Rome

We love to travel – I guess that much is clear by now – and so, to the horror of my mother (“you are going away – again???”) we took off for Rome the day after Christmas.  I have been to Rome before – more years ago than I care to admit during the equivalent of my senior year in high-school.  I loved Rome.  Loved it with all the enthusiasm and undying devotion of a small town girl spending time in a big city – with her friends, not with her parents – for the first time.

But besides the delicious freedom to do stupid things (like piling into a Fiat 500 with six people, three of them guys we had just met) there was something more profound about Rome that attracted me, geek that I was even then.  The fact that you turn some random corner to stumble over a column 2000 years old or a fountain – if not by the great Bernini himself so at least by one of his more talented students – history was ever present, real and tangible reaching from classical times throughout all of European history.  Rome ever after had a special place in my heart, a place that no other city could touch – not Paris with its grandiose architecture, not London with all its wonderful museums, not Prague that seemed so unbelievably authentic and different back then when it was still the capital of Czechoslovakia and not San Francisco – beautiful city that it is but so devoid of history that reaches further back than the early 20th century.

Therefore it was with some trepidation that I went to Rome – would it live up to the standard, would it still prove to be special?

I am happy to report it did.  It is a marvelous city, a place so full of history that just walking around feels like a history lesson without the tediousness.  Despite being a big city Rome can be explored by foot if one doesn’t mind a good hike to work up an appetite for pizza or pasta later.  Walking through the narrow streets, turning a corner and finding oneself of one of the many piazzas small and big, unknown or world famous is what makes the Rome experience so special. I am partial to the antique Rome rather that the Catholic Rome and so the Colloseum, Forum Romