Daire is Three!

After a relatively mild winter punctuated by an incredibly cold couple of weeks, it seems like spring may be just around the corner in Berlin. Temperatures in the day are nearing 50 F again, but March can be treacherous and could produce a late winter snowstorm. In the meantime, I remain optimistic that winter is over while not quite putting away my coat and boots just yet. The coming of spring also signals the end of cold season, and with the kids being able to spend more time outside at their preschool, it lessens the likelihood that they, and I, will get sick. Finally, spring means I am nearing the end of my contract as an Au Pair which expires in May. Sometime this month I will hear whether or not I will be awarded a scholarship that I applied for to do an MA in Germany. Overall, it is a time of great change and anxiety.  


This past weekend, little Daire turned three years old and had a most stylish party where only the poshest of Berlin's babies were in attendance. About 15 of these trendsetters and their parents came to dine on delicacies such as gummy bears, cake, and ice cream, while drinking only the finest apple juice. Daire was excited all week for his party and every day one of the first things he would say when I picked him up from preschool would be to remind me that he wanted a chocolate cake for his party. The proud parents even brought in a renowned party decorator all the way from America to festively yet tastefully ornament the apartment with streamers. The children were mostly boys, and entertained themselves with Daire's prized collection of planes, trains, and automobiles. Their parents enjoyed the chance to converse with other grown-ups on a Saturday and tried to avoid being trampled in the sugar-powered chaos that transformed the neatly kept apartment into something resembling a post-apocalyptic wasteland.


Of course, live entertainment was provided; Wolfram was a master of puppet theater before settling down to work in the Foreign Ministry, so the children are able to enjoy his hidden talents at their birthday parties. The show for Daire was about the frog-prince's birthday party: the main character, a boy, is going to bring a cake baked by his grandmother as a gift, but the mean crocodile takes it and eats it. He finds the crocodile and brings it to face the judgement of the frog-prince. The crocodile brings a flower to apologize, and explains that he stole and ate the cake because he was sad that he was not invited to the party. He is forgiven by the frog-prince who apologizes for not inviting him and is allowed to attend the party. Apparently this years production was a little more thrown together than last year's and borrowed some elements from last year, which had the Arab Spring as a theme. In that play the crocodile was unjustly ruling the town and the other characters rose against him. I asked Wolfram if it was appropriate to have a play for children which involved the bloody overthrow and execution of a despot, but apparently when the other puppets marched on the crocodile, he got scared and explained that he was mean because he didn't have any friends. 

Daire received some lovely gifts for his birthday including cars and many books (which he also loves). However, the best gift of all was a real big-boy bike with pedals. Although at first intimidated by it, soon he was pedaling away and crashing into things with aplomb. A first bike is a classic gift and just in time for spring too.


Well that's about it from the land of the Germans, it hasn't been a terribly interesting month here, just a lot of staying inside, drinking beer and playing The Settlers of Catan with some friends (a German board game die Siedler von Catan). The most exciting thing to happen this month occurred earlier this week when I sat next to an old drunk who reaked of cigarettes on a crowded subway, who thought I was sitting too close to him and tried to pick a fight with me after calling me every name in the book. I just kept my calm and told him there was no problem, and sat their pleasantly next to him for the duration of the ride while he occasionally blew off steam about how young people don't respect anything. I figure his life must suck, I'll let him get it out of his system. I am sure to have more interesting things to report than the grumblings of bums as the city awakens from its hibernation, thanks for tuning in.

A Sickly Week in Brixen

The week before last, the von Heynitz family and their lowly servant-boy went on a trip to Brixen (or Bressannone in Italian) in South Tirol. South Tirol was part of Austria until WWI, when it was awarded to the Italians who switched sides during the war, a nice little prize as South Tirol is one of the richest regions of Italy today. In spite of decades of trying to "Italianize" the region, 2/3 of the population is German-speaking and it maintains autonomous status today--residents can choose either Austrian or Italian citizenship--but in exchange they pay high tazes to subsidize less-prosperous parts of Italy. Mussolini built factories here in the 30's and bused in Sicilians to staff them, as well as forbidding anyone with a German name from holding public office. It was the only German speaking area Hitler did not annex into the Third Reich because he wanted to ensure smooth relations with his ally to the south. 

The political limbo of the region remains a sore-spot with the locals. The cook at my hostel, which was very nice and centrally located with surprisingly good food, told me the the traitorous Italians (he used the term Verräter which is pretty severe) don't deserve South Tirol because they never won a war, but that it didn't matter because with global warming, London, Paris, and Rome would be underwater but they would still be there, up in the mountains. An interesting point of view, but if there is one thing mountain-folk are good at, it's outlasting the flat-landers. 

Frescoes in the courtyard next to the cathedral

The week before we left, both kids were home sick with a mild case of bronchitis. After several days of being around each other all day, everyday, and feeling shitty, they were experiencing a bit of cabin fever and became competitive about every little thing. It wasn't just toys, if one got picked up, the other demanded to be picked up, if one got more water poured into their cup, the other demanded more water be poured into theirs, if one got their nose wiped, the other demanded that their nose be wiped too, weather it needed wiping or not. Mommy and Daddy were also sick but I managed to hold out until I started to get a sniffle Thursday night. By the time we left Saturday morning, I was a miserable wreck who hadn't had a day off since the previous Saturday and wouldn't be getting another one for another week. We were all sick and contemplating not even going, but the reservations were made and Maeve had a preliminary interview to go to in Vienna. We almost had to stop at a hospital on the way down because I was feeling so ill. Nonetheless, I managed to hold on until we arrived in Brixen after a 12 hour drive that would ideally have been 10. After another miserable day I began a slow recovery that has only seemed to draw to an end this week.

