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.