The final number of Max’s coworkers their families… 50
Number of hours in the kitchen preparing food for the event…9
Flies in the house after the event...13
Tent, Table, Chairs, Plates, Glasses, Flatware, and Drinks… €350
Meats, Side Dishes, Salad, Breads, Desert… €350
Decorations, candles, flowers, and party favors for the children… €100
Max’s reaction to the praise and accolades from party attendees €1000000
Max promising that we never have to do another big party again…PRICELESS
Thank you to everyone for your tips on food and music for the big event on Saturday. I implemented many of your suggestions and am happy to report things went off without a hitch. The guests seemed to have a great time, with the last of them leaving at midnight. However, the best part was my husband felt happy and satisfied, even though we were still breaking down tables and washing dishes until the wee hours of the morning.
I.am.so.tired.
PS. I lost the SD card to my digital camera and I don’t have pictures from the party. Boo!
Showing posts with label life as an expat. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life as an expat. Show all posts
Monday, June 23, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
One more thing...
Max and I are still working out the details for our barbecue party. I am happy to report things are starting to come together. But I wanted to ask you for one more favor. I would like your suggestions for music. Max and I have already culled together some Caribbean music--mostly upbeat, classic reggae. But I also want to play other summer favorites from all sorts of genres and generations gone by.
So close your eyes and think SUMMER. Then, tell me what music you hear.
Again, all suggestions are greatly appreciated. I only wish you could be here to party with us.
So close your eyes and think SUMMER. Then, tell me what music you hear.
Again, all suggestions are greatly appreciated. I only wish you could be here to party with us.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Let's party--NOT!
Back home, Max and I kept quite the social calendar. Extraverts at the core, we hardly let a week pass without throwing some sort of shindig. Many times, these casual gatherings of close friends happened spontaneously and usually ended up with people crashing at our house. Other times, Max and I planned larger, more formal, extravaganzas.
None of this seemed like work despite the fact that we’d spend many hours preparing in the kitchen. We loved entertaining and felt adept at it. After all, I spent my formative years at my parents’ restaurant and knew how to cook for large groups. Max is naturally attentive and good at making sure people are comfortable. Together, we were like the Mark and Martha Stewart of our friends. But it also helped that we knew our guests well, understood their culinary tastes, and had the phone numbers for caterers on hand if we needed a little assistance.
Since living in Germany, however, we’ve only hosted a few smaller dinners of 10 people or less. During these events, I’ve stuck to the basics—spaghetti dinners or Greek lasagna—meals I’ve prepared a hundred times before, with ingredients I was able to easily locate in the grocery store despite my limited knowledge of German.
But when Max recently came home and said he wanted to invite his entire division over for a party, I tried to talk him out of it.
“Let’s just continue to have small groups over for spaghetti,” I said. “It’s easier this way.”
But Max wanted to do something “special.” Our house boasts a large, enclosed courtyard, which could easily accommodate his coworkers and their families. My husband had visions of hosting an American-style barbeque with all the fixings sometime during the month of June. Before I knew it, invitations went out. The event was etched in stone—quite possibly my tombstone.
Now we have 50 people (30 adults and 20 kids) coming over this Sunday at 5pm. Even though I’ve hosted scores of affairs, I’m freaking over this one. Having only spent six months in this country, I feel completely out of my comfort zone.
With the help of someone who speaks the language fluently, I’ve made arrangements for a tent, tables, chairs, beer taps, wine, and soft drinks to be delivered the morning of the party. Sometime this week, armed with a German-English dictionary, I’ll visit the local butcher for recommendations on cuts and types of meat. Friday night, I certainly won’t be salsa dancing. Instead, I’ll be at the local Globus looking for side dishes, dessert, and condiments.
It may sound like I’ve got things well in hand, but I still have many questions. So, I am turning to those of you who’ve been doing this expat thing a little longer for guidance. HELP!
1. What do you recommend as good grill food, both meats and side dishes? We’re hosting an international group of people and children, so I want to appeal to a broad range of tastes.
2. Can I go to the deli section of a large grocery and pre-order sides like potato salad or kraut? I’ll make a few dishes myself. However, given the large number of people, it would be nice be able to buy a few ready-made items.
3. What about bread? Will a corner bakery accept orders ahead, or should I just go in that morning and clean them out?
Any thoughts, tips, important vocabulary, or encouragement would be greatly appreciated and might even prevent my untimely departure. That's right--my life (and sanity) is in your hands!
None of this seemed like work despite the fact that we’d spend many hours preparing in the kitchen. We loved entertaining and felt adept at it. After all, I spent my formative years at my parents’ restaurant and knew how to cook for large groups. Max is naturally attentive and good at making sure people are comfortable. Together, we were like the Mark and Martha Stewart of our friends. But it also helped that we knew our guests well, understood their culinary tastes, and had the phone numbers for caterers on hand if we needed a little assistance.
Since living in Germany, however, we’ve only hosted a few smaller dinners of 10 people or less. During these events, I’ve stuck to the basics—spaghetti dinners or Greek lasagna—meals I’ve prepared a hundred times before, with ingredients I was able to easily locate in the grocery store despite my limited knowledge of German.
But when Max recently came home and said he wanted to invite his entire division over for a party, I tried to talk him out of it.
“Let’s just continue to have small groups over for spaghetti,” I said. “It’s easier this way.”
But Max wanted to do something “special.” Our house boasts a large, enclosed courtyard, which could easily accommodate his coworkers and their families. My husband had visions of hosting an American-style barbeque with all the fixings sometime during the month of June. Before I knew it, invitations went out. The event was etched in stone—quite possibly my tombstone.
Now we have 50 people (30 adults and 20 kids) coming over this Sunday at 5pm. Even though I’ve hosted scores of affairs, I’m freaking over this one. Having only spent six months in this country, I feel completely out of my comfort zone.
With the help of someone who speaks the language fluently, I’ve made arrangements for a tent, tables, chairs, beer taps, wine, and soft drinks to be delivered the morning of the party. Sometime this week, armed with a German-English dictionary, I’ll visit the local butcher for recommendations on cuts and types of meat. Friday night, I certainly won’t be salsa dancing. Instead, I’ll be at the local Globus looking for side dishes, dessert, and condiments.
It may sound like I’ve got things well in hand, but I still have many questions. So, I am turning to those of you who’ve been doing this expat thing a little longer for guidance. HELP!
1. What do you recommend as good grill food, both meats and side dishes? We’re hosting an international group of people and children, so I want to appeal to a broad range of tastes.
2. Can I go to the deli section of a large grocery and pre-order sides like potato salad or kraut? I’ll make a few dishes myself. However, given the large number of people, it would be nice be able to buy a few ready-made items.
3. What about bread? Will a corner bakery accept orders ahead, or should I just go in that morning and clean them out?
Any thoughts, tips, important vocabulary, or encouragement would be greatly appreciated and might even prevent my untimely departure. That's right--my life (and sanity) is in your hands!
Monday, June 16, 2008
Good for Nothing
For all of my earlier bellyaching and angst about becoming a “trailing spouse,” I can honestly say I have settled nicely into my role as stay-at-home hausfrau and lady of leisure--much to the surprise of those who knew me in my previous life. When friends, family, and former colleagues back in the States quiz me on how I am fairing without a career to keep me busy and fulfilled, I can only offer a positive report.
“After 24 years of working,” I say pointedly, “I am happy for this break.”
The truth is, 99.9 % of the time, I am relaxed and blissful, waking up every morning with the feeling of being on a fantastic adventure. After all, I live in *Europe* now. If this fact alone didn’t put the kick in my knickers, I’ve also come to appreciate this time of my life is completely mine--to do or be whatever I want--without the stress, structure, and pressure that comes from longtime entanglements and relationships. And although I may not use this time toward any great or meaningful endeavors, I do spend it leisurely pursuing the hobbies, which I’ve always loved, but never really had the time to cultivate. Add to this a great man sharing easy times, and my life is a good and satisfying.
But then come evenings like this past Saturday and an invitation to dinner with some of Max’s colleagues.
Oh, they are pleasant and interesting people—a multinational group, a highly educated lot of chemists—usually husband and wife teams, who boast degrees from Oxford, MIT, and Harvard. They casually sip their aperitifs (in only the appropriate glass) and spend the evening discussing, in multiple languages, the sad state of polymer research, as well as the lack of good, organic chemists within the company.
And if this weren’t enough to send me flailing through the nearest window, the idle chitchat inevitably turned to me.
“And what do you do Diane?”
In similar situations, I’ve tried all sorts of cute and clever lines. I’ve described myself as “retired” or “gainfully unemployed.” Sometimes, to prove to my audience I was once a woman of substance, I talk about my former career or some of the interesting jobs I held before moving to Germany.
This time, however, I didn’t feel like doing the verbal tap dance. I realized these folks weren't asking for an explanation of my lifestyle choices, and that maybe in these moments the only one I was really trying to convince was myself.
“Absolutely nothing,” I chirped. “And I am rather enjoying it.”
A few raised eyebrows, others smiled. Ultimately, the group went back to a previous conversation, laughing about black polymers, which I could only gather were not part of some bad 80s fashion craze. The crowd reaction was fine by me. Instead of feeling less or insecure, I listened and smiled politely, sipped a nice glass of wine, sat back and finally relaxed.
“After 24 years of working,” I say pointedly, “I am happy for this break.”
The truth is, 99.9 % of the time, I am relaxed and blissful, waking up every morning with the feeling of being on a fantastic adventure. After all, I live in *Europe* now. If this fact alone didn’t put the kick in my knickers, I’ve also come to appreciate this time of my life is completely mine--to do or be whatever I want--without the stress, structure, and pressure that comes from longtime entanglements and relationships. And although I may not use this time toward any great or meaningful endeavors, I do spend it leisurely pursuing the hobbies, which I’ve always loved, but never really had the time to cultivate. Add to this a great man sharing easy times, and my life is a good and satisfying.
But then come evenings like this past Saturday and an invitation to dinner with some of Max’s colleagues.
Oh, they are pleasant and interesting people—a multinational group, a highly educated lot of chemists—usually husband and wife teams, who boast degrees from Oxford, MIT, and Harvard. They casually sip their aperitifs (in only the appropriate glass) and spend the evening discussing, in multiple languages, the sad state of polymer research, as well as the lack of good, organic chemists within the company.
And if this weren’t enough to send me flailing through the nearest window, the idle chitchat inevitably turned to me.
“And what do you do Diane?”
In similar situations, I’ve tried all sorts of cute and clever lines. I’ve described myself as “retired” or “gainfully unemployed.” Sometimes, to prove to my audience I was once a woman of substance, I talk about my former career or some of the interesting jobs I held before moving to Germany.
This time, however, I didn’t feel like doing the verbal tap dance. I realized these folks weren't asking for an explanation of my lifestyle choices, and that maybe in these moments the only one I was really trying to convince was myself.
“Absolutely nothing,” I chirped. “And I am rather enjoying it.”
A few raised eyebrows, others smiled. Ultimately, the group went back to a previous conversation, laughing about black polymers, which I could only gather were not part of some bad 80s fashion craze. The crowd reaction was fine by me. Instead of feeling less or insecure, I listened and smiled politely, sipped a nice glass of wine, sat back and finally relaxed.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Not to be indelicate…
Open my personal daytimer to any month and you will find a certain week, flagged as particular, personally marked with hand-written stars. If you are a woman reading this post, I don’t have to tell you why one week out of every month is significant. You already know and may even have devised a similar system for keeping track of your constant companion, the curse of Lilith.
After last month’s miscarriage, I wasn’t sure when I’d be able to start penciling in my period once again. For some women, menstruation returns within 28 days--as if nothing ever happened their bodies. For others, it takes longer and serves as a painful reminder of what could have been.
For obvious reasons and because Dr. Sych advised me to wait at least three, full, cycles before trying to conceive, I was hoping to fall in the lucky, first class of women. After all, I’m now 40.5-years old. My biological, and most definitely analog, clock continues to tick down. Every month is precious and should not to be wasted.
So, needless to say, I was relieved when I pulled out the old, pencil sharpener right on schedule. This means we only have to wait two more months before trying to get pregnant again. But until that day comes, Max and I have had to concern ourselves with something we haven’t had to worry about for a long time—that is, NOT getting pregnant.
Yes, I'm taking safe, not necessarily the most free and spontaneous, sex, people.
Given our circumstances, birth control pills and abstinence weren’t good options, leaving Max and I, unfortunate, unprepared, and rushing off to the nearest gas station at 10 o’clock one night. Wouldn't you know--while my night stand contained a daytimer, pencil, and sharpener, it didn't offer any condoms.
We felt like teenagers again, trying to act casual as we made our way to the prophylactic rack. The only problem is it is impossible to appear nonchalant when looking at rubbers packaged in a language you don’t understand.
Far from prudish, even I became uncomfortable after standing in front of the display for new fewer than 20 minutes as we tried to make decision. It didn’t help the clerk kept glancing over in our direction.
“Oh, just grab anything.” I finally said exasperated.
Unfortunately, Max and I couldn’t really blame our language teacher for the ignorance we showed. When we got home, I checked my German textbook for the all-important “Condoms: Ribbed or Flavored?” chapter. It isn’t there.
The experience sort of killed my mood that evening, but at least we were stocked for the long haul. Oh, trust me--for a host of reasons, two months feels like the long, but well protected, haul.
After last month’s miscarriage, I wasn’t sure when I’d be able to start penciling in my period once again. For some women, menstruation returns within 28 days--as if nothing ever happened their bodies. For others, it takes longer and serves as a painful reminder of what could have been.
For obvious reasons and because Dr. Sych advised me to wait at least three, full, cycles before trying to conceive, I was hoping to fall in the lucky, first class of women. After all, I’m now 40.5-years old. My biological, and most definitely analog, clock continues to tick down. Every month is precious and should not to be wasted.
So, needless to say, I was relieved when I pulled out the old, pencil sharpener right on schedule. This means we only have to wait two more months before trying to get pregnant again. But until that day comes, Max and I have had to concern ourselves with something we haven’t had to worry about for a long time—that is, NOT getting pregnant.
Yes, I'm taking safe, not necessarily the most free and spontaneous, sex, people.
Given our circumstances, birth control pills and abstinence weren’t good options, leaving Max and I, unfortunate, unprepared, and rushing off to the nearest gas station at 10 o’clock one night. Wouldn't you know--while my night stand contained a daytimer, pencil, and sharpener, it didn't offer any condoms.We felt like teenagers again, trying to act casual as we made our way to the prophylactic rack. The only problem is it is impossible to appear nonchalant when looking at rubbers packaged in a language you don’t understand.
Far from prudish, even I became uncomfortable after standing in front of the display for new fewer than 20 minutes as we tried to make decision. It didn’t help the clerk kept glancing over in our direction.
“Oh, just grab anything.” I finally said exasperated.
Unfortunately, Max and I couldn’t really blame our language teacher for the ignorance we showed. When we got home, I checked my German textbook for the all-important “Condoms: Ribbed or Flavored?” chapter. It isn’t there.
The experience sort of killed my mood that evening, but at least we were stocked for the long haul. Oh, trust me--for a host of reasons, two months feels like the long, but well protected, haul.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
No, she didn't!
I am posting this photo (see the background story in the previous entry) because Meno said "please" and I'd hate to think what she'd do if I didn't keep my word.
It's my really terrible, albeit official, German photo. It's on every government document I have.
If you think you can stomach it, click here.
It's my really terrible, albeit official, German photo. It's on every government document I have.
If you think you can stomach it, click here.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
6 Random Facts (The German Version)
The divine Danie tagged me all the way from India. She’s asked that I do a random facts meme with a German twist. So, here it goes.
Random Fact #1
Most people hate to look at themselves in photographs, but I feel just the opposite way. For some reason, I photograph well and usually look better on film than in person (especially now with digital, I can instantly delete a disappointing photograph of myself rather than having to wait for it to come back from the processing lab, already developed, before destroying it.).
But on my second day in Germany, I had the *the worst* photograph taken of me. I was jet lagged, without a functioning, 230V blow dryer, and swollen from all the peanuts and pretzels I had inhaled from the plane ride over. I would have preferred to wait a few days before having my photograph snapped, but NOOOOOO---I was required to register with the government on the first, working day after arriving and my truly horrible photograph (which had to meet strict requirements) would become part of every day life in Germany. It’s on my residency visa, my driver’s license, and every any official document I have acquired since coming to this country.
Have I mentioned it’s a really, really bad photograph? Sometimes the guys at Frankfurt International Airport’s passport control do a double take and smirk when they see it.
But just to show you I’m not as vain as you and I think, I’m willing to post it. But first, you'll have to ask really nicely and promise not to laugh. This, however, might be asking too much.
Random Fact #2
I am really starting to love it here in the Rheinland Pfalz. Everywhere I look I am surrounded by beauty—the rolling hills, the vineyards, the flowers, the cobblestone, the vineyards, the beautiful old churches, the vineyards (yes, it’s worth repeating). I like it so much that I can actually picture myself living here longer than the four years Max’s company has stipulated. But please, don’t tell my mother, ok?
Random Fact #3
Despite a promise to myself, I have yet to unpack my bicycle--the very same one Max put together for me--and take it for a whirl around town. Germany offers many wonderful bike paths. I could literally peddle from my house, through a couple lovely vineyards, all the way to the center of town without the bike tires ever hitting the streets. With gas prices hovering close to $8.50 a gallon here, I should be using my bike more often. I am ashamed to admit I don’t.
Random Fact #4
Speaking of gas prices… When Max and I arrived back in December, it cost 64 euros to fill up our Mini Cooper (about $100 in the U.S.) at the pump. Last night, we spent over 84 euros ($132) to fill up the tank, and prices are predicted to go even high in the coming months.
Random Fact #5
I love love love the taste and consistency of the yogurt here in Germany. Some days I start and end my day with yogurt, having it for both breakfast and dessert. And I wonder why I have put on the pounds!
Random Fact #6
I think German people, as a whole, are among the most misunderstood group. Before I came here, I was warned about all the usual stereotypes you hear about. But in my experience, none of this has held true. We have been so warmly welcomed by the local community! I have also discovered this is a country where the people find any reason to celebrate. And as proof, here in German you can find a well-attended, town or city festival on any given weekend. I think it's pretty terrific, really.
So that's my list. Now it's your turn. I'm tagging the following folks.
An American in Norway
Blogging Mama
Lynda in Lulusbay
Jeweled Concrete
Just a Trumpet Player
Random Fact #1
Most people hate to look at themselves in photographs, but I feel just the opposite way. For some reason, I photograph well and usually look better on film than in person (especially now with digital, I can instantly delete a disappointing photograph of myself rather than having to wait for it to come back from the processing lab, already developed, before destroying it.).
But on my second day in Germany, I had the *the worst* photograph taken of me. I was jet lagged, without a functioning, 230V blow dryer, and swollen from all the peanuts and pretzels I had inhaled from the plane ride over. I would have preferred to wait a few days before having my photograph snapped, but NOOOOOO---I was required to register with the government on the first, working day after arriving and my truly horrible photograph (which had to meet strict requirements) would become part of every day life in Germany. It’s on my residency visa, my driver’s license, and every any official document I have acquired since coming to this country.
Have I mentioned it’s a really, really bad photograph? Sometimes the guys at Frankfurt International Airport’s passport control do a double take and smirk when they see it.
But just to show you I’m not as vain as you and I think, I’m willing to post it. But first, you'll have to ask really nicely and promise not to laugh. This, however, might be asking too much.
Random Fact #2
I am really starting to love it here in the Rheinland Pfalz. Everywhere I look I am surrounded by beauty—the rolling hills, the vineyards, the flowers, the cobblestone, the vineyards, the beautiful old churches, the vineyards (yes, it’s worth repeating). I like it so much that I can actually picture myself living here longer than the four years Max’s company has stipulated. But please, don’t tell my mother, ok?
Random Fact #3
Despite a promise to myself, I have yet to unpack my bicycle--the very same one Max put together for me--and take it for a whirl around town. Germany offers many wonderful bike paths. I could literally peddle from my house, through a couple lovely vineyards, all the way to the center of town without the bike tires ever hitting the streets. With gas prices hovering close to $8.50 a gallon here, I should be using my bike more often. I am ashamed to admit I don’t.
Random Fact #4
Speaking of gas prices… When Max and I arrived back in December, it cost 64 euros to fill up our Mini Cooper (about $100 in the U.S.) at the pump. Last night, we spent over 84 euros ($132) to fill up the tank, and prices are predicted to go even high in the coming months.
Random Fact #5
I love love love the taste and consistency of the yogurt here in Germany. Some days I start and end my day with yogurt, having it for both breakfast and dessert. And I wonder why I have put on the pounds!
Random Fact #6
I think German people, as a whole, are among the most misunderstood group. Before I came here, I was warned about all the usual stereotypes you hear about. But in my experience, none of this has held true. We have been so warmly welcomed by the local community! I have also discovered this is a country where the people find any reason to celebrate. And as proof, here in German you can find a well-attended, town or city festival on any given weekend. I think it's pretty terrific, really.
So that's my list. Now it's your turn. I'm tagging the following folks.
An American in Norway
Blogging Mama
Lynda in Lulusbay
Jeweled Concrete
Just a Trumpet Player
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Lady of leisure
I’ve abandoned the designation ‘hausfrau’ in favor of a new term—lady of leisure. Not only does ‘lady of leisure' offer a nicer tonal quality, but it also more appropriately describes my daily routine and general outlook in this new and charmed life.Yes, it true. I’m a bit of a princess—a nice, easy-to-please princess, but one nonetheless.
(I suspect you already knew this somehow.)
Maybe if I had a kid or two strapped to my hip, the term ‘hausfrau’ would apply. In this case, I’d have daily obligations, real work to do. But as it stands, because Max is so easy going and makes no demands on my time, I spend my days doing whatever it is that pleases me. If I desire a clean house, then I make a clean house. But if I’d rather have the dust bunnies grazing on the floor and a few loads of laundry piling up in the corner, so be it.
Back in the States, I woke up to an alarm clock, caught 15 minutes of Matt Lauer, before I rushed to the office. Today I wake up to sunshine and dawdle for a hours before I decide how I want to spend the remainder of my day. It’s like I’m living in some delightful, parallel universe. For me, there are only a couple of downsides to the life of a lady of leisure. One, you have already heard about—my expanding and softer waistline. The other issue I have only just realized after our recent weekend in the Alsace region of France.I’ve lost the “wow factor”--the easy excitability that comes when you travel to new places and discover new things.
What I mean to say is the wine producing region of of France and the towns and cities that we visited are charming. But when Max asked me how I liked the area, I could only muster an “it’s nice.”
It’s nice?!?
For most, Strasbourg and the surrounding area would be better than “nice.” It’s a quaint, lovely, even beautiful area. Yet somehow--maybe because as a lady of leisure I live in ‘quaint and lovely’ and also frequently travel to ‘quaint and lovely’--I’ve become desensitized.
In other words, I’ve lost the “wow factor.”
And this makes me a little sad.This weekend, we travel to Rome. The next week, it’s off to Athens. A trip to Prague follows soon after. And while I am looking forward to the excursions, I hardly feel excited.
What’s wrong with me?
Thursday, May 08, 2008
There’s always a 'but'…
My house, like most in the Pfalz, has exactly two sources for cooling when the temperature rises—screen-less doors and windows. With all the Vitamin D I’ve been soaking up as the sun glows, I forgot the one downside of airing out and cooling down on a breezy day. Bees. They terrify me. And yesterday, I had three of *three * swarming around.
I feel ashamed to admit this (especially with other expatriates, like Danie, who wrote about her viper and cobra-invested yard in India), but I almost passed out when I saw the bees. In fact, I probably wouldn’t have remained conscious if it hadn’t been for my language teacher, who took pity on me and saved the day by bringing over a fly swatter and a can of Raid Wespen Spray. Even as I type these words, I keep these within arms reach as I also look warily around for any trace of the evil creatures.
It’s bad, people. I am not one to commune with nature, especially when were talking about the buzzing, stinging, and swarming variety.
So I ask you: How am I going to get through the summer? My usually wise teacher said I’ll just have to get use to living with bees and wasp just like the average German, but this seems a tad harsh. I’ve had this fear (not an allergy) since I was a child. How am I suppose to just get over it?
My only other option is to suffocate, keeping the doors and windows tightly shut though June, July, and August. Or, maybe my landlord would let me put a few screens over the windows?
Are or were you every afraid of something? How did you get over it? Are there any expats out there in the same boat??
I feel ashamed to admit this (especially with other expatriates, like Danie, who wrote about her viper and cobra-invested yard in India), but I almost passed out when I saw the bees. In fact, I probably wouldn’t have remained conscious if it hadn’t been for my language teacher, who took pity on me and saved the day by bringing over a fly swatter and a can of Raid Wespen Spray. Even as I type these words, I keep these within arms reach as I also look warily around for any trace of the evil creatures.It’s bad, people. I am not one to commune with nature, especially when were talking about the buzzing, stinging, and swarming variety.
So I ask you: How am I going to get through the summer? My usually wise teacher said I’ll just have to get use to living with bees and wasp just like the average German, but this seems a tad harsh. I’ve had this fear (not an allergy) since I was a child. How am I suppose to just get over it?
My only other option is to suffocate, keeping the doors and windows tightly shut though June, July, and August. Or, maybe my landlord would let me put a few screens over the windows?
Are or were you every afraid of something? How did you get over it? Are there any expats out there in the same boat??
Thursday, April 10, 2008
I'm one of the club
Way back when, during the period in my life when I proudly wore clogs, thought The Knack were the next Beetles, and engrossed myself in the study of Valley girl speak, my academic self suffered for the sake of my social life.
Even though I carried a B-minus average and landed only in the top 25 percent of my class--well below many of my friends--there was one area in which I excelled: senior stats. This was the cumulative record of one's participation in groups, clubs, and teams, as well as honors racked up during four years of high school. Each senior’s record would be documented for all of perpetuity in the yearbook, compared and counted by the number of lines it took to complete. My senior stats--a whopping 13 lines-- earned notoriety for being longer than any of my 365 classmates.
The sheer number of clubs and organizations that I joined was staggering. Hardly a day passed when I didn’t have to ride activity bus home from school because an after-hours engagement kept me late. The most social of social butterflies, I enjoyed being part of a group and drew comfort in the structure it provided.
But once school ended and I got on with the business of life, my interest in clubs diminished. Joining the gym and signing up for a dance class was the closest I came to being in a formal group. When Max and I moved to Germany and became aware of an English-speaking club hosted by the company, we both sort of scoffed. We hadn’t come to a different country to socialize with other Americans, we haughtily thought. We came to live among the natives.
So it came as a bit of a shock when Max called me yesterday with a request. He wanted me to go to the meeting of English-speaking expats that very evening at 7:30p sharp.
“Call Brian’s wife for all the details. Here’s her number,” Max ordered.
“But why? I don’t want to go to a meeting,” I replied.
“Diane, you’ve become a bit of a hermit since we’ve moved,” he said. “I want you to get out and socialize more. You need this. Won’t you do this for me?”
I hemmed and hawed most of the day, but finally decided to give Max what he wanted. I attended my first meeting of expat spouses.
I wasn’t sure what to expect. The gathering consisted mostly of Brits and Americans, but also women from all over the world. Most were older, some were younger—but all shared the common experience of life as an expat spouse, whether this had been for 4 months or 14 years.
The meeting was well attended. Tanya, the club’s president, had announced this would be her last with the group. Her husband accepted a transfer, yet again, this time to Australia, and members had come out of the woodwork to wish her a bon voyage. As it turns out, this was also Joan’s last meeting.
“So much for that four-year contract,” she said as everyone else laughed knowingly.
Her husband was taking an assignment in Shanghai even though they’d just bought a house and had only been in Germany one year. Joan passed out fliers of her home in case any of us knew of another family being transferred in to the area that might be interested in renting.
I was beginning to wonder if, by becoming expatriates, Max and I hadn’t inadvertently jumped on one seemingly endless train with many stops. Most of the woman in the group had already lived in more than one country and were biding their time, waiting to hear where the next stop would take them. The transient nature and resulting dynamic of this club was all apparent. No one expected to put down any lasting roots in Germany. Saying hello to new faces and goodbye to old ones had become commonplace. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I found the group friendly, open, eager, and willing to engage a newcomer.
It turns out Max was right. I did need this—a night, albeit contrived, out with the girls, the opportunity to commiserate with a structured group of people, who share a common bond and purpose. Even before formally joining, I was already part of this club. I just didn’t know it. Let’s just hopes my stats--as defined by the numbers our countries I will take up residence in—doesn’t equal that of my old senior stats.
Even though I carried a B-minus average and landed only in the top 25 percent of my class--well below many of my friends--there was one area in which I excelled: senior stats. This was the cumulative record of one's participation in groups, clubs, and teams, as well as honors racked up during four years of high school. Each senior’s record would be documented for all of perpetuity in the yearbook, compared and counted by the number of lines it took to complete. My senior stats--a whopping 13 lines-- earned notoriety for being longer than any of my 365 classmates.
Math club ('83), Latin club ('83-85), Students Against Drunk Drivers ('86), Drama club ('83-85, president 86), Student Council, The Eagle ('83-84), Yearbook staff ('83-85, editor-in-chief '86)….
The sheer number of clubs and organizations that I joined was staggering. Hardly a day passed when I didn’t have to ride activity bus home from school because an after-hours engagement kept me late. The most social of social butterflies, I enjoyed being part of a group and drew comfort in the structure it provided.
But once school ended and I got on with the business of life, my interest in clubs diminished. Joining the gym and signing up for a dance class was the closest I came to being in a formal group. When Max and I moved to Germany and became aware of an English-speaking club hosted by the company, we both sort of scoffed. We hadn’t come to a different country to socialize with other Americans, we haughtily thought. We came to live among the natives.
So it came as a bit of a shock when Max called me yesterday with a request. He wanted me to go to the meeting of English-speaking expats that very evening at 7:30p sharp.
“Call Brian’s wife for all the details. Here’s her number,” Max ordered.
“But why? I don’t want to go to a meeting,” I replied.
“Diane, you’ve become a bit of a hermit since we’ve moved,” he said. “I want you to get out and socialize more. You need this. Won’t you do this for me?”
I hemmed and hawed most of the day, but finally decided to give Max what he wanted. I attended my first meeting of expat spouses.
I wasn’t sure what to expect. The gathering consisted mostly of Brits and Americans, but also women from all over the world. Most were older, some were younger—but all shared the common experience of life as an expat spouse, whether this had been for 4 months or 14 years.
The meeting was well attended. Tanya, the club’s president, had announced this would be her last with the group. Her husband accepted a transfer, yet again, this time to Australia, and members had come out of the woodwork to wish her a bon voyage. As it turns out, this was also Joan’s last meeting.
“So much for that four-year contract,” she said as everyone else laughed knowingly.
Her husband was taking an assignment in Shanghai even though they’d just bought a house and had only been in Germany one year. Joan passed out fliers of her home in case any of us knew of another family being transferred in to the area that might be interested in renting.
I was beginning to wonder if, by becoming expatriates, Max and I hadn’t inadvertently jumped on one seemingly endless train with many stops. Most of the woman in the group had already lived in more than one country and were biding their time, waiting to hear where the next stop would take them. The transient nature and resulting dynamic of this club was all apparent. No one expected to put down any lasting roots in Germany. Saying hello to new faces and goodbye to old ones had become commonplace. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I found the group friendly, open, eager, and willing to engage a newcomer.
It turns out Max was right. I did need this—a night, albeit contrived, out with the girls, the opportunity to commiserate with a structured group of people, who share a common bond and purpose. Even before formally joining, I was already part of this club. I just didn’t know it. Let’s just hopes my stats--as defined by the numbers our countries I will take up residence in—doesn’t equal that of my old senior stats.
Monday, March 10, 2008
"It's fine, just fine."
“So how do you like living in Germany?”
I’ve heard this asked over a dozen times in 2 days. And although the question seems innocuous enough, answering it offers me a challenge. After 3 months of living and negotiating a new and foreign land, I haven’t decided whether I like it.
I certainly don’t hate living in Germany. Max and I live a stone’s throw from the vineyards of the Weinstrasse in a stunning home with walls dating back to the Middle Ages and modern features out of Architectural Digest. We enjoy an active social life and have already started to make friends with both local townspeople and expatriates from all over the world. And despite the loss of my income, Max and I have managed to stash money away in savings every month since our move. Really, what’s there to hate?
When I peer into the lives of my fellow expatriates around the globe, I am also struck by just how easy I have it. While others deal with feelings of guilt about prospering in the face of poverty, face a high crime rates, do without some modern conveniences, are fearful of drinking tap water, or sleep with a mosquito net over their bed, I live in Germany--an affluent, safe, modern, and uniquely beautiful country where medieval castles and churches are as prevalent as Starbucks stores back in the Unites States.
Yet, on occasion, I complain. For insignificant and sometimes downright silly reasons, I find fault with life in Germany when the problem is really me. And I can't honestly respond to my friends' query without condemning myself in the process.
I’ve heard this asked over a dozen times in 2 days. And although the question seems innocuous enough, answering it offers me a challenge. After 3 months of living and negotiating a new and foreign land, I haven’t decided whether I like it.
I certainly don’t hate living in Germany. Max and I live a stone’s throw from the vineyards of the Weinstrasse in a stunning home with walls dating back to the Middle Ages and modern features out of Architectural Digest. We enjoy an active social life and have already started to make friends with both local townspeople and expatriates from all over the world. And despite the loss of my income, Max and I have managed to stash money away in savings every month since our move. Really, what’s there to hate?
When I peer into the lives of my fellow expatriates around the globe, I am also struck by just how easy I have it. While others deal with feelings of guilt about prospering in the face of poverty, face a high crime rates, do without some modern conveniences, are fearful of drinking tap water, or sleep with a mosquito net over their bed, I live in Germany--an affluent, safe, modern, and uniquely beautiful country where medieval castles and churches are as prevalent as Starbucks stores back in the Unites States.
Yet, on occasion, I complain. For insignificant and sometimes downright silly reasons, I find fault with life in Germany when the problem is really me. And I can't honestly respond to my friends' query without condemning myself in the process.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Happy feet
I have a spring in my step that will only burst forth into an outright happy dance as the weekend nears.
I’m headed home on Saturday.
That’s right. If all goes as planned, by 6pm and on good ol’ Eastern Standard Time, my plane will touch ground at RDU International airport--the start of a two-week sojourn with family and friends.
When I planned this trip before moving to Germany, I did so with my parents in mind. I reasoned my departure would be easier for them to swallow if I had a return ticket already in hand. But as it turns out, this trip provides a much-needed psychological boost for me. I need a break from my new and relatively easy life as a hausfrau. I crave a little excitement, a measure of independence, and my little black book to once again be filled with dates and appointments. I’m well on my way to accomplishing the latter as I work to squeeze in every last friend and loved one during the trip.
Max doesn’t join me until the second half of this trip, giving me some time to have a few martini-infused nights with the girls. I can’t wait for long, meaningful chats with the best friends a girl can have. I think I’ve missed them most of all.
My list of ‘must-dos’ only increases as the days tick down. I want to eat Mexican food, shop at stores that don’t close their doors until 10pm, and catch up on all the flicks I missed over the last three months. I can’t wait to hear and be heard, to understand and be understood without any extra effort at all.
I could continue to go on and on, but you already know what I’d write. Besides, I can hardly type these words. I’m bouncing my MacBook around like a baby on my knee out of the excitement of it all. I’m going home, people! Let the happy dance begin!
I’m headed home on Saturday.
That’s right. If all goes as planned, by 6pm and on good ol’ Eastern Standard Time, my plane will touch ground at RDU International airport--the start of a two-week sojourn with family and friends.
When I planned this trip before moving to Germany, I did so with my parents in mind. I reasoned my departure would be easier for them to swallow if I had a return ticket already in hand. But as it turns out, this trip provides a much-needed psychological boost for me. I need a break from my new and relatively easy life as a hausfrau. I crave a little excitement, a measure of independence, and my little black book to once again be filled with dates and appointments. I’m well on my way to accomplishing the latter as I work to squeeze in every last friend and loved one during the trip.
Max doesn’t join me until the second half of this trip, giving me some time to have a few martini-infused nights with the girls. I can’t wait for long, meaningful chats with the best friends a girl can have. I think I’ve missed them most of all.
My list of ‘must-dos’ only increases as the days tick down. I want to eat Mexican food, shop at stores that don’t close their doors until 10pm, and catch up on all the flicks I missed over the last three months. I can’t wait to hear and be heard, to understand and be understood without any extra effort at all.
I could continue to go on and on, but you already know what I’d write. Besides, I can hardly type these words. I’m bouncing my MacBook around like a baby on my knee out of the excitement of it all. I’m going home, people! Let the happy dance begin!
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
The Road Less Traveled
I am becoming a licensed driver in Germany. Ordinarily, this would be laborious and expensive process because Germans see driving as a privilege and not right. As a result, new and prospective drivers face $1500-2000 in fees, after a minimum of 25-45 hours of professional instruction plus 12 hours of driving theory.
But not me. I have a license from Virginia, one of several American states that have an agreement with the Federal Republic of Germany. German expatriates living in Virginia can get a valid license without jumping through too many hoops, and Virginian drivers have the same consideration here. As a result, I paid a measly 80 Euros to secure my status as a bona-fide, German driver.
However, being sanctioned by the local government as someone qualified to navigate the many straßen and autobahns, doesn’t mean that I am really able to do so. Just like everything else here in Germany, rules of the road are similar enough to give you a false sense of surety, while the subtle differences will kick you in the ass until you really learn what you are doing.
Aside from speed, I don’t have too many difficulties driving on the highways. However, place me in a car in the center of town, and I become a nervous Nelly because I haven’t gotten the hang of the right-of-way rules.
When approaching an unmarked, four-way intersection, people where I come from practice the ‘whoever gets their first’ theory of right-of-way. However, in Germany and unless otherwise posted, the driver coming from the right at an intersection always has the right of way regardless of who got there first.
The rule may sound simple in theory, but it’s easy to forget when you’ve been driving for 24 years under a different premise. If I let my mind wander for even a second while driving, I might just barrel into a car coming from the right. So I do what I can to eliminate distractions. I refuse to grab a Coke via drive-thru anymore. My cell phone and radio remain off while driving. In fact, the only voice I allow is that of my GPS system, who sadly doesn’t seem to know her way around very well either.
As a result, driving, even in my cute, convertible Mini, isn’t a pleasurable experience unless I see my favorite German road sign. It displays yellow diamond, which tells me I am on a road that has priority. I see it as the ace of diamonds of street signs, the one the trumps the German rules of right-of-way. It’s also my personal sign, that then and only then, can I relax as I face the road less traveled.
But not me. I have a license from Virginia, one of several American states that have an agreement with the Federal Republic of Germany. German expatriates living in Virginia can get a valid license without jumping through too many hoops, and Virginian drivers have the same consideration here. As a result, I paid a measly 80 Euros to secure my status as a bona-fide, German driver.
However, being sanctioned by the local government as someone qualified to navigate the many straßen and autobahns, doesn’t mean that I am really able to do so. Just like everything else here in Germany, rules of the road are similar enough to give you a false sense of surety, while the subtle differences will kick you in the ass until you really learn what you are doing.
Aside from speed, I don’t have too many difficulties driving on the highways. However, place me in a car in the center of town, and I become a nervous Nelly because I haven’t gotten the hang of the right-of-way rules.
When approaching an unmarked, four-way intersection, people where I come from practice the ‘whoever gets their first’ theory of right-of-way. However, in Germany and unless otherwise posted, the driver coming from the right at an intersection always has the right of way regardless of who got there first.
The rule may sound simple in theory, but it’s easy to forget when you’ve been driving for 24 years under a different premise. If I let my mind wander for even a second while driving, I might just barrel into a car coming from the right. So I do what I can to eliminate distractions. I refuse to grab a Coke via drive-thru anymore. My cell phone and radio remain off while driving. In fact, the only voice I allow is that of my GPS system, who sadly doesn’t seem to know her way around very well either.
As a result, driving, even in my cute, convertible Mini, isn’t a pleasurable experience unless I see my favorite German road sign. It displays yellow diamond, which tells me I am on a road that has priority. I see it as the ace of diamonds of street signs, the one the trumps the German rules of right-of-way. It’s also my personal sign, that then and only then, can I relax as I face the road less traveled.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Waste not, want not
Although it may look like a perfectly fine, almost spring-like morning, today, February 28, 2008, cannot be counted among the blessed days for this Bad Dürkheim resident. In fact, when I looked at my city-services calendar, I actually cursed this Thursday.
It’s not a ‘restmüll’ day.
For those of you who haven’t been introduced to the German sanitation system, restmüll is rubbish--literally. And although what constitutes restmüll differs from town to town, here in Bad Dürkheim it can be defined as any garbage that isn’t plastic, glass, paper or biological waste. You’d be surprised by all the things in your trash, which don’t fall under these categories. You’d be even more shocked at how much restmüll accumulates in the two-week period between pick-ups.
Even though we are just a couple, Max and I have been particularly bad litterbugs. Hosting three dinner parties hasn’t helped our cause. We still have a full week before the next garbage day, and piles of trash bags lay waste in a corner of our kitchen. In an otherwise stunning home, it’s an eyesore—and a smelly one at that.
Back in the States, this wouldn’t be an issue. Besides the fact that recycling isn’t as stringent, if not nonexistent, every day can be a restmüll day, especially if you have access to a dumpster. But here in Germany, trash collecting, almost an art form unto itself, is reserved for only the most special of days.
And today ain’t it.
Don’t misunderstand me. I’m all for recycling. It’s just that I’m not particularly good at it. Sometimes when I go to throw something away, I feel like Henry Kissinger brokering a treaty. I spend an inordinate amount of time negotiating which container is best suits my waste.
“This candy wrapper is shiny like metal, but it feels more like plastic. Does it go in the yellow bag or the white bag?”
The mental workout my garbage gives me is exhausting, really. And when I can’t decide where a piece of trash should go, it goes in restmüll. And therein, my friends, lies the problem. Put a dunce cap on me, and stick me in the trash corner. I haven’t been properly schooled in waste sortation.
It’s not a ‘restmüll’ day.
For those of you who haven’t been introduced to the German sanitation system, restmüll is rubbish--literally. And although what constitutes restmüll differs from town to town, here in Bad Dürkheim it can be defined as any garbage that isn’t plastic, glass, paper or biological waste. You’d be surprised by all the things in your trash, which don’t fall under these categories. You’d be even more shocked at how much restmüll accumulates in the two-week period between pick-ups.
Even though we are just a couple, Max and I have been particularly bad litterbugs. Hosting three dinner parties hasn’t helped our cause. We still have a full week before the next garbage day, and piles of trash bags lay waste in a corner of our kitchen. In an otherwise stunning home, it’s an eyesore—and a smelly one at that.
Back in the States, this wouldn’t be an issue. Besides the fact that recycling isn’t as stringent, if not nonexistent, every day can be a restmüll day, especially if you have access to a dumpster. But here in Germany, trash collecting, almost an art form unto itself, is reserved for only the most special of days.
And today ain’t it.
Don’t misunderstand me. I’m all for recycling. It’s just that I’m not particularly good at it. Sometimes when I go to throw something away, I feel like Henry Kissinger brokering a treaty. I spend an inordinate amount of time negotiating which container is best suits my waste.
“This candy wrapper is shiny like metal, but it feels more like plastic. Does it go in the yellow bag or the white bag?”
The mental workout my garbage gives me is exhausting, really. And when I can’t decide where a piece of trash should go, it goes in restmüll. And therein, my friends, lies the problem. Put a dunce cap on me, and stick me in the trash corner. I haven’t been properly schooled in waste sortation.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Footless and fancy free
Today is the day! Barring unforeseen circumstance, I am officially a vagabond. My condo closing takes place in just a few hours. Yippee!!!!!
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Social Butterflies
Thursday night brings yet another dinner party to the Mandy home. In fact, this evening’s event marks the first of the week, an easy, intimate affair with a Canadian couple, Max’s office mate and his wife. Next comes the Saturday party, a killer to prepare and host, with twelve people from all over the planet—Russia, Italy, Guatemala, France, Germany, America, Columbia, and Brazil.
Max believes socializing and networking will play a critical role in his future success. It seems here in Germany, even more than the United States, who you know is as important as what you know or even how well you perform. Max is already ogling his position after this contract is fulfilled, one in either southern Europe or South America. And as the dutiful wife and complement to my husband, I do what I can to contribute to his success. If this means cooking and cleaning for a rowdy group of strangers, then I do. If it means folding a dozen cloth napkins into tulips, than so be it. I can play the Martha Stewart of expats, the perfect wife of a future (hopefully) executive.
Of course before you think I go all out for every event, I can erase those impressions immediately. Today I feel lazy. And since the dinner tonight is only for four, I’m cheating by making one of the easiest dishes—chicken cacciatore—over spaghetti and in a crock pot no less.
Go ahead. Poke fun if you must. I can take it.
Max believes socializing and networking will play a critical role in his future success. It seems here in Germany, even more than the United States, who you know is as important as what you know or even how well you perform. Max is already ogling his position after this contract is fulfilled, one in either southern Europe or South America. And as the dutiful wife and complement to my husband, I do what I can to contribute to his success. If this means cooking and cleaning for a rowdy group of strangers, then I do. If it means folding a dozen cloth napkins into tulips, than so be it. I can play the Martha Stewart of expats, the perfect wife of a future (hopefully) executive.
Of course before you think I go all out for every event, I can erase those impressions immediately. Today I feel lazy. And since the dinner tonight is only for four, I’m cheating by making one of the easiest dishes—chicken cacciatore—over spaghetti and in a crock pot no less.
Go ahead. Poke fun if you must. I can take it.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Freebird
Back in my days as a part-time cocktail waitress, I prided myself on being able to tell a lot about a woman based on the type of drink she ordered and even developed a rudimentary personality profile on my findings. From the down-and-dirty girls (blow job and jello shots) to the divas (champagne and sparkling wines), my adult beverage scale seemed to be a fairly accurate test of a woman’s general disposition.
As a red wine drinker with an eye towards fanciful martinis, I tended to have the most fun at the expense of one particular group of women--the ones who landed on the opposite end of the adult beverage spectrum-- Miller Light girls.
Now before you go and get all huffy, let me clarify. I don’t have anything against light beer. However when you work in an Irish pub with the largest draft and import selection in town, you can’t help but wonder why a grown woman couldn’t find anything better to savor than bottled Miller Light. For me, there are few ‘absolutes’ in this world, and this was one of them.
But as I threw back a couple drinks at a local bar 2pm last Tuesday with my landlord and a some of his buddies, it suddenly occurred to me I no longer had this cultural punching bag to contemplate and despise. I could no longer walk into any bar and pick out the Miller Light girl because we don’t have Miller Light in Germany. And to be frank, I don’t know if there is a German equivalent. For all I knew, I could have been drinking it—a revelation that caused me to switch to Vodka Red Bull on my next round.
It may sound silly, but these thoughts put me in little bit of a funk. It was bad enough I didn’t understand the conversation buzzing around me or couldn’t sing along to some really bad drinking songs. Here in Germany, my entire cultural compass is off-kilter.
Before we moved, I studied up on the stages of culture shock so I could identify where I was in the process. And although I can’t point to how I feel on any venn diagram, I will say this: I never thought I’d miss the sight of a woman with a glowing, disposable lighter in one hand and a Miller Light in the other, singing her heart out to every word to Freebird.
But I do.
Ed.not: Yes, I stand corrected. I spelled Miller Lite wrong. But I've decided to leave it because the error is actually a mark of my good taste. TEASING, June! ;-)
As a red wine drinker with an eye towards fanciful martinis, I tended to have the most fun at the expense of one particular group of women--the ones who landed on the opposite end of the adult beverage spectrum-- Miller Light girls.
Now before you go and get all huffy, let me clarify. I don’t have anything against light beer. However when you work in an Irish pub with the largest draft and import selection in town, you can’t help but wonder why a grown woman couldn’t find anything better to savor than bottled Miller Light. For me, there are few ‘absolutes’ in this world, and this was one of them.
But as I threw back a couple drinks at a local bar 2pm last Tuesday with my landlord and a some of his buddies, it suddenly occurred to me I no longer had this cultural punching bag to contemplate and despise. I could no longer walk into any bar and pick out the Miller Light girl because we don’t have Miller Light in Germany. And to be frank, I don’t know if there is a German equivalent. For all I knew, I could have been drinking it—a revelation that caused me to switch to Vodka Red Bull on my next round.
It may sound silly, but these thoughts put me in little bit of a funk. It was bad enough I didn’t understand the conversation buzzing around me or couldn’t sing along to some really bad drinking songs. Here in Germany, my entire cultural compass is off-kilter.
Before we moved, I studied up on the stages of culture shock so I could identify where I was in the process. And although I can’t point to how I feel on any venn diagram, I will say this: I never thought I’d miss the sight of a woman with a glowing, disposable lighter in one hand and a Miller Light in the other, singing her heart out to every word to Freebird.
But I do.
Ed.not: Yes, I stand corrected. I spelled Miller Lite wrong. But I've decided to leave it because the error is actually a mark of my good taste. TEASING, June! ;-)
Monday, February 18, 2008
Ask and ye shall receive
Last night I told my husband I was finished with emotional eating and drinking. I’ve been binging on comfort foods a little too often since arriving in Deutschland. Although I refuse to step the scale to confirm this fear, I know I’ve packed on the pounds. My daytime wardrobe of comfortable, stretchy pants stands as a testament to this reality. If you put a cigarette in my hand and teased the hair, I’d look like an Atlantic City local, not an American expat in Europe.But “beginning Monday”, I promised Max, things would be “different.” Food and wine would no longer be the primary means to sooth my soul. This day would mark the start of a new and healthier routine. Diane Mandy was going on a
Now, many of you have suggested I write about German cuisine and drink. Brilliant! What a magnificent way to distract me from thinking about food and wine.
I don’t pretend to be an expert on German food. When Max and I choose to dine out, we often pick Italian eateries, which are tasty and abundant, or Supan, an upscale Thai restaurant, which offers the best tom kha gai in nearby Mannheim.
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The problem is I’ve never been a meat and potatoes girl, and Germans are all about these staples. Fertile soil and ample watering holes make for excellent grazing, and as a result, Germany boasts abundant cattle, sheep, and pigs farms. Game birds and rabbit are also considered traditional fair, with mustard and horseradish as popular condiments. Stereotypes do hold true for Germany. Sauerkraut and schnitzel rule. Moreover, the markets offer the largest selection of wurst I have ever seen.But stereotypes aside, I have also learned local cuisine differs depending on what part of the country you happen to live. I feel fortunate to reside in Rhineland-Pfalz, the wine-growing and Palatinate region, where a lighter cuisine with strong influences from France, Italy, and Austria can be found. In this area, German grains and noodles, such as spatzle, are often substituted for potatoes.
My favorite of the local Palatinate specialties, zwiebelkuchen, literally translates “onion cake," but is actually a one-crust pie, similar to quiche, and made with onions, diced bacon, cream, and caraway seed. Although you can find it anytime in almost any German eatery, zwiebelkuchen is traditionally served in the fall with the “new wine” called federweisser, or “feather wine,” a cloudy, sweet, effervescent, not quite wine that is still in the fermentation process. I find the pairing of these local delicacies quite delightful..jpg)
However, you don’t have to settle for new wine, which begins at only 4% alcohol. More mature wines, with a heavier alcohol content, are both abundant and cheap. In fact, for about 3 euros, you can buy a decent bottle of local wine.I never cared for rieslings until I came to Germany. Back home in the United States I always found the wine to be much too sweet for my taste buds. However here in Germany, I never hesitate to order a glass of the house riesling so long as it is “trocken” or dry. Of course not all German wines are resilings or even white. Max and I are hoping to do a formal wine tour once the weather cooperates, but so far my favorite local vineyard is Fritz Ritter, which is located just a couple miles from my house.
Have I written enough on this topic already? Put you to sleep yet? I, for one, am much to hungry to continue any longer. Excuse me while I go and feed my empty tummy with a little something and wash it down with a glass of wine. Yes, people I have a date with Fritz Ritter and will be dressed in only the finest stretchy pants for the occasion. Thanks for that!
Friday, February 15, 2008
'Soft metric' kind of gal
Why,why why? Why didn’t I pay more attention in science class? Remember the inevitable chapter on metric converstions? Turns out, it’s actually important and something needed outside a 10th grade Chemistry lab!Of course, I wouldn’t have known because I come from a ‘soft metric country.’ I'm not sure what this means, but I’m pretty indignant about it. I imagine mothers all over Europe are telling their children, “How dare you leave an unanswered metric problem on your homework. Think of the deprived American students, who don't understand conversion calculations.”
Seriously, do you know the United States stands with only two countries, Liberia and Mayanmar, in not having officially adopted metric? Great company, I’d say.
Even the Brits left their own English measurements in favor of metrics. Americans may claim that "a pint is a pound the world around," but I’ve got news for you people. Feet, yards, inches and pounds—the rest of the world is laughing at us.
“D, this post is far from your good-natured (albeit idle) chatter. What’s caused this tizzy?” you ask.
Folks, I can deal with being unable to accurately judge distances because everything is in kilometers. It’s no big deal, really. As the type who is always late, I don’t consider this a problem, rather a convenient excuse for my tardiness. And although I can never gauge how warm or cold it’s going to be here in Germany because I don’t grasp Celsius, it’s easy enough to layer my clothes so as to always be prepared and comfortable.
But riddle me this: How I am suppose to whip up a fabulous dinner for ten tonight when the recipe calls for crazy letters like g and ml, and my measuring tools are in tbsp and oz. I might as well be in Oz because I feel like Dorothy without her ruby slippers. And you can bet your bottom Euro that here in Deutschland, the yellow brick road was built in meters instead of yards.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Just super!
If you pricked me with a needle this morning, my veins would drip coffee not blood. I’m trying to wake up from the fog that is my morning, but it’s a losing battle. My satellite TV might not be working yet, but I was still able to stay up all night and follow the election coverage via live video feed from CNN. Super Tuesday turned into Super Wednesday morning as I waited and waited for California and New Mexico’s results to come into the anchorman’s news desk.
In the end it was worth sleep deprivation. I’m satisfied with the results. I’ll take the Democratic draw and anxiously wait for the next primary states to, for once, actually have a more meaningful say in the selection process. For me, watching election returns is tantamount to watching a big sporting event. I get the same thrill in these tight races as I would a literal horse race. Super Tuesday is my Super Bowl, only without the amusing commercials.
Except this year, I didn’t get a chance to watch all those highly anticipated Super Bowl ads, the ones advertisers were willing to pay 2.7 million dollars for 30 seconds to air. I could not tell you what Bud Light’s fire-breathing guy looked like or what the Audi Godfather was all about. Max and I watched the game at the home of our military friends via AFN, or the American Forces Network. While you were laughing at or rolling your eyes at Justin Timberlake, I was nodding off to military public service announcements with some of the poorest production values I’ve seen. Through this experience I learned that, unlike election returns, I really do watch the Super Bowl for its glitzy commercials. Without them, it feels like just another game-- one that I fell asleep on and missed the stunning conclusion.
Super Bowl or Super Tuesday, do you think the best team won? Or if you'd rather not say, tell me what was your favorite Super Bowl commerical?
In the end it was worth sleep deprivation. I’m satisfied with the results. I’ll take the Democratic draw and anxiously wait for the next primary states to, for once, actually have a more meaningful say in the selection process. For me, watching election returns is tantamount to watching a big sporting event. I get the same thrill in these tight races as I would a literal horse race. Super Tuesday is my Super Bowl, only without the amusing commercials.
Except this year, I didn’t get a chance to watch all those highly anticipated Super Bowl ads, the ones advertisers were willing to pay 2.7 million dollars for 30 seconds to air. I could not tell you what Bud Light’s fire-breathing guy looked like or what the Audi Godfather was all about. Max and I watched the game at the home of our military friends via AFN, or the American Forces Network. While you were laughing at or rolling your eyes at Justin Timberlake, I was nodding off to military public service announcements with some of the poorest production values I’ve seen. Through this experience I learned that, unlike election returns, I really do watch the Super Bowl for its glitzy commercials. Without them, it feels like just another game-- one that I fell asleep on and missed the stunning conclusion.
Super Bowl or Super Tuesday, do you think the best team won? Or if you'd rather not say, tell me what was your favorite Super Bowl commerical?
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