the time the weather is completely different in all of the little villages around here, which makes me think, maybe we aren’t all living underneath the same big sky. (Yep, just quoted Fievel Mouse.) We don’t seem to have storm systems, which can give a little warning on the ole Doppler radar of what’s coming ‘round the mountain. Unfortunately, all of a sudden a huge, gray, fast-moving cloud just appears out of nowhere and as soon as you notice it, the heavens open up. Germany Travel Tip #42: Don’t leave home without your umbrella. I have come home looking like a drowned rat more times than I can count on both hands. Or toes. Whatever you choose. (I choose toes; with fingers I always forget where I started.)


Freezing my cha-chas off.
We came over for our house hunting trip the first week of July last year. I packed sundresses and flip-flops. FROZE. Moved here at the end of August. Again, only had summer things with a couple pairs of jeans and a jacket. FROZE. Had to buy a fleece third day we were here. (And here is where I’ll lose your sympathy.) I know you people in the Midwest are gonna tell me I’m ridiculous since you all had the coldest, most snowing-est winter in about a thousand years, and I have to report that our winter was very, very mild. Think we only had snow in November, just in the knick of time to hit all of our visitors, then again around Easter, which as memory serves was in March. Already I can hear you saying “huh?” Yep, me too. Isn’t snow supposed to be in the winter? Does El Nino affect Deutschland too?

So now, after I’ve spent a month at home during truly beautiful Midwest May weather (I missed most of these horrible rains that are flooding nearly every county on the Mississippi), I expected it to be sunny and warm here in Germany. Just to make sure I was prepared, I made some great contributions to my summer wardrobe during my journey. So you can imagine how I felt when I got off the plane last week, FROZE and reached for my fleece.

After all that ranting, okay--whining, I have to say, all’s well that ends well. Yesterday it was finally warm enough to break out the summer clothes. I think it may have gotten up to 80 both yesterday and today. (Not entirely sure since I don’t speak Celsius yet.) Anyway, I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, but today sure is a beaut’. Come over and see for yourself!

Remind Me Again, Why Are We Doing This?

Hi all. I'm back in Germany after a wonderful month home in the states. I have to admit, getting on the plane this time was pretty difficult. Knowing that my amazing husband was there on the other side waiting for me (oh, and my kitties) was just about the only thing that got me aboard. If all you people that I visited would have been just a little grouchier and treated me a little less like a celebrity, maybe I wouldn't have had this problem! (Umm...but please do it again next time.) Anyway, after a 10 hour attitude adjustment on the plane, I'm back and glad to be back and ready to continue our journey here.

I just came across this quote in Yoga Journal yesterday from Don George, the global travel editor of The Lonely Planet Publications. For me, it has given a little meaning as to why Tim and I are here. Hope you enjoy. (And I promise a less sappy entry next time.)

Traveling to unfamiliar lands can be more than a simple vacation. When you don't understand the language, the need to rely on others for help can refine your practice of vulnerability. Becoming vulnerable requires concentration, devotion, and a leap of faith—the ability to abandon yourself to a forbiddingly foreign place and say, in effect, "Here I am; do with me what you will." It's the first step on the pilgrim's path.

The second step is absorbing a lesson that grows from the first: The more you humble yourself, the greater you become. The more you see of the world, the more you realize what a vast and awe-inspiring place it is. Travel teaches us how small we are, and when we truly understand this, the world expands infinitely. In that moment, we become part of the larger whole. Every journey takes us inward as well as outward. As we move through new places, encountering new people and food and artistic creations, new languages and customs and histories, a corresponding journey winds within as we discover new morals, meanings, and imaginings. The real journey is the ongoing and ever-changing interaction of our inner and outer lives.

Get Thee to a Nunnery!

Just read that throughout the years, Regensburg has played host to at least 6 monasteries. Well no wonder I see my daily nun! Duh. We’ve had Benedictine monasteries, Carolinian, Dominican, Minorite, Scottish-Benedictine (and how that’s different from Regular Benedictine I have no idea,) and even one that was kind of a dorm for wealthy old women. Now I have yet to research what makes an abbey different from a monastery different from a cloister, but I will. This is gonna be an on-going process, I have a feeling.

Regensburg truly has a volatile history when it comes to religion. Tim and I are actively trying to piece all of this together, but it’s difficult to get the big picture. From what we understand, Regensburg was Catholic before the Reformation, then became Lutheran shortly thereafter (so we’re in the middle 1500s now.) Actually the Duke-type people in Regensburg had a pretty major part in igniting the Thirty Years War (1618-1648), even though the conditions were ripening for some time before it. (Side note: Tim read Germany lost a third of its population during the war because most battles were fought on German soil. That and the fact that the plague had outbreaks as well.) After the war, the city went back and forth from being Protestant to Catholic often, depending on the beliefs of the reigning Prince. How’d you like that? Today you’re Protestant, tomorrow Catholic. Even the clergy had to change, or choose to leave the city.

Unfortunately, Jews have been persecuted here since the dawn of time too, like so many places we’ve visited in Europe. It seems that Christians were not allowed to lend money, so in time of need, they would borrow from the Jews. When the debt could no longer be paid, the answer was simply to run the Jews out of town. And thus, the debt was cleared. Gives you a little insight into some history well before our years, doesn't it?