Today, you can enjoy the best of both worlds in South Tirol. You get the best of both cuisines, both good beer and wine, as well as a mix of German efficiency and Italian friendliness. Brixen, with the surrounding farmland, has a population of about 20,000 but the town itself is very small and could be walked across in about five or ten minutes. A friend of the family in Berlin is from a neighboring village, he is a musician and entertainer as well as a local celebrity. He is constantly in the local newspaper and can't go anywhere without being recognized and approached on the street. If his wife, an American, wants to get anything done like shopping, she has to do it alone. Brixen's most famous landmark is it's cathedral, first built in the 11th century, then remodeled in the baroque era with an ornate interior. The adjoining courtyard still has frescoes from the Middle Ages. 

Square in front of the cathedral and site
of the attack of the horrible pigeons

When I wasn't watching the kids, I spent the first part of my week watching old episodes of Mad Men on my laptop and sleeping. Once the kids and I were feeling better, we went out for a bit of sightseeing while Maeve and Wolfram went skiing. We stopped at a bakery for some pretzels and rolls and sat on a bench in the main square outside the cathedral.  It was very cold but the children were warmly clothed, the real threat, however, came from the pigeons. The little girl, Caoimhe, who is normally very brave, was absolutley terrified of the pigeons, who, drawn to the bread crumbs, were naturally very interested in us. Every time they came within a few feet of us, her screams would echo off of the stones of the buildings, drawing a bit of attention to us from all the old couples doing their shopping. So I spent our break walking back and forth chasing pigeons away while the children nervously nibbled their bread. I didn't have to watch the kids during the day our last full day in Brixen, and I finally felt up to taking a stroll about town and walking a little ways down the river. It was a far-cry from the invigorating hikes I had envisioned myself making before the trip but still allowed me to soak up some of the area's beauty. 

Now back in Berlin we are just coming back up to around freezing after a bitter cold week and a half. The winter which seemed so long to evade us has finally come and it has been bitter indeed, with temperatures at night nearing -20 C. Getting the kids dressed reminds me of that scene in "A Christmas Story" where the protagonist compares it with preparing to go deep-water scuba diving and his little brother can't put his arms down. Thankfully, March is just around the corner and in a month it should be springtime, in the meantime, warm clothes, good boots, and a little drinky-poo should suffice.

An Irish Christmas

As you can tell, my New Year's resolution to write more often has already gone to hell. Perhaps finally owning up to Part II of my Christmas blog post will shame me into writing more often than every three to four weeks.

Christmas Eve after a visit from the Christkindl

I had the pleasure of visiting Ireland for the first time this holiday season, staying in the small city of Navan about and hour northwest of Dublin in the home of Marian, Maeve's sweetheart of a mother. We arrived in Dublin late in the evening with two very tired babies who had nonetheless behaved as well as could be expected of such young travelers. Winter in Berlin this year has been so mild that it was actually colder in Dublin when we arrived than it was when Berlin when we left. I was happy for the fresh air irregardless because it took me some time to recover from the sneezing attack I suffered during our layover in Frankfurt; I was accosted by an AC vent while walking past a duty free shop and was overwhelmed with Chanel No. 5. The drive was a bit nerve-wracking, not because of any strenuous traffic conditions, I have just never been to a country where people drive on the left hand side of the road. I was able to adapt fairly well while in Ireland and wasn't run over while crossing the street, but at intersections in Dublin where five or six streets met I suddenly found myself looking nervously in all directions like a rabbit. In spite of the backward driving laws of the Emerald Isle we made it to Marian's home safe and sound. I enjoyed a good night's sleep in a very comfortable bed with a nice thick down comforter and awoke to my first day in Ireland, Christmas Eve. The children, after having been up well past midnight, slept to an unprecedented 10 AM and we grownups were all grateful for that Christmas miracle. What followed over the next few days, was a truly "grand" holiday.

Navan Market Square

After lunch, Enda, Marian's live-in boyfriend/fiance/partner/gentleman-caller as I like to call him, took me out for a cultural tour of Navan. The tour essentially consisted of a pub-crawl punctuated by pointing out various sites like the old stone church, market square, and hill where the pagan kings were buried in tombs constructed in such a manner that a beam of lite would shine upon their grave through a hole in the stone on the Summer solstice. Although his favorite pub was not open, we visited three others. The first was what he described as an old man's pub; fairly small, the comfortable quiet punctuated by greetings mixed with one-liners and comical grumblings. A large man with a bald head sat at the end of the bar and was quite talkative, although I could hardly understand a word he said. The second pub was a large place that also served as a restaurant, more modern looking and geared toward a younger crowd. It was fairly loud with flat-screens and resembled more of an American bar. Here Enda told me a story from when he was a rugby coach. After a big victory he has warned the lads not to overdue it and to keep out of the pub. Knowing that they would not listen to him, he went there earlier in the day and put down money for a tab, telling the barkeep that if any of the boys came in, to put their pint on his tab, and telling them that this one was on coach. Waiting until after they were all good and warmed up, he came in, got a pint, and casually joined them for a drink--then on Monday at practice he ran them into the ground. Finally we went to what we would call in America a "dive bar" situated next to the railroad tracks. Although definitely the roughest of the places we went I would say it was the best. The owner was a proper barman, and upon hearing that it was my first trip to Ireland and that my grandmother was Irish, poured me a special pint of Guinness with a clover shape in the foam. I will say that I was never a huge fan of Guinness, I drank it rarely and usually found it to be bitter and chalky. 


A pint of Guinness in Ireland, must be one of life's great, simple pleasures. It is a sensitive beer that does not travel well and has a much creamier, more complex palate at home. Nowadays, most of the Guinness consumed abroad is brewed abroad, and the Irish claim that the difference is in the water with which the famous porter is brewed locally (apparently Ireland is blessed with good water). 


Enda and I then headed home to get started on our delicious duck dinner. Loving a good pun, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself that Enda was making duck for dinner, which is Ente in German. Yes, I am just that lame, but the duck was fatty and delicious. The Irish, like most Americans, celebrate Christmas Day more than Christmas Eve, but since Wolfram is German we did a sort of double Christmas with a German-themed Christmas Eve and Irish Christmas Day. This was fine with me, because my family traditionally does our big celebration with our relatives on Christmas Eve, while Christmas Day tends to be a quieter and simpler affair at home with your own immediate family. So the children got a few smaller gifts that night to cut the tension until the next morning. 

Buxom 18th-Century Basket Monger
across from Trinity College

Christmas morning was quite exciting for the children, Caoimhe is big enough to walk and talk and enjoy herself properly, while Daire is big enough to understand what all the commotion is about (he has even learned to sing a few lines of "Oh Tannenbaum"). The lucky little devils had so many gifts that we had to break up gift-giving into two parts so that they could get their nap in. That night, we were joined by Maeve's brother (whose name I believe is spelled Podrig) and his wife, tiny baby boy, son Daire's age, and daughter around 4 with a thick head of curly brown hair dressed as a Christmas fairy. After eating far too much turkey and ham, I got to enjoy some traditional Irish Christmas deserts, plum pudding served hot with whipped cream, and "trifle," essentially a sponge cake soaked in sherry topped with fruit and a sort of gelatin pudding that I was especially fond of. Of course, there was plenty of wine, beer, and Christmas cheer to go along with it.

St. Patrick's Cathedral

The next day I had the chance to catch the bus to Dublin. Unfortunately, the bus takes small, windy country roads and not the freeway, that can be unpleasant after a night of feasting and eating. An hour later, I was glad to be in Dublin and off the bus. Due to the limited holiday service I only had about 4 hours to visit the city, but central Dublin is fairly small and easy to navigate, and with most things were closed it was easy to keep moving. Nonetheless, I got to get a feeling for the handsome city and it's characteristic Georgian architecture. Like the Irish people themselves, Dublin has been through the ringer over the past few centuries, and has been destroyed and rebuilt multiple times, so very few buildings remain that predate the 18th century. It was an unbelievably windy day, and I found myself walking at a 60 degree angle for much of it. After viewing the substantial Customs House and General Post Office where the 1916 Uprising was centered, I made a big loop along the southern side of the Liffey, seeing Trinity College, the Bank of Ireland Building, Leinster House (the seat of the Irish Parliament), the beautiful park called St. Stephen's Green, and over to the cathedrals of St. Patrick's and Christ Church. I built up an appetite with all the walking and picture taking so I got some fish and chips on the go, they were delicious but lived up to Dublin's reputation of being very expensive (8.50 Euro without a drink!) Now, looking to wet my whistle, I headed back to the area around Trinity College to a 300 year old pub famously frequented by the students and faculty alike, O'Neill's, where I enjoyed a pint of Guinness before heading back to the bus station. 

Leinster House

The day after Christmas is known as St. Stephen's Day in Ireland, and it also happens to be the biggest night of the year for going out because everyone is at home. So, back in Navan, I headed into town after dinner to see if the pub Enda had recommended was open, and boy was it. The place was packed, but I managed to elbow my way up to the bar and got a stool at the end. I had been warned by Maeve not to stay out too late, because I was likely to be a rowdy night where some drunk locals might be keen to start a fight with a someone with a foreign accent. While ordering my second pint, the guy next to me said he heard an accent and asked me where I was from. I told him I was from California, visiting for the first time and trying to get a sense of my heritage. "Grand!" he responded and immediately invited me to join him and his friends. I was promptly introduced to a load of people, warmly welcomed by all, and had some "good crack" that night, which means fun, not cocaine. 


Upon entering the bar, I immediately noticed the place was partitioned in two by a wall. At first I thought it was an arbitrary barrier between the smoking and non-smoking sections from before the ban, but I later found out otherwise. This pub had been in operation since the mid-nineteenth-century, and in those days, it had also been a store. So, the wall divided the pub in the back half of the building where only men were allowed, from the store in the front, where the gentler sex were permitted. In fact, in Ireland, women had to quite their jobs once they got married until the early 1970's, contraception was also illegal until the mid 70's, and divorce was only legalized in the 1990's. As backwards as that may sound, they have still come farther than we have in the US in the last couple of decades. In Ireland, a country whose constitution declares it as a Catholic nation subservient to the Holy See, gay marriage is legal while it is still not in most states in the US.


It was a grand first visit to Ireland; I was made to feel welcome by Maeve's family for the holiday, felt accepted by the locals, ate, drank, and was merry. What I was most impressed by was how people spoke. It's not just the accent (it took all my strength to avoid falling into a bad imitation Irish accent) but just the way people express themselves. As begrudgingly as the Irish speak English, they do it with such and interesting and even lyrical quality that is descriptive, humorous, and often ironic. A return trip to Ireland will be a must for me.

Christmas Time in Berlin

Frohe Weihnachten! from "Bear-lin"

Christmas in Germany usually brings to mind the Christmas markets, called Weihnachtsmarkt or Christkindlmarkt in the south, that pop up in cities and towns across the German-speaking lands, the most famous being in Nuremberg. These markets resemble a little Christmas village full of stands selling gifts like ornaments, dishware, hats, gloves, and crafts, as well as a variety of food and Glühwein or mulled wine, of course. My favorite variation of Glühwein is Feuerzangenbowle translated literally as "fire-screen-bowl." It is made by dousing a cone of sugar in high-proof rum and igniting it over a bowl of Glühwein, with the molten sugar and rum being slowly stirred into the wine. 


Although many American Christmas traditions come from Germany, there are some distinct differences between the holiday in the two countries. For Americans, Santa Claus and St. Nicholas are synonymous when in fact, this is not true. Santa Claus is an old man with a glandular problem compounded by his poor diet who lives at the North Pole where he runs a sweat shop, and is a Scandinavian myth. St. Nicholas, or Nikolaos of Myra, was a Greek Bishop of the early church known for anonymously giving gifts, particularly in people's shoes, according to legend. In Germany, St. Nicholas Day is on December 6th, when children get little gifts in their shoes, usually chocolate gold coins or a little chocolate statue of St. Nicholas. The two are easily confused because of the beards and the fact that the modern Santa Claus, known as der Weihnachtsmann in German. The tradition of who brings the presents on Christmas Eve varies. It seems most "believe" it is the Christkindl, or "Christ Child", who brings the gifts, others believe der Weihnachtsmann brings the gifts but in a break. A marked difference from the US is that in Germany Santa does not break into your house in the night for the reward of milk, cookies, and carrots for his reindeer. Instead, he comes to the door while one of the male family members is mysteriously gone, asks the children if they've been good or bad, and sometimes asks them to perform a carol for him. He then distributes presents and goes on his way, a few minutes later, uncle Fritz comes back to learn that he just missed der Weihnachtsmann, ach Scheiße!

