Does This Toothpaste Taste Like Anise and Other Misadventures

• · When we arrived at our new apartment we were thrilled by all it had to offer. The patio, the heated floors, furniture. As we unloaded our landlord informed us he needed to connect a part before we used the washer-dryer. Take your time, we have a washer-dryer. After spending considerable time translating each mode on its dial, we decided it was time to use it. The first load was a little confusing. The top of the load dried, but the bottom half was still extremely wet. Hmm. We must be doing something wrong. We read some more, procrastinated some more, tried a few more loads, and asked our landlord if it was spinning. He started the machine and quickly we heard the wrr of the spin cycle, so he assured us it was. We washed a few loads by hand, and tried a few more with the machine, thinking we must be misreading or doing something wrong. But the suspicion remained that something was amiss. In order to get each item wet, we turned the drum manually halfway through the cycle; maybe some extra pumping, spinning and drying cycles would help. All that ended up is a couple burn marks and some sour smelling pajamas. After 5 weeks of living in Germany, we opened the side compartment. Zero experience fixing machines (we’ve been looking for new hobbies anyway, and are soliciting recommendations) and an inability to read directions would not affect our drive for clean underpants. Looking inside there seemed to be something missing, what looked like a place for a belt that would spin the drum was empty. Turning on the spin cycle displayed the piece below the drum spinning feverishly but not connected. Upon showing the landlord, he was taken aback that there was no belt. He apologized profusely for not knowing, and promised to call the neighbor whose business is fixing these cloths cleaning contraptions. After informing him on the Sunday, the landlord and the neighbor had placed a belt on by Wednesday, completing a load that night and a couple the next day, we will have clean smelling clothes by Christmas. It’s a Festivus miracle!
• · We had planned it out well. Not only did we bring an adapter and a convertor, I also made a spur of the moment purchase of a travel power strip. I had read a New York Times travel blog about gadgets under $50. Having plans to purchase 2 of the 10 (a pocket Leatherman which I like a lot and a money clip/thumb drive which is no longer made) I bought the power strip because Amazon said that others who purchased the Leatherman would look at this item. I think it will be helpful, and in any case it looks cool. Before I began my job I decided to shave my beard, have a clean start. After I plugged the trimmers in to the power strip, the power strip into the 3-prong-to-2-prong converter, the 3-to-2 converter into the electric converter, the electric converter into the adapter, and the adapter into the wall outlet, I flipped on the switch. It sounded like a lawn mower was in our bathroom. And I am pretty sure it could be used as such. I did end up shaving; the beard was just short enough to make it through without a trim. This may lead to no haircuts, and necessitate either a long beard or shaving often enough not to rely on the trimmers. We’ll see.
• · As seasonal fans of eggnog, we spotted an interesting item in the grocery store. Sahnepunsch, literally “cream punch,” seemed like not merely our only option but also a fairly hopeful one. It even said it had egg flavor and would be good with cinnamon. Warming some on the stove, we were excited and in the spirit of the season. The sour, almost fruity, flavor, which we maybe should have guessed from the word “punch,” takes a little bit to get used to. The 9% alcohol helps. This won’t be purchased again. Instead, we tested our luck for round 2, investing in another bottle from the liquor aisle. This one being called “egg liquor,” we figured the company was at least emphasizing the right flavor this time. We weren’t buying punch, at the least. Plus the label advertised tasting good over ice cream, pudding or warm apple strudel. We could imagine eggnog working with these treats, too. Well, we opened it up Christmas day after waiting in the wind and ice for half an hour for the bus that wasn’t running. We inspected the label for heating instructions, but only learned that we should shake it. We opted for the quick microwave, and learned just as quickly that this bottle did indeed contain egg. Egg cooks quite well in the microwave. Ah, nothing like drinking egg chunks. A spoon was the best instrument to consume this “beverage” and we dumped half of our glasses down the sink. When room temperature, the treat is slightly more palatable, but it is difficult to remove the chunks from our memories. If we are to have eggnog this holiday, it seems we will have to make our own. And make it we did, shunning the fear of salmonella we gobbled this raw egg, sugar, milk, cream, and of course rum concoction pleasing our taste buds. Now this is eggnog. As of the next morning, no ill side effects.
• · On an excursion to neighboring Wulferdingsen, we stopped into a small crafty store with candles, woodwork, fabric items, wreaths and a greenhouse with plants and a bird area. As it was a few weeks before Christmas, we made plans to buy a few candles to make our own wreath. By the candles we were perusing, we saw an assortment of poinsettias. We decided to spruce up our apartment by purchasing one of the festive plants. There sizes varied from very large, to very small, we bought the smallest in a pot less than 2 inches in diameter, acknowledging we had neither another pot, nor extra soil to transplant it. Hoping for the best, we placed our Christmas plant in a teacup on our table. We watered it, tried to place it where it would get adequate sun. I tried to do little, since I have a way of “helping” a plant more than it needs. But one by one the leaves curled and either fell or were plucked off. Alas, by the 25^th only a few red petals and one or two crumpled leaves remained.