On a much lighter note, my nun spotting is going very, very well. I’ve even included our visitors and my husband on my quest. We’ve seen a nun eating ice cream in Prague. A nun on the boat to the Cloister Brewery (atta girl!) We saw one on a bike in Wurzburg. And actually, one day Amanda and I saw a nun, a monk and two priests all in the time frame of about 10 minutes. But to top it all, Tom, Jennifer, Tim and I ducked into the Cathedral Dom to check it out and ended up getting blessed by the Bishop of Regensburg. Not bad, huh.

Fish and Visitors

You know that old saying (think it's Ben Franklin) that Fish and Visitors smell after 3 days? Not true. Totally not true. At least this is what I keep telling myself as I prepare to be a visitor in the states for almost a month. (Okay, the fish part may be true. I left salmon in the fridge for almost a week once. Pee-uuu!)

After having a steady stream of visitors (stream--get it? I’m going with the fish metaphor here) we’ve just shipped off our last guest on Wednesday. I tell you what, it is so much fun to finally be the destination. We've spent pretty much every weekend for the last 7 years in a guest bedroom of either a friend or family member. Now, it feels like the tides have changed and we are getting to play host and hostess and return the favor.

A few High-Lights:

• Catching up with my old friend Amanda. Her visit was wonderfully low key, focusing less on the touristy side and more on real-life Bavaria. I did manage to take her on a few Death Marches and a road trip to Prague for lunch.
• Soccer game in Munich with my bro and sister-in-law, followed by dinner at the Weissesbrauhaus (an old haunt of Hitler and cronies.) Did I mention that it’s “Spargel (asparagus) Season” here? Great cream of asparagus soup to accompany our sausages and potato pancakes. We also took them for a boat ride up the Danube to the Cloister Brewery, where Monks have been making beer for nearly 1,000 years. (Yep, I said a thousand. It’s not a typo.)
• Middle Ages Festival in Rothenburg with my former Bradley student Kristen. This medieval walled-city from the 1500s had a weekend long, town-wide Middle Ages festival, complete with parades, wandering bands of singing knights, court jesters juggling, and of course, beer tents. Not to mention we had a breakthrough with the German language. Tim and I stayed up until 4am speaking German with our Pension Proprietress and her husband. Exhilerating.

A few Low-Lights

• Amanda and I were searching for a great workout the form of a Yoga class. Yoga class—check. Great workout—uncheck. Think I’ll keep looking.
• Middle Ages festival in Munich
  What we had in mind was a carnival atmosphere, with people dressed up in Elizabethan clothes and perhaps a simulation of knights jousting. What we found was a cross between a Star Trek and a Dungeons and Dragons convention in a mud pit. (The irony is that we found the perfect festival in Rothenburg a few days later, but Tom and Jennifer had already headed home.)
• My Midnight Dash to Berlin
  Lovingly called my “blitzfahrt” by my husband. Kristen was supposed to take a train from Regensburg to Berlin on Tuesday to catch her flight home early on Wednesday morning. Unfortunately, in Nurnberg at about 8pm, we realized that no train could get her there in time. Thus, the mad dash. We were successful though. Tired, but successful!
  

Anyway, tell Poor Richard that his Almanac is full-a-crap. He just needs to throw out the fish…

Meine Prufung

Some of you have asked what do with myself all day. I assure you, I am not laying around the whole time watching Soaps and eating bon-bons. (Mostly because I can’t get Soaps over here. Or bon-bons.) Actually, I’ve been taking an Intensive German class for 4 hours everyday. And that, my friends, is a lot of German. Mind you, not enough really to know what I’m saying, but just enough to get into trouble. So after 6 months of study, I take a rather large exam on Saturday to prove to the government that I can speak basic German. The test consists of a reading/comprehension section, a listening test, a written part, and an oral exam, taking up most of my day on Saturday. (And wouldn’t you know, it’s supposed to be beautiful!)

I thought in honor of my test (actually to postpone studying) I’d offer up a few of the stages that one goes through on the quest to learn another language. This list is by no means complete. Any of you are invited to add to it, as I’m sure I will as I travel down this road.

• The “Wee! Won’t this be Great Fun to Speak Another Language” Stage:
  Beware. This one is very short lived. It lasts just until you set foot in your foreign country of choice.
• The “Oh Dear God, What Have We Gotten Ourselves Into” Stage:
  Closely follows the aforementioned “Weee! Stage”
• The “Ok, There Are Stupider (no, that’s not a word) People Than Me Who Speak Multiple Languages” Stage:
  Very important as your build up your self-esteem for the fight that will ensue.
• The “You’ve Got to Be Kidding Me” Stage:
  Where you find yourself asking: How many words does this stupid language have? And why did they let a schizophrenic invent the grammar rules?
• The “Filter” Stage:
  Using selective hearing to only understand the words you already know. The rest just washes through.
• The "Ass-Outta-You-And-Me” Stage:
  Understanding 1 out of 10 words, then assuming you know what’s going on.
• The "Whoops, I’m So Sorry” Stage:
  Usually follows shortly thereafter.

That’s about as far as I’ve gotten. Okay—must study. I just need to pass, right? No need to nail it to the wall. After all, in the words of the very wise Brian Curran, “C’s get Degrees.”

Train Spotting

I am leaving my profession of teaching dance in favor of turning my favorite past-time into a full-time career. People watching. I have often enjoyed the airport for this reason. But now that the non-traveling public can no longer go to the gates, it’s not as good. Disappointment. I’ve been continually searching for new avenues. Coffee shops. Late-night Steak-n-Shake. Theatre cast parties. So over here, naturally, I'm ever on the same quest. I believe I've found my new venue. Let me offer up...Train Stations.

Here's just a taste of what my world looks like:

People going to work with briefcases and seriously furrowed brows. Teenagers dressed in the grungy-funk thing with tight black jeans and bright white chucks heading to Gymnasium (high school.) Lovers of all ages saying tearful goodbyes. Athletes with their bikes slung over their shoulders. Old, weathered women carrying baskets with truly strange things sticking out. (Germans love baskets.) Completely worn out mommies with screaming children attempting to get the giant kinderwagen (stroller) onto the train.

But hands down, what do I find most interesting? Nuns. I see one everyday, I’m not kidding. (Hmmm, is God trying to tell me something? Speak louder…I can’t understand German!) Being a nice protestant girl from the Midwest, I am completely fascinated. Where are they going? And actually where have they been? How does someone choose to be a nun? And once you do, what does your life hold? (Do nuns gossip?) I actually don’t believe I’ve seen the same sister twice. So why in the land of Martin Luther are there so many nuns?

I’ve seen many in the train station coming and going. I’ve passed a few on the street in the Old Town. On the train the other day, a very nice sister helped me with my German homework. Yesterday, actually I saw one recycling.

But, do you know what interests me most, and this is just ridiculous. Their shoes. (This says so much about me as a person, doesn’t it.) All of the sisters I’ve recently seen have the black habit and headpiece, but a very different choice in shoes. So I got to wondering why and realized, it’s only shoes that differentiate them from the rest of the flock. Wonder where they shop…

Just a normal weekend in...SWEDEN!

A couple weeks ago on a normal Wednesday evening, Kristi, Tim and I were sitting around our dinner table chatting about Godknowswhat when Tim happened to mention that Luftansa was having some sort of a sale. My first question: Do airlines have sales?!? Followed shortly by the second question: Where are we going? Kristi has been looking for a way to fly her husband over here in May, so out came the laptop amidst the chicken-salad-sammies and my nerd husband began doing his thing. Unfortunately for Rick (Kristi’s hubby) we came up short on transatlantic travel. But…we happened to stumble upon some good European deals. Dublin, Scandinavia, Beijing…(yes, I realize Beijing is not in Europe.) In short, on a Wednesday evening at 9:30pm we booked ourselves a nice little weekend va-ca to Stockholm leaving just two days later. These are the days when I love, love, LOVE living in Europe.

Ah, Sweden, home of such greats as Abba, Pippi Longstocking, Swedish Meatballs and one of the largest grossing companies: IKEA. Side note: I hate Ikea. Yes, I did furnish my entire Chicago apartment post college with this build-it-yourself furniture. But the fact that they traipse me all around the store through the Kinder department and bedroom sets when all I really want is a picture frame makes me avoid it like the dentist’s office.

Stockholm is just beautiful. It's been called the “Venice of the North” due to all the canals and water that have made it an important port city. For us, we thought it was kinda New England meets Munich—with a little water splashed on top. The three of us had a wonderful weekend. Had a beautiful little hotel, complete with a very helpful receptionist. We got in Friday in time to wander the old town and find dinner. Saturday we followed a Harbor tour that was in Kristi’s guidebook. (Travel tip, oh what number are we on now, 6? Get a good guidebook for any adventure. You see so much more.) Then we ended up at the Vasa Museum, which might just be the coolest museum ever.

A little bit of history: The 'Vasa' was a Swedish warship built in 1628 that sunk on her maiden voyage due to improper counterweighting. (Whoops. Can't imagine that went well for the engineers.) Anyway, they didn't have the technology at the time to bring her back up to the surface, so she sat at the bottom of the Stockholm Bay for something like 333 years. Because the water is a combination of sweet and saltwater, she was almost completely preserved. Fast forward to 1962 when she was rediscovered and raised again to the surface. Not to mention painstakingly restored. I believe nearly 90% of the boat on display today is original. I'll add some pictures here soon to give it some justice, but looks like one of the boats from Pirates of the Caribbean.

Sunday, we took most of the day to see the folk, open-air museum, which shows the homes of the Swedish people through the last couple hundred years. Then had time to swing through the Nobel Museum (Alfred Nobel lived here) before we flew home.

You know, just your normal, standard, everyday weekend.

Keeping It Real

I realize that my last entry about my mom and cooking was pretty sappy. Although I had some positive feedback from the women in my life, it seems the men were not so pleased. I received this from one of my high school friends. And I quote, “Mrs. Klaus, your last blog post was so intensely cheesy that I needed to take a nap after reading. Seriously. But I enjoyed it nonetheless” he added, diplomatically. “I want to hear more comical fish-out-of-water, HSK, a stranger-in-a-strange land stories. Less Little Women and more Lost in Translation.”

Thank you Andrew for dowsing me in cold water to bring me out of my funk. It was pretty bad, huh. I’ll see what I can do. Lord knows I do something ridiculous everyday.

Canary Island Getaway

Missing My Mommy

I’m homesick today. I feel it way down deep, all the way into my toes. (♫ starts in my toes, then I crinkle my nose….) It’s still 50 days (and who’s counting) until I fly back to the states and honestly, there is so much to look forward to in these 50 days, so…I don’t know why my deal is. We’ve got lots of visitors coming our way, a trip to Holland, my German certification test (ok, not exactly looking forward to that one.) Still, today, I want my mommy.

I just got back from the grocery store, which was pretty uneventful. I was there purchasing a wide variety of booze for our beer tasting tonight. We’re celebrating the fact that Kevin has been here one year. (Happy 1st Anniversary Kevin and Germany!) Thought we’d eat some of his favorite food, Mexican, plus have an excuse to try some different kinds of beer. Although, let it be known that we’ve done pretty well on this front so far. I do not consider myself a ‘beer gal’, usually preferring wine, but I may be rethinking my ways. Anyway, I digress---got everything home and was unpacking the groceries in the kitchen when I got a little blue…um, that’s the American blue, not German (see More Notes on Booze.)

There are two things that usually bring on this feeling. Number 1 being that a ton of our friends and family are reproducing back home and we’re missing out on the early years when these kids are so darn cute. (Thank Goodness for webcams and telephones!) The other thing that I miss so much is sharing a kitchen and cooking with the women (and sometimes men) in my life. I cannot tell you how much I love this. The true party for me is always in the kitchen. The good news is that in 50-some days, I get to perch myself on our breakfast bar in Quincy to chat with my mom while making dinner, as my dad bustles around, filling our glasses and heating up the grill. I simply cannot wait.

So much of bonding for women takes place in the kitchen, and I guess I think it’s a wonderful thing. (I’ve just enraged feminists everywhere. Sorry!) Most of my deep, meaningful conversations with my mom happened at the breakfast bar. Not to mention, I truly came to love my sister-in-law Lori in her kitchen in New Orleans. We’ve also spent many a Sunday morning cooking up breakfast with our hosts at whoever’s house we’d spent the night, be it Club Curran, Matt-n-Natalie’s, my brother’s, and really anyone else who lives off of I-70. I truly believe that sharing your kitchen is sharing your heart. (Wow…that was sappy. Barf.)

I think this bonding-in-the-kitchen thing has taken over the getting-ready-to-go-out thing I had with my roommates in college. Since I didn’t grow up with sisters, I completely enjoyed the hustle and bustle that it took to get the four of us out the door and to the bar (err..I mean library, Dad.) The process included any number of the following exercises: The trying on at least 10 outfits (most of which you had borrowed,) the input on/or better yet hands on assistance with hair and make-up, a million phone calls with where we were to be when…all the while gossiping about what boys we were gonna meet up with (err…I mean study with.) But now that the days of living together are gone, we have resorted to another common bond—cooking.

Even though I’m longing for home, I’m still so grateful for my new friends here. We are each other’s family and have (in a very short time) thrust ourselves into one-another's kitchens. You seriously would not have believed the craziness that was Thanksgiving. There were at least 9 chefs in the kitchen at any one given moment and more than 5 on clean-up duty.

So tonight I get to go over and help Laura in her kitchen. She’s doing the tacos, Heidi’s bringing salad and nachos and Kristi’s baking a cake. What I’m missing, though, is sharing this goofy, daily, run-of-the-mill stuff with my Susan, with my girls in St. Louis and especially with my mom. So…50 days and counting.

Have Stress, Will Travel

My husband has been working like a dog these past few weeks. In fact, I think he’s almost stressed out. Almost. This furrows my brow just a little because I honestly don’t think Tim has ever felt stress before. Not for college exams. Not for deadlines at work. Not even all that bad before we moved across an ocean. Tim just ‘is.’ I truly believe that while the rest of us wake up each morning and run through a list of “have-to’s” in the shower, Tim gets up, rolls out of bed (smiling, no doubt) and says to himself, “What do I get to do today?” It’s unreal and (thankfully) completely contagious.

So the other day, I knew the bottom had dropped out. Tim came home rather late from work and I found him melted into the couch. We started to talk about the day, his job and that the fact that he might be feeling a little stress with this new position. He admitted to me that he’d looked up some of the symptoms for Stress online. (This is when I completely fall head over heels in love with him.) Seriously? You had to look them up online? I mean, I could just describe myself most days and probably hit the majority of the criteria! Anyway, suffice it to say he needs a vacation.

Consequently, we’re Eastering in the Canary Islands. Bring on the beach and um-brella (-ella, -ella) drinks.

The Canaries are islands off the coast of Morocco, but belong actually to Spain. (Yes, I’ll hold while you all play on Google Earth for a sec.) We’ve got a great all-inclusive hotel and hopefully the weather will be in the 70s. Unlike most of our other adventures, we do not have any desire to be good tourists. We could care less if there is anything cultural to see or do. Just gonna lay on the beach or by the pool, read a little, soak up the sun and rejuvenate.

Please don't feel to sorry for us though. (Sure you're crying for us right now.) We did get in a little mini-vacation last weekend. Saturday morning we drove down to the Zugspitze, which is the highest Alp in Germany. It’s just about a 2-hour drive from our place, which just couldn’t be more convenient. We did a little skiing on Saturday, and by skiing I mean Tim skied and I took a nap on a lounge chair with my ski boots on. The snow wasn’t all that good, but it was still beautiful. Sunday we took the cable car all the way up to the peak and should have seen 4 countries and 400 peaks. Shouldda, couldda, wouldda...didn't. It was a complete white out. Couldn't even see your hand in front of your face. Oh well, still had fun exploring the Igloo village up there. Looking forward to going back.

Wishing you all a Hoppy Easter. May you spend time with family and friends and find small ways to take care of yourselves.

More Notes on Booze

First of all, colors. Blue (blau) has a different connotation over here. Should you want to tell German passers-by that you’re feeling blue, they would probably move to the other side of the street and call you a cab. Now it's not because they are uncaring, it's that you just told them that you are drunk-as-a-skunk, schnockered, newcastled, pickled, blitzed, bugalooed, Chevy-Chased, having the whirligigs, five whinos gone, Boris Yelstinned, pissed, or my personal favorite…ten feet tall and bulletproof. In other words: drunk.

Secondly, animals. Should you have actually used ‘blau’ in it’s correct meaning and had a Barley sandwich (beer for lunch,) spent the night with one foot on the floor so the bed would stop spinning (“Make the move stop rooming!”) and perhaps prayed to the porcelain god most of the night—you would wind up the next day with “a boy cat.” Yes folks, the euphemism for a hangover is “ein Karter haben.” English translation: To have a male cat. Actually, this makes sense. After all, when you wake up from those nights of “bad venison,” as my husband says, that taste in your mouth does feel a little furry.

Here’s to drinking responsibly. (Probably should have written this one before St. Patties!)

Tools for becoming a Global Citizen

Just a couple of pointers to avoid Cultural Collisions (Cat’s-ass-trophies.)

Gestures: You can get into some serious problems here. First of all, let's start with nodding. Apparently, this doesn’t always translate. For Bulgarians, ‘no’ means ‘yes.’ They actually shake their heads side-to-side slowly as in noooooway-Jose (wait, that’s Spanish) when they are indicating yes. Maybe it’s Bulgarian chicks who’ve given women everywhere a bad name. (Doubtful.) To make matters more confusing, Italians have the opposite problem. When they want to say no, they cock their heads back, which unfortunately looks an awful lot like a nod. So…no means yes, but yes means no?
Secondly: Feeling good. Thumbs up—that one seems to be allrighty-roo across most cultures. The one that isn’t: the ‘A-OK.’ As in your thumb and pointer finger connected in an “O.” Just found out here, that doesn’t mean ‘Allrighty,’ or ‘Sure,’ or even ‘No Problem’ as I had been using it…frequently. Looks like here it means (Janene: close your ears) ‘Asshole.’ Whoops. I’ve got an awful lot of apologies to make.

Manners: Japanese consider it rude to blow your nose in public. They are required to get up and leave the room instead of snucking gracefully in their seat. My Asian friends are absolutely horrified when old Bavarian men pull out their hankies at the dinner table. Guten Appetit!
Also entering in the manners category is Birthday wishes. It’s very bad luck in Germany to wish someone Happy Birthday early. Thank goodness! Now I can appear thoughtful when in reality I’ve simply forgotten!

Booze: Germans DO drink their beer cold. Gott sei Dank. (thankfully.)

Toilets: A bidet is a great device for washing feet post dance class. (Disclaimer: we aren’t really using it for its intended purpose, so it’s clean.)

Driving: “Fahren” is the German verb that means ‘to drive.’ Unfortunately, when it’s in its conjugated form, it usually becomes some form of ‘fahrt.’ “Gute fahrt”—enjoy your drive. “Probe fahrt”—test drive. “Ausfahrt”—exit ramp. As Germans are a little obsessed with driving, there is quite a lot of fahrting around here. Not to mention that anytime you ride, you also fahrt. You fahrt on a bike, on a bus. Heck, you even fahrt on a train. Well, we are in the land of wurst.

Meals: “Jause” (prounouced ‘yow-zeh’) is Austrian for Lunch. Go-go-gadget-sandwich! (Can’t imagine the majority of you are gonna get that reference.)

Tipping the scales: The word for ‘fat’ can be a couple of different things. One is ‘speck’ which also means ‘bacon.’ In other words: “Do these jeans make me look bacony?” Which, honestly, I think actually sounds appealing. I mean, after all, aren’t most things better when wrapped in bacon? The other word I’m a little embarrassed to say because it’s one of our slang words for the male anatomy. Every time I hear it, I giggle. How old am I…12?

Memories...

'Like the corners of my mind.
Misty, watercolored memories of where I puked all over the steps of a cathedral…'

Yep, there it is folks. The scene of the crime. Walk with me down memory lane here just for a sec. Picture it. 1990. I was 11. My family had taken a 3 week European Adventure (for further research see National Lampoon’s European Vacation with my father staring as “Sparky”) to go visit my aunt in Germany. Aunt Sue has lived here for going on 40 years, and of course she knows all the amazing places to see. So, knowing we are going to travel all around the country with seven people, my uncle Georg (Sue’s husband) had rented a Volkswagen Bus that we all could pile into. Unfortunately, this particular morning, little Heather drew the short straw and got delegated to the back of the bus. This was not good. Not good indeed. (I had a history for getting a teensy bit seasick, and in fact may have booted on the school bus during the less-than-two-mile trek to junior high one day, if that tells you anything.)

So we wind around God knows where on our way to Limburg to see this beautiful little town with it’s amazing cathedral. We get there, park, and I can tell I’m starting to feel a little funky. I decide it’s nothing and join the hike with my family through all the half-timbered houses all the way up to the cathedral, all the while trying to convince myself that I'm allright. There we are, staring at this ancient cathedral in all its wonder, when disaster strikes and I have to bolt over to one side and vomit. (I love that word.) Ah, instantly I felt better. That was until I raised my eyes to see the giant tour group of at least 30 people standing directly in front of me. Hope they got some good pics. Ah, memories.

It's Time for a Healthy Breakfast

(not Vegetarian friendy)

Ah, Sunday morning brunch. What comes to mind? Coffee. Quiche. Omelets. Fresh fruit. Perhaps a pastry--my personal favorite being the Apple Bear Claw- here called the Apfeltasche (apple bag.) How’s about anemic-looking gray sausage, a pretzel and beer to get the day going? Ummm. Yummy.