Also, the timing of Christmas in Germany is different. Traditionally the tree is erected on the 24th and kept up for the Twelve Days of Christmas until January 6th, the original date of Christmas now known as the Epiphany or Three King's Day. Germany is of course home to the advent calender, but advent is also celebrated by progressively burning four candles arranged on a wreath. This exercise becomes increasingly dangerous as the wreath dries out. 

I visited a couple of Christmas markets in Berlin this year. One a Scandinavian themed market at the Kulturbrauerei with Nordic twists on mulled wine and Christmas baked goods. Another is the biggest in Berlin at Alexanderplatz complete with ice-skating rinks and rides. Alexanderplatz was once the parade ground of communist East Berlin and is know one of the major shopping hubs in Berlin flanked by a couple of large malls. The best Christmas market is at Gendarmenmarkt in the city's political and governmental district. It costs one Euro to get in but is more prettily decorated and the quality of the food and crafts is better than at the other markets. It has security guards dressed as 18th century Prussian soldiers and a stage where Christmas-themed programs are performed. While sipping Glühwein I caught an abbreviated performance of "The Nutcracker" put on by a ballet troupe; the poor girls were performing on an outdoor stage in near freezing weather. It reminded me of decorating the tree with my own mother, who would put on the music as she recalled her own years performing in the ballet, but never getting to perform the coveted role of the Arabian dancer. After watching the performance at the Christmas market, I had the music stuck in my head for about 3 days, when I finally drowned it out by humming the theme to "The Great Escape" for an hour.


Well, I am headed off to the airport in an hour and then we will fly to Dublin. Next time I will report on my Christmas in Ireland at the house of Maeve's mother, Marian. Until then, Merry Christmas and thank you for all the support and feedback on the blog! This is a vehicle that makes it much easier to stave off homesickness by keeping in touch with everyone back home. 

The Tummy Owwa

It has been a rather unpleasant couple of weeks, and this is not a blog post I would recommend reading while dining. I woke up in the early hours of the Tuesday before last with terrible stomach pain, thinking that I had caught the stomach flu that Wolfram had the week before. I spent most of the days that week resting in bed and drinking stomach-ease tea until I had to go pick up the kids, waiting for the bug to run its course. As the weekend approached it seemed to be getting better and I had a fairly normal weekend. Sunday night I went to a goodbye party for a friend of mine, but only stuck around for a few hours and two beers, before heading home around 11. A few hours later I awoke to the horrible cramps and pains I thought were now gone, but were now, in fact, accompanied with a disturbing amount of blood. I went to the doctor first thing in the morning, trudging through windy and rainy weather, and was then quickly a referral for the emergency room of the nearby hospital, St. Hedwig's. After blood tests and an ultrasound I was told (in German) by the doctor that I had an inflamed large intestine and colon, as well as enlarged lymph nodes in my lower abdomen. The young, tall doctor with thick, black-framed glasses and neatly parted hair said that they did not yet know the cause, most probably a bacterial infection but that I should prepare myself for the possibility of it being cancer, and would now be checked into a room in the hospital so I could be prepared for my colonoscopy the next day. 


Needless to say I was shocked and dismayed, when I went to bed the previous night, this is not the day I was expecting to have. German doctors do not receive much in the way of sensitivity training, and even though I knew that at age 25 the chances of me having colon cancer were extremely small, no one likes having the big C-word dropped on them with an empty stomach. I had left the apartment in such a rush that I hadn't even taken time to get something to eat, and was now being told that I would not be eating today, in preparation for the next days procedure, which was the second shock. I did not plan on having a colonoscopy for at least another two decades. I also did not realize that you have to drink a liter of a very disgusting liquid that is essentially Mr. Plumber for your Gastrointestinal Tract, twice. So I called Maeve to let her know that I was terribly sorry, but would not be able to pick up the kids that day, and probably not the next. She then had to have the kids with her during a serious and confidential meeting with the Irish Ambassador, during which little 18 month-old Caoimhe prattled away and threw things at his legs, but apparently he showed remarkable grace under fire. 

The view from my room in the hospital

I then met my roommate, Georg (pronounced "gay-org"), a stout little man of about 70 who was having similar tests as I, insisted on busing both his dishes as well as mine, and enjoyed watching courtroom TV shows, which are slightly more entertaining in German because of the language; I often think Germans are at their funniest when arguing with one another. He chuckled as he watched me drinking my Tummy Plumber, as well as every time I had to get up and use the restroom. The rush to the restroom is really annoying when you have an IV station to drag along, as is the nurses yelling at you for carrying it instead of rolling it. That night at dinner, I enjoyed a filling cup of broth while Georg ate a pork chop with mashed potatoes. I had a hard time getting to bed with the stomach pain, finally falling asleep around midnight. I was awoken the next morning at 5 for my second liter of Tummy Plumber, being told that I would have my colonoscopy later in the morning. It was December 6th, St. Nicolas Day in Germany, which means people usually get a little chocolate Santa, including me. I, however, was not allowed to eat mine, I just had to lay there looking at it while he stared back with a mocking little smirk on on his face. I thought to myself, "just you wait, fat boy, we will see who is smiling at the end of the day." 


Finally at quarter past one in the afternoon, 36 hours since I had last eaten, the nurses rolled me down to the internal medicine ward of the hospital. Thankfully I was being put under for the procedure with propofol, nowadays known as the "Michael Jackson Special." Unfortunately, they do not do it before you see the device used for the procedure, which looks like a four-foot black garden hose attached to a remote control for a Predator Drone. The doctor was named Merkel, but I did not get a chance to ask him if he was related to the Chancellor before a fuzzy wave accompanied by white noise swept over me as the propofol coursed through my veins. I woke a little more than an hour later in the hallway, next to a poster showing the various kinds of cancerous growths that can exist in the abdomen. I was still disoriented but grabbed the chart that was tucked in behind the pillow to read the results, it was short but had some key words that I was not familiar with which made it hard for me to fully understand what was being said about my large intestine and colon. I did understand that Dr. Merkel wrote they were verrottet meaning "dilapidated." Normally that would have been very concerning, but considering my toxicological state I just loudly said "fuck it" and tucked the chart back behind my pillow and closed my eyes, dreaming of the little chocolate Santa. I awoke a half hour later as I was being brought back up to my ward, but now into my own room where my things had already been moved. Dr. Merkel came in shortly thereafter and told me that the blood tests confirmed what he found, that I essentially had a very bad case of food poisoning, a bacterial infection that had inflamed my lower digestive system, and would need to stay in the hospital for a few days, isolated in my own room. I could go for walks in the hall, but only if I wore the green smock and latex gloves that the nurses wore every time they came into my room (which I declined to do). He said the fact that I had not transmitted the illness to anyone else, especially the small children I take care of, was a testament to my personal hygiene. I told him that was great, but I hadn't eaten in a day and half and wanted food NOW. He said they would bring me some in a bit but that I would have to work my way up to full meals. He left and there was only myself and the chocolate Santa, on whom I proceeded to exact my delicious revenge for his smirking.

The room where I was isolated like Quasimodo 

While waiting for the elevator on the way to my procedure, I looked out at one of the internal walls of the hospital that had purposefully not been renovated. Its read brick was badly pock-marked with bullet holes, a reminder of the battle for Berlin. After enduring a terrible bombing campaign, the ruins of the city were then the site of a weeks-long street battle that cost hundreds of thousands of lives. When allied observers first came to the city, it was so badly damaged that they thought it would have to be abandoned and rebuilt on another site, left as a ruinous monument to the folly of National Socialism. The German people had other ideas; once the bullets stopped flying and the looting of the Red Army stopped, they simply began rebuilding. Long lines of common people, handing bricks and stones off to one another, sorting and piling, formed across the city and the country. Among all the rubble there was a feeling that they could finally look to the future, that they had survived, and there was work to be done: etwas muss getan, "something must be done." From that feeling of hopefulness amid apocalyptic devastation I drew strength, which I needed because at that point I was as weak as a newborn puppy. I encourage you to Google images of Berlin at the end of the war, that it could be rebuilt is a testament to the gumption of the German people. 

"Parking Forbidden" not relevant to the post but
something I found amusing

The next four days were pretty quiet, mostly spent resting and getting IV infusions. I was alone in my room, decorated only with a crucifix, with Jesus looking at me as if to say, "you think you've got problems." I used the time as an opportunity to practice my German, I watched TV in German, spoke German with my nurses, and read a book in German that had been a birthday gift. It is called "Papanoia" a play on the word paranoia and is about an American who falls in love with a German woman, and then moves to Berlin with her in the same district as where I live, Prenzlauerberg. Looking forward to living the cool bohemian lifestyle of a young couple in Berlin, they instead soon have a baby on the way. Having recently lost his job, he has to become a stay at home dad to a precocious little girl, finding himself to be an unwelcome outsider among all the organic food obsessed yoga-moms that are his new peers. As the only male Au Pair I know, I found the story very easy to relate to. I also became a fan of a TV program about zookeepers and the animals they take care of. The best part was the narrator who sometimes voiced the assumed opinions of the animals, usually slightly sarcastically contradicting or making fun of what the zookeeper was saying in a low, slow tone of voice. Most of the people seemed to be fairly normal, except for those who worked with birds, I noticed the bird-people were odd without fail. For example, the guy taking care of the penguins who was trying to reason with the dominant penguin named Fritz, so that it would stop pushing off other penguins when they tried to climb up to the highest rock, where apparently only he and his mate Babe were allowed to stand. Other highlights included elephants enjoying being bathed with power washers because it feels like a light massage, and then get rewarded for sitting still with a snack in the form of a wheel barrow full of food. I also gained new appreciation for the term "going ape shit" after seeing what happens when you stand too close to the cage where a mother monkey has a newborn baby.

A taste of home: a chicken pot pie I made
(not the culprit of my illness)

Luckily, because I was in a smaller hospital, the food was actually pretty good and the nurses were attentive and nice, for German nurses, who tend to have a reputation for being fairly mean. They were pretty good about keeping my thermos full of tea, and would bring me extra cookies in the evening if I asked nicely, which I always do since I come from a long line of cookie scoundrels (that means you Grandpa). The worst part of the hospital stay was the daily discussion of a chart I had to fill out every time I went to the bathroom with the cute nurses who got me up in the morning. There are two dates I definitely won't have to worry about, ever. 


Finally on Friday the doctors said my blood work looked much better and agreed to let me go home and continue my recovery from there. Looking forward to a quiet evening, I received a call about an hour after getting home that some friends of ours had their apartment broken into, and that they, their Au Pair, and two little boys would be staying with us that night and would be over within 45 minutes. Just my luck...


I am doing much better now, and am almost eating normally again, I should be myself again in another week. I just have to drink lots of fluids and try to not over exert myself, not an easy thing to do with two kids whose combined age is less than 5. It was good to come back and find that I was missed, I had a panicked thought one night in the hospital that the family would figure out in my absence that they didn't really need me and I would be promptly fired upon my return. That was not the case, and tomorrow life goes back to normal. So here's too good health, washed hands, and thoroughly cooked chicken!

The Coming of Winter

The Reichstag at night, seat of the German Parliament

It's been quite a month here in Berlin. I would like to apologize for how overdue this blog is, but I've been occupied these past couple of weeks, and I don't mean that my room has been filled with people living in tents and banging on drums. Just this week I submitted an application for a scholarship from the DAAD: Deutsche Akademsiche Austausch Dienst, the "German Academic Exchange Service." Although the economic crisis has made scholarships like this more competitive than ever, I still hope that I will catch a break and get a chance to return to academia. It would allow me to pursue an MA in European-American Studies at Universität Regensburg, which is an internationally accredited degree program examining the relationship between the named continents from an interdisciplinary perspective, principally historical, political, literary, and social. Regensburg is a city of 150,000 (30,000 of whom are students) located in north-central Bavaria on the Danube river. The city is one of the best-preserved in Europe; it was relatively undamaged during WWII and it's medieval town-center is a UNESCO World Heritage site. The cities icons are it's Gothic cathedral and medieval stone bridge. In spite of it's quaint setting, the university has a reputation of being very welcoming to international students, part of a larger project by the state of Bavaria to gain more international recognition for its institutions of higher education.

"There is a life after the Euro!" The Greek-centered crisis
in the European Union leaves many Germans wanting to
return to the Deutsche Mark on the anniversary of
German reunification

This has also been a month of milestones. Caiomhe took her first steps which I was privileged enough to witness, and now she is assuredly but cautiously walking all over the place. It was also recently the 50th anniversary of the Cold War standoff that saw American and Soviet tanks lining up only a couple hundred meters across from one another at Check Point Charlie, an event preceding the Cuban Missile Crisis. Unification Day also came to pass this last month, a national holiday that is no where near as big a deal as our 4th of July. When I went out take part in the festivities, I was thoroughly underwhelmed by the celebrating or lack thereof. Germans are still fairly uncomfortable with any expression of nationalist pride, and the holiday itself is a compromise. The day the wall actually came down, November 9th, also happens to share the date of Kristallnacht "The Night of Broken Glass" which resulted in the ransacking of Jewish homes and businesses, as well as the burning of Synagogues across Germany and Austria. Therefore, the day of formal unification, which happened on October 3rd the following year, was chosen. Rather than a day of barbecuing and fireworks, it is mostly a day people spend quietly with their family and friends. There were some food/drink stands as well as a stage with music around around the Reichstag and the Brandenburg Gate in the afternoon, but the mood was still pretty reserved. By the time night came, it was all over, so I walked around and took a few pictures of Berlin at night. In another big milestone yesterday, Ireland took the Guiness Book of World Records title for having the most people dressed up as Leprechauns in one place at one time, reclaiming the title from The Tonight Show with Jay Leno and beating their count of 224 with a crowd of 246. Maeve called me to ask if there was any reporting on Irish radio of the official visit to Berlin, the preparation for which she has been working on for sometime. I unfortunately had to tell her that the live coverage of the Leprechaun story seemed to be overshadowing it, eliciting some weary laughter from her end of the line. 

A contradiction on four wheels: a Mini-Cooper SUV

Here are some other amusing stories from the past month. In Sweden, a moose was stuck in a tree after it got drunk eating the fermented apples that were still clinging to its branches and had to be removed by members of the local fire department. This is about as exciting as life gets in Sweden, once a land of fearsome vikings, now known for modular furniture and generous maternity leave. Here in Berlin, I came across another interesting animal-related story. When riding on the U-Bahn (subway), you can stare at other passengers, which is quite normal and disconcerting for people who aren't used to it, or you can look at the Berliner Fenster, meaning "The Berlin Window." It is a screen in the subway car that has a slide show of short news summaries covering headlines, sports, entertainment, the weather, and also includes a daily cartoon from around the world, a quote of the day, and advertisements. I probably average more than an hour a day on the U-bahn so I consider myself to be a Fenster connoisseur. This past week they had a slide about a local resident/weirdo who has been walking around with a goddamn parrot on his shoulder for 30 years. The last line of the story read "women may have come and gone, but the parrot has stayed with him." Really, a guy who constantly has a big, mean, squawking bird on his shoulder can't hold on to a girlfriend? It would be hard to get through an intimate evening with your feathered friend constantly whistling and butting in asking for crackers. I would like to see profiles on the women who actual gave this Jack Hanna wannabe a shot. My first instinct would be cat-ladies, but I think there would be too much conflict between the animals. Second guess would be a girl with dreadlocks and Birkenstock sandals, but the bird would probably start tearing away at her hair in an attempt to build a nest out of it. The only possible explanation would be a woman resembling the Chiquita banana lady, except for she has a bowl full of birdseed on her head instead of fruit. I think the true test of a man's appeal to the opposite sex would be if he could get women with a parrot on his shoulder, but I don't even know if a Jude Law or a George Clooney would be up to the task. Johnny Depp might be able to because of the success of those cheesy "Pirates of the Caribbean" movies, but then we just get back to the question of what kind of women would feel comfortable with the possibility of being exposed to bird lice. 


The days are getting colder and shorter, about 40 in the day and freezing at night. This means that one of my favorite Berlin activities is becoming increasingly difficult to attend, Mauerpark Karaoke. As you may remember from a previous post, Mauerpark or "wall park" sits on the former border of East/West Berlin and used to have the wall going right through it. On the outside of the stadium there is an outdoor theater capable of holding a couple thousand people, and on Sunday afternoon it is full of spectators for karaoke. The size of the audience, although friendly, means that the people who sing are (with some occasionally painful exceptions) pretty good. Others include stag or hen parties from England, and the singer has often been up for a day or two and is a few hours from crashing. There is one man who is a fixture of this Sunday afternoon ritual, a resident of Berlin named Detlef. He is a short, stout man known for his thick grey beard, usually clad in some kind of hokey-looking sweater. Every week he is met with thunderous applause as he sings the same song, "My Way" in German. I took a video of his performance a few weeks ago but am having trouble uploading it so I will attach a link to one of his YouTube videos instead (yes he has several). At the beginning of the video he says, "in daily life I actually have little contact with people, there I keep mostly to myself, and meeting new people and relations between people are something that isn't really in me. So it is something I can do better in performing before people." I encourage you to watch the entire video as he gets more and more into his performance as the song builds.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T5CNW5RBirE

Wine-Covered Hills and Seas of Tourists

Tourist hordes in Florence

In the second week of our trip to Italy we made excursions to Firenze (Florance), Siena (Sienna), and I made an overnight excursion to Bologna (Baloney--just kidding). It is said that people who visit Italy fall into two categories, those who love Florence and those who love Sienna, and I am most definitely in the latter group. 


Here are a few reasons why I'm not real big on Florence. First, you literally have to fight your way through the crowds to see the sights, many of which require long queues. While waiting in these lines, you are pestered by peddlers of all kinds, from Balkan beggars to random African dudes selling an even more random assortment of crap and who don't take no for an answer. These people arrive in a similar manner as Cubans arriving in Florida, in crappily built boats that often require rescuing, but the Italians are so laid-back they don't seem to care. There are also street "performers" doing the "see how long I can hold this pose and throw some money in the hat" routine. I get the guy who has powdered his skin completely white pretending to be a statue of Da Vinci (even though he was from the village of Vinci and not Florence), I even cut the fat guy dressed up as cupid some slack, but what does someone dressed up wearing ancient Egyptian death mask have to do with anything? Second, unlike most cities in northern Italy which are built on hilltops, Florence on a valley floor straddling a river that becomes quite stagnant in the Summer. This combined with all the tourist buses makes the place stink. The only reason why they were able to defend the city in the old days was that the surrounding mountains form a sort of outer wall for the city, and its strategic position on key trading routes ensured it always had enough money to hire top-notch mercenary armies. Third I found the city overall to be architecturally disappointing, perhaps I had been de-sensitized after being in Tuscany for so long. My expectations may have been high, but I just found it to be plainer than expected. Finally, everyone makes a big deal about the cathedral in Florence, and it is indeed very big, but save for the inside of the dome and fresco of John Hawkwood, it is pretty boring inside, nowhere near as ornately decorated as the cathedral in Sienna, which is only slightly smaller. I will concede that it is worth visiting Florence just to see it's greatest museum, the Uffizi. The Uffizi is one of the greatest art museums in the world, holding paintings such as Botticelli's The Birth of Venus and possessing one of the most comprehensive collections of sculptures you can find. Interestingly enough, there was a stone carving directly in front of the Venus expressly put there for blind people. I first thought, who would be cruel enough to bring a blind person to an art museum. Second, Venus's breasts look a little worn from all the attention they're been getting from these poor blind bastards. I only had two hours to tour it which meant I had to power walk through rooms of less interest so I could have time to take in the art that I most wanted to see, and stare into the eyes of all the busts of the Roman Emperors. Most of the sculptures there are in the Hellenistic Greek style but are actually little more than cheap 2,000 year-old Roman copies with only a handful of actual Greek statues.

Fresco of John Hawkwood
in the Cathedral of Florence

I was willing to endure the wait to get in to the cathedral just to see this fresco of John Hawkwood, and waited until lunch time to go when the wait was only 30 minutes (rather clever if I do say so myself, and I do). John Hawkwood is one of my favorite personalities from the Middle Ages. Living in the late 14th century, he was an Englishmen who traveled to Burgundy to fight in the Hundred Years War as a condottieri, or mercenary captain. He eventually made his way to greener pastures in service to wealthy city states of northern and central Italy. The Italians in that time were mostly focused on trade and much of their manpower was vested in great fleets to that effect, they used their wealth to hire private armies to do their fighting for them. These condotierri were the Blackwater of their day, commanding mercenary companies that were essentially pre-packaged armies to supplement the city-states' own militias. John Hawkwood was one of the most astute condotierri of his day, not only as a soldier but as a politician, playing the Italians off one another, accepting a contract from one city-state then demanding money from another not to attack. He was sometimes paid not to become involved in conflicts, and I admire a man whose so good at his job that he gets paid not to do it. He commanded the Papal armies for some time but his most consistent employer was Florence where he became a hero. Therefore a huge fresco is dedicated to him in the cathedral, it was originally to be a model for a bronze statue of him, the funds for which never fully materialized. 

 Cathedral of Sienna

No matter which city you love, everyone loves what lies between: the region of Chianti. On our way to Sienna, we made a couple of stops to do a bit of wine tasting. It was a beautiful day and the Italian countryside had the look and smell of California with the same tinge of unbelievable fiscal irresponsibility. At one winery, the people who went before us in the tasting were a young English couple who bought a couple of overpriced bottles, and then unsuccessfully tried to hint their way into a dip in the pool by asking if there was anywhere to swim nearby, nice try limeys! 

Beautiful floors of the cathedral in Sienna

Sienna...amore mio, I fell in love with Sienna. Perched up on a hill with most of it's walls still intact, Sienna is often overlooked by tourists and much better managed; its narrow cobblestone streets remain unmolested by tourist buses. Shortly after arriving we had one of the better Gelatos I had in Italy, although served in such a generous amount so as to make its consumption a race against time and stickiness. Sienna is a more elegant city than Florence, it is smaller, the buildings closer, the feel of the whole place is more intimate. The cathedral in Sienna is probably the most impressive I have ever seen, inside and out, it is an unbelievable ornate testament to the craftsmanship of those artisans who worked on it for generations. It was begun during the Gothic era and finished during the Renaissance and was originally intended to be the largest cathedral in the world. What exists today was actually intended to be the "arms" of the cathedral that run North-South (churches traditionally are east-oriented) but it's further construction was blocked by the papacy, which did not want it's expansion of St. Peter's to be outshone. Nonetheless, it is a gorgeous cathedral filled with ornate frescoes and unbelievable stone floors depicting biblical scenes. I was lucky to get a picture of it's green and pink marble facade basked in the light of the late-afternoon sun. After prying ourselves from the cathedral, we headed to the central plaza, the Piazza del Campo. It is home to a yearly horse race dating back centuries, in which the districts of the city are pitted against one another in a frantic stampede before a cheering mass of thousands. Our experience was much more quiet, as the sun went down we had dinner on the Piazze del Campo and I had one of the best pizzas of my life, made with bacon and mascarpone, it was also one of the most unhealthy, but I figured the red wine from the day's tasting would balance it out. On our walk back to the car I was amazed to see a store for Champion athletic wear, advertising zip-up hooded sweatshirts for 125 Euros that you could pick up at a Costco back home for $30. Then again, wine that would cost a couple bucks in Italy you'd have to give your first born son for in the US.

Me in the Piazzo del Campo

In the final days of our vacation I had the opportunity to make an excursion of my own to Bologna. A greatly under-appreciated city that is largely ignored by tourists, Bologna is considered by many to be the culinary capital of Italy, and is home to Europe's oldest university. It was a very important Medieval city so naturally I decided to make my way there. I caught the train from Pistoia and had to change in Prato. I waited on the platform for the train and noticed that it was running late, but decided to take an Italian attitude and not worry, there were about ten other people milling around waiting for the train. A few minutes later, a family from Chicago asked me if I was taking the train to Bologna and I told them not to worry that sometimes things run a bit late in Italy. Shortly thereafter, a conductor asked us if we were going to Bologna, then informed us that the train had come in on a different platform and already left, and that an announcement had been made over the loud speaker, but only in Italian. An hour later, I was on my way to Bologna. After arriving, I felt a bit pressed for time and took a taxi to the cheap little hotel I had book just outside of the walls of the old city. The woman at reception spoke no English, but after handing her my passport she found my reservation and handed me my keys. The room was Spartan, but spacious and neat, with a shared bathroom, and only 30 Euros for the night and a 20 minute walk from the city center. After grabbing a quick bite to eat and a Birra Moretti, the only Italians beer worth drinking, I headed the nearest gate and inside of the wall. Bologna is a very old city even for Italy, it feels like the buildings are looming in towards you, partially because of the beautifully decorated covered sidewalks which the city is famous for. I made my way to the central plaza with it's fountain of Neptune and cathedral, whose outer facade was unfortunately obstructed by renovations. I stopped at the nearby site of the original university, and visited the world's first operating theater where examinations of cadavers were exhibited under the watchful eye of an Inquisitor. I then headed to the renowned antiquities museum to take in some Roman and Etruscan artifacts, only to arrive ten minutes before it's 3PM closing time and being turned away. It was my own fault for not paying better attention while preparing for my excursion, but I was nonetheless forlorn and in need of spiritual renewal. So, I headed south to the Basilica d' San Dominica, wherein the Capella holds the bones of Saint Dominic, founder of the Dominican order. Saint Dominic was an ascetic, known for leading an unbelievably humble life even though he was born into a wealthy family. A student during a terrible famine, he sold his books (which would have been unbelievably valuable at the time) so that he could use the proceeds to feed the starving-poor most affected. Were he to see how unbelievably beautifully the Capella is that houses his remains, he would turn over in his ornately-decorated marble sarcophagus, for which an angel was carved by a 19-year-old Michelangelo.

A nice marble table to get carved up on

 Bologna is full of churches that aren't even mentioned on tourist maps but are nonetheless incredible edifices and examples of craftsmanship. After taking in a dizzying amount of them, I headed back to the hotel to get off my feet before heading out to take in some of the night life. I came back to the hotel and found a guy working on a Vespa in front of the door, after he saw me standing at the reception desk he came in and asked my what I needed. Thankfully he spoke very good English and was able to give me the restaurant recommendation I was looking for, something not too touristy or expensive between there and the university district. He gave me the name of a place 5 minutes away and clear directions on how to get there. I certainly got what I asked for. No one at this place spoke English, especially the staff. The very comprehensive menu was only in Italian, and after looking over it for 20 minutes I ordered some dishes that I could recognize a few words in: some kind of pasta with asparagus, some kind of meat, and red wine. I ended up with a pasta course of asparagus and squid (which thankfully I like) that was delicious, a thin-cut, pan-fried, breaded pork cutlet that closely resembled schnitzel, and a rather large carafe of wine, all for about 20 Euros. I thoroughly enjoyed my feast out on the patio as I watched a couple of silly little girls raise all kinds of hell running around, sporadically fighting with each-other, and knocking over the restaurant's potted plants. After the unexpected carafe of wine I found myself feeling quite social and headed to the university where I earlier seen a stage being set up and found they were having some kind open mic night with people reading poetry and playing music, one group actually laying down some pretty respectable blues music. I met a group of Erasmus students while there, a couple of girls, German and Dutch, and a couple of guys, Greek and Chinese. Erasmus is a program by which people study at different universities throughout the course of their degree so as to receive as diverse an education as possible. As the open mic night drew to a close we headed to a bar nearby that is well-known for doing all kinds of creative shots ranging in taste, and in the spirit of Erasmus, took in a variety of shooters, some tropical, some involving fire, some having absinthe and others whipped cream. These bartenders knew their stuff, but I guess being in one of the oldest university towns in the world sets a precedent for having good nightlife. It came time for parting ways, and I headed back to my hotel for some terrible Italian TV and to down a very large bottle of water to ensure that I caught my train in the morning, which I did, fresh as a daisy.

Capella d' San Dominico 

We headed back North the day after I returned from Bologna. Driving up through South Tirol, a German-speaking semi-autonomous region of northern Italy (and it's richest), and past Innsbruck in Austria, before stopping overnight in Munich. I had a chance to once again visit my old friends before resuming the journey with the two poor babies forced to endure such a long car ride. Being in a car with small children for 6+ hours a day is enough even to try the patience and kindness of Saint Dominic. So is trying to cram your stuff into one of those roof-rack boxes you see atop of cars, trying to perfectly jostle the contents so that everything lines up correctly and you can finally lock the damned thing. In the end Wolfram and I were triumphant, fitting all our luggage along with the wine and olive oil we brought back into the car and box, arriving in Berlin last Saturday night with our wits still about us, just a few days before Berlin Autumn's first cold kiss.