In Search of Tradition

I never felt like my family had any real traditions for the holidays. We did the same thing each year, but nothing I knew of had been passed down through generations or originated in the homeland. Some families ate special meals, the way the grandparents had as children, and the great grandparents and back as far as people knew. My family had a routine. No traditions, just routine.

As I celebrate from a distance this year, my understanding of Christmas is evolving. I am imagining my family going through the motions as every year and longing to be a part of it. And now I know that I appreciate this routine, a routine that is my tradition, however recent or understated. The routine is rich because we follow it in love and compassion. It is rich because it is familiar and therefore comforting. If it does not feel like Christmas without it, it must be valuable and impactful. And isn’t that the point of tradition, after all? Tradition gives us a sense of where we came from, a meeting point for family. It allows us to connect with a past that brought us into our present, and sense that we are grounded.

This year, as I picture years passed, I appreciate the routine as something beyond this. I imagine standing at church with my candle lit, singing “Silent Night” with my mom and sister. I feel the drive home Christmas Eve, my eyes demanding sleep as I hear Christmas tunes on the radio and finally give in as the winding road to Silverado lulls my body into sleep. I picture sitting on the couch, opening Aunt Shawn’s gift, the allotted sneak-peak. My mom and sister watch the Pope even though we aren’t Catholic, then I drag up to bed, leaving them to their last-minute wrapping. I picture rising in the morning to wake Whitney, eventually opening stockings, then moving on to the presents under the tree. I see the tears elicited from just the right present and Dabney tearing open the tissue to find his new squeaker toy. Then it’s time for cinnamon rolls and a fried egg, mine over-hard. I smell the bacon and hear the pops as my mom bastes their eggs in the grease. Though I’ve wished the day were fluid in years past, lamenting the awkward switch from my mom’s to my dad’s house, I even long for the drive to my dad’s this year. I hear the Christmas CD I burned in high school blaring from the speakers as I drive the half hour to start celebrating all over again. I greet my dad by ringing the doorbell incessantly. He opens the door with a goofy look on his face and we soon begin an early dinner. We open presents and I anticipate the one strange gift, like an umbrella with silk flowers hanging all the way around. As I picture the routine, I am realizing that it is in fact the tradition I have longed for.

When we looked forward to our time in Germany, knowing we would miss Christmas with our families, I was eager to witness a true German Christmas. Perhaps I would find the tradition I had longed for, something to bring home with us and integrate into the routine next year. I wanted to find a way to celebrate in the way my ancestors had. In Germany, they celebrate Christmas on Christmas Eve. Some businesses are closed for a few days following, but life pretty much continues as normal after those few evening hours. We were fortunate to join Michael and Barbara’s family for their celebrations. They brought us to church with them, where we sang traditional German hymns, including “ O Come, All Ye Faithful” auf Deutsch. Then we went to their home, met Michael’s parents, and had champagne and crackers as we stood around the living room and distributed presents. Afterwards, we moved to the table and enjoyed a meal of creamy soup, a traditional French meat dish (mushrooms for me), salad, and a combination of fruit and cream for dessert. They said the most traditional Christmas meal for Germans is Bratwurst and potato salad, but it’s not their thing. Sufficiently stuffed, we sat around the table, drinking wine, chatting and listening as each of the four children grudgingly played their musical instruments.

As I soaked in our German Christmas experience, it struck me that their tradition, which I had eagerly awaited, was not far from my own. They did not eat the traditional meal or anything passed down through the generations. They opened presents in their own way, ate what felt celebratory to them, and made music, a simple expression of life’s abundance. I felt myself longing for my flute, so I could play “Angels from the Realms of Glory” for my mom as she wrapped presents or cooked. I had longed for tradition shared by my ancestors. I thought I would find this in Germany, but I found instead that tradition can be more universal than this. Families worldwide create tradition anew, and despite cultural differences, we find common ways to share our love and wealth with loved ones. We share music and talents and food that feels right and conversation, and in it all, we find that we are experiencing something rich and abundant, even if it takes time or distance to recognize that this is home.

Updated Photos

We added some more pictures to our facebook album.

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2560413&id=1210796&l=647e5ebb35

Love,

Bryce and Dan

Dan and Bryce Stay Out Past 5

We were beginning to doubt those “plays well with others” remarks on our report cards, but we’re happy to say that we’ve redeemed our social lives. We spent last night drinking beer, talking politics and stereotypes and connecting over family and life with our new friends, David and Nadine. Well, Nadine skipped the beer drinking because she’s due in a month. David works with me and invited us to come over for dinner. Nadine’s sister and brother-in-law live in Philadelphia and he’s therefore developed a love for America. They both speak English quite well, which is a bonus for Dan-inclusive conversation. Their 2 ½ year-old son, Cedric, also offered his opinion now and again. He’s a stereotypical blond German kid, so cute that we could only laugh when he started acting quite his age. David told us that we were the first coworkers he’d invited over (in 6 years), but he could tell we had similarities and would get along…and people don’t expect Germans to be nice! We went home this morning with their spare DVD player in hand and a set of English movies to get us started. Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Ice Ice Baby

It’s funny the opportunities that suddenly arise in your life when you move to a foreign country and your friends are teachers. Yesterday I went iceskating with a class of 11 and 12 year-olds. Barbara, the wife of the man who found us our jobs, apartment, etc. teaches English, Religion and Latin at the Gymnasium (German school for 11-19 year olds). She invited me along on her class’s fieldtrip, and having nothing but grad school applications planned for the day, I gladly accepted.

When she picked me up, she warned me that her daughter had told her friends that I was coming and could not speak any German so they were all very excited to use their English. At the beginning, they smiled shyly and kept to themselves. I skated around, reveling in the outdoor experience I had missed as a kid and listening to the appropriate Vanilla Ice jam playing overhead. After half an hour on the ice, one girl finally asked me what my name was. More time passed, then finally, as though choreographed, a group of almost 10 girls surrounded me and started asking questions, whatever introductory conversation they could think of. It was clear they’d been talking about me amongst themselves, trying to work up the nerve to approach me. They were awestruck when I said I was from California, and of course wanted to know if I’ve ever met anyone famous. Oh yes, all the time. The best may have been when they asked if I could speak German and wanted me to say something. It’s like Americans do to people whose native language is not English, but they wanted to hear their own language. I think they didn’t quite understand why someone would study German as a foreign language. I felt the same pressure of “what do you want me to say?” so I just told them I’d studied German for 6 years and could say a lot. They were impressed. Woot.

I felt pretty awesome, too, when Marie, the girl who first broke the ice, invited me to walk around the town square with her group of friends. She pretty much loved me. Gosh, I am awesome. I hit my peak in popularity around that age in school; I guess some things never change.

Other than that, I am looking forward to asking Barbara’s youngest kid, Josephina, about her boyfriend. My new best friends pointed him out on the ice rink. She’s really shy around me, so it ought to make for a great conversation. I think I’ll bring it up at the dinner table next time we’re over.