And there you have it, folks, the traditional Bavarian breakfast. Weiswurst with sweet mustard, a pretzel and beer. Does the body good. I know it may not sound (or really look) all that appetizing, but I have to say, like anything else, don’t knock in ‘til you try it. Surprisingly, it’s not bad, not bad at all.

There is a little history here behind this scrumptious meal that I thought you might wanna know, just incase you decide to throw this into your Easter brunch delicacies. Apparently, Weiswurst is always served in the morning. There’s an old saying here that this pale sausage should never hear the church bells chime noon. This alluding to the fact that these little beauties aren’t smoked like their other wurst cousins, which makes them a little volatile, not to mention white in color. (Actually they're a little speckled in green too due to parsley or perhaps grass.) In the old days before refrigeration (let’s all take a moment to be thankful for technology) the meat would spoil in the summer before nightfall, so thus—weiswurst fer breakfast! As for the addition of the giant pretzel, mustard and beer, not sure when that was added in, but it truly does make the meal complete. All four food groups are covered: you’ve got your grain, your sausage group, your booze, and…well, can we call mustard a fruit?

Now there are a few different ways of eating this guy. (And this is where I might lose a couple of you.) Tradition states the proper way is ‘zuzeln.’ Aka, sucking. You’re supposed to cut the top off of the casing and then suck the stuffing out. This actually is possible, but I have to say, this is the point where I take the road less traveled. I choose option number two which is to slice the thin casing down the side, peel it back a little, then roll out the sausage. I find this method a little easier and perhaps a little more lady-like. But, to each, their own. I believe there is some kind of third scenario that involves hacking the sausage into bits, but that ones a little hazy for me.

Anyway, should you decide to trade in your Krispy Cremes, now you have an equally healthy option! Guten Appetite!

Skiing in Grenoble

Bamberg

A few weekends ago we roped Kevin and Kristi (other ISEs) into checking out the medieval town of Bamberg, which is just about two hours away from us. The top pic is Kev and Tim tasting the local beer--which incidentally is smoked. Yeah, smoked beer. "Tastes like Liquid Beef Jerky." says Kev. I tried it. Pretty rough

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The second one is the old town hall that was built in the middle of the Regnitz River sometime in the 15th Century.

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That's me in the third with the beautiful St. Michael's in the backgroud.

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And yep, that's my husband crawling through a tomb there in the last one. Apparantly, local folklore claims that if you crawl through this hole in St. Otto's tomb, it's an instant cure for lumbago. So Tim and I should be free and clear of any back pain for a while. Thanks Otto!

Potty Humor

(not meant for the weak of heart.)

Harry’s editing the blog today. He’s snuggled-in on my lap nudging my right hand with his very cold, wet nose, making the backspace key a necessity. Can tell this is gonna be rather slow-going. Have to stop…every few words…to scratch his neck. Attention hog.

Hope all of you are having a wonderful Valentine’s Day. Oh! Harry just sat on the computer, ghiho;sfnfskgfiso;;. Yup, then walked on it. Perfect. Thank you, boy, that’s helpful. Speaking of Harry, had a rather comical day yesterday that I’m sure will enamor all of you, most of all, my dad. I’m off of school this week, so I indulged myself yesterday by sleeping in a little, which is probably one of my favorite things in the world, second only to French fries. (Err, right now, trying to see the computer screen by peering in between two black, furry ears. Umm..okay, now he’s chosen to lay on my left arm. Super.) Anyhoo, after a little breakfast and little Yoga I sat down to check some e-mails, surf the web a little and IM my friend Jackie, whom I believe to be the only American on Central European Time. Jackie’s a Medical Transcriptionist (at least that’s what I think she does) and works the graveyard shift, thus somehow we always seem to be on the computer at the same time. So, I’m having a wonderful conversation with her about her three daughters (whom I used to teach) and generally discussing life’s most important issues (i.e. do I have a hairdresser in Germany) when I notice Harry, yes the same cow-print loveable kitten draped across me currently, dragging his cute little furry behind all across the carpet in the dining room. Joy.

Since my dad has a weak stomach, I’ll spare you the details on what trailed behind him on my carpet or the fight that ensued as I cornered him to detach the dingleberry that was so insistent on clinging to his fur. Suffice it to say, this spawned a massive cleaning spree. Decided to trade in Madonna for the Grammy-winning, albeit druggy, Amy Winehouse. (Wonder if I would like her if she wasn’t so strung out. Kids: Don’t do drugs!) So cleaning away to rather loud music when the doorbell rings.

Now I was expecting the technician from Deutsche Telecom, as the Internet has been a big ole pain in the be-hind. So I see this technician-y looking dude and not wanting Harry to make a mad dash for the door (as he usually does), I immediately invite the guy in without question. This may have caught him a little off-guard that I shuffled him in so quickly before he could explain himself. Come to find out, he wasn’t from Deutsche Telecom at all, but was there to read the natural gas meter for the heaters. Oh. Whadaya know? Well I’m awful glad that he told me that pretty quickly there in my foyer, because think I had started to come across as a ‘Desperate Housewife’ which would have been compounded by the fact that one of the Internet outlets I was gonna show him was in our bedroom. Couldda been very embarrassing indeed. Instead, I led him down to the basement to show him where the utility room was. I get down the stairs and realize Harry also had tried the tushie-scoot here as well. Now that is exactly what you want the nice man from the heating company to step over on his way to the furnace.

The rest of the day remained relatively fecal-free. (Sorry Dad, I know that grossed you out.)Had a German lesson with the Caterpillar tutor, the DT technician did come and (finally!) fixed out Internet, thankfully without having to dodge anything. I made Ratatouille, which I loved, but Tim did not so much. Then we had family movie night (Sally and Harry joined us) and watched Ocean’s Thirteen.

Well, Harry left me just a few minutes ago, probably deciding that I moved too much for his naptime, but Sally sensed his departure and just jumped up here to duck and roll right next to my right leg. Ah, the joys of motherhood.

May you all have a wonderful Valentine’s Day...and watch your step!

Polar Opposites

I’ve decided I’m bipolar. (No comments from the peanut gallery here.) The battle with my two languages is pulling me in completely opposite directions, and giving me a Kopfschmerz (headache.) On the one side, I’m ever on a quest to try to expand my knowledge of the English language and how people use it in interesting and creative ways. On the other, in German, I’m just fighting for sheer survival. Thus, the pendulum is ever swinging.

Side One: English. I have long been fascinated with the bending, adapting and molding of our language to not only communicate, but to do so with style. For example-I just lost 10 minutes of the day trying to figure out (to no avail) where the phrase “on the fritz” came from. (Just so you know it’s not from WWII as many think, but was used as early as 1900s. Unfortunately, didn’t find any good info on what the heck it actually means.) I find that I’m definitely drawn to people that have great dominance with vocabulary and unusual sentence structure. We have a couple of friends who speak with such style. I could hang out with them all day just to see the world for a little while through their eyes. To me, it’s as fascinating as listening to someone with a beautiful accent.

On the other end of the spectrum: German. Trying to learn a new language from the ground up. I mean there is no attempt to be flowery or descriptive at this point. Just get the basic information across so that you can get food, shelter, maybe a Wheat beer if you’re lucky. In fact, the more desciptive and interesting they get with language, the less I understand! This bipolarity concept came to me as I was learning the Passive tense last week in class. (Think inactive verbs with no subject, like “The house was built” or “The apple cake was eaten …by Heather.”) I remember my English professors in college would absolutely tear us to shreds when we wrote in the passive tense. After all, there is usually a more creative way to paint what you're trying to say using an active verb instead. But here, I am spending hours learning this specific grammatical structure and damn proud of myself, I have to say, when I do it well!

Speaking of German grammatical structure, I am absolutely entertained (okay, occastionally frustrated) by the formation of some sentences. Without getting into too much detail, often times the active verb of the sentence gets tacked on the end. So you may not any idea where the sentence until about three minutes down the line after many many twists and turns is going have. Or perhaps, need I German flashcards after blogging and piddling away most of my day on silly things have you lost the focus yet of this sentence to make. Also must I my mother soon to call. (I have got to talk to Claudia soon to compare notes on what was crazy for her to learn as she conquered English.)

That's enough Language Training for the day. Enjoy the rest of your weekend!!!

"Shin Bone Pain!!!"

Quote by Adam Ruebsam on Day Two of one of our many Mizzou ski trips. He spoke such wisdom, such truth. Not to be confused with the first day. No, the first day, this does not apply for there really is no pain as of yet. The first day skiing you slip right on into those ski boots without much problem. Buckle those things on up, make sure you can wiggle the toes. Good to go for a whole day of skiing. Take ‘em off that night, do a little soaking in the hot tub, feeling pretty good. But, you know even then what’s lurking right around the corner: Day Two Torture.

That second day as you awaken, you notice immediately that your thigh muscles feel like they’re gonna rip off the bone and your calves are so tight you have to walk on your toes. Yet somehow, you hobble over to the ski boots. There they are, looking like a Chinese torture device. Doom is right around the corner. But, alas, you know you have to do it anyway. You pick whichever leg you feel may be slightly less bruised than the other and slip in your foot. Instantly—wham—Shin Bone PAAAIIN!!!

Ah, the joys of skiing. Speaking of which, we spent this past weekend skiing in the Austrian Alps with Heidi and Maarten. And even though we’ve been home for a few days, not to mention took it quite easy, my shins are still a little bruised! Oh well, minor war wounds did not get in the way of a wonderful weekend. Maarten found us a ski-in/ski-out hotel in Kuhtai (means cow-something, but can’t seem to figure out what ‘tai’ means in German. Hope it’s not ‘chip’ or ‘patty’) just about 3 hours away from here. Yep, three hours away from skiing in the Alps—I love it here!!!!

Heidi and Maarten totally get how to vacation, as do most Europeans. We actually came back feeling rested and rejuvenated, not to mention well fed. I mean for starters, Heidi had brought along survival goodies for the car—complete with homemade carrot cake. (Swear she is the Dutch Martha Stewart.) So, instead of killing ourselves and attempting to conquer the entire mountain before lunch, we chilled out quite a bit and found ways to pamper ourselves, even on the slopes. We’d ski for a few hours, then stop and have coffee. Ski a little more—lunch break. Get back out there to work up towards another coffee break, then just have time for a few more runs before Apres Ski (a drink at the bar.) I heart Europeans. Not to mention that the hotel had four course dinners at night. Pretty sure calories in were far greater than calories burned. Whoops. Better luck next time.

We got back Sunday just in time to intercept Claire Happel from the train station. Think I’ve mentioned before, but Claire is a little sister of a good friend of mine, Katie, from both high school and college. She's been studying Harp in Prague for the last few months and had an audition Sunday in Munich. I talked her into hanging out with me for a few days afterwards. Now I have truly loved hanging out with all the Happel girls, and Claire is no exception. There just seemed like there was so much to catch up on with our Quincy roots as well as our quest for trying to acclimate into a new culture. But her visit was short, and I had to return her home yesterday. So, talked Heidi into going with me for a quick day trip into Prague. All in all, skiing in Austria, coffee in Prague--a good weekend, I'd say.

All Quiet on the Western, errr Eastern, Front

Hello cnn.com. Hi there, hotmail and even facebook. Oh Vonage phone, how I’ve missed you! After a very frustrating small scale war with our Internet (it’s been giving us the silent treatment for the last two weeks,) we’re back online. Had a very interesting (and seemingly lucrative) conversation Monday with Tcom, and think we’ve (read: they’ve) got the problem solved. Have no idea what said problem was, as my conversation with dear Helga the Internet Technician was mostly in German. But seeing as it’s working now, not gonna stop to ask any questions. What’s that saying about looking a gift horse in the mouth? Anyway, I’ve truly missed blogging and pretending like I’m having a conversation with all of you. (Even if it is rather one-sided.)

Rough Start

Was really planning to establish a great routine today. New Year. Good time to reinvent yourself. Good idea...right? Nope. Not gonna happen. For starters, got sidetracked last night and didn't even get into bed until almost one. So much for a good nite's rest. Sleep went as follows.

Hmm, 1am, not sleepy so much. Allrighty, let's try a book. (Time lapse: 20 min.) Okay-eyes are feeling a little droopy, let's close them. Flip off the light. Immediately, eyes wide awake. It's ok Heather, just focus on your breath for a while. In. Out. In. Out. (few minutes pass.) Humph, not working. Sheep--yeah sheep. Count 'Em. 1, 2, 3...87. Wow, that's really stupid. Onto something else--daydream of something--what about dance (which at this point brings on a little heartache.) Okay--subject change. What about counting your blessings? Okay. Good. Number One: my family--Oh, my family. I miss my family. Okay--cannot feel my arm. Is it there? Yep. Found it. Oh no, it's asleep...here it comes...here comes the pain. Pins and needles, pins and needles! (good two minutes of silent agony here.) Maybe if I just flip over--nope, can't move that way. Harry (the cat)--must you lay horizontally on the bed? (adjust, adjust.) Maybe if I shimmy over this way...nope, Tim--wow--you are an inferno right now. (finagle around to get leg outside the covers.)

I remember seeing the clock almost every half hour amidst my tosses and turns until I had wound myself so tightly into a cocoon that I had to peel myself out like an onion. Finally got up and went to the guest bed where there was no Tim and no Harry. Think I had just shut my eyes when the alarm went off. "Heather. Heather...where are you." So in comes Tim to lay down with me for a sec before he hops in the shower. Silence. Then breathing. zzzzzzzz. Both of us totally pass out. Didn't even feel Harry jump into bed with us and assume his position.

So as we were in the other bedroom, slept right on through the snooze button. Got up an hour late. How's that for routine?

Change in Tempo

Before we left the states another Cat wife said to me that she didn’t think Tim and I would ever settle down. Settle down—what does this mean? For some reason, I think about this statement all the time. I can’t decide if it bothered me-that she was telling me to act my age, or if it was a good thing-that perhaps Tim and I were out living our lives to the fullest. Or maybe (and this is most likely) it was just one of those statements that force you to look at your life big picture instead of being stuck in the day-to-day. Regardless, I think she was pretty accurate.

When I think about our life in Peoria, it’s pretty obvious that we never really put down roots. We never bought a house—always choosing to rent. We left town nearly every weekend to travel or to see friends and family. A lot of our friends were having babies— we had cats. I was usually up way too late, sleeping in (we all know what time of the day I like to awaken), and usually eating something quick like Jimmy John’s (oh, yum—sorry got distracted.) I was still living in that limbo world between college and becoming a real person.

Well, things have changed. My personal tempo has come to a screeching halt. I noticed it today on this lazy Sunday. My big accomplishments today include, sleeping in, making some breakfast, glancing at some cartoons, and writing a little. On any given Sunday at home, we’d normally be driving home from God knows where, probably more tired than we were before the weekend, all the while choreographing in the car. (Um, I was choreographing, not Tim.) Just seems so comical to me that I had to move to Germany in order to slow down.

On the downside, it’s not just my tempo that’s had an upheaval. A lot of the things that defined me are no longer there to fall back on, which is something I’m still struggling with. Dance, theatre, teaching, even Yoga are kinda on hold right now. In fact, the image of treading water comes to mind. (Think they are all here somewhere, but this damn language thing gets in the way.) BUT…on the upswing, I think I may be becoming a normal person. I’m actually home at night to cook dinner with my husband. I get to read and write, not to mention explore this amazing city, and spend whole afternoons on Coffee and Kuchen with Laura and Heidi. I think I’m taking a lot more time to live each day, which is such a gift.

So, I sat down to read the paper today, which is what inspired this whole tangent. This is something that I haven’t ever done before. First of all, we didn’t even get the paper in Peoria, which further disconnected us from that community, and even if we did, we weren’t ever home to read it. In fact, I don’t really know how to “read” a paper. Do you just kinda skim through looking for words that interest you? Are you required to read each headline? “Sports section—pass, Politics—just a glance. Where are the comics?” Plus the thing is a completely awkward size and shape that you have to fold all over the place to make it accessible. And what’s with the black crap that gets all over your hands?

Anyway, the point is, I would never have made time to read the paper at home. And even though it was in German and I understood about, oh, about 20 percent of it, I felt connected to the people around me. Maybe I’ll like this slower tempo. Maybe it’s just more of a tango instead of a salsa. (Ummm…salsa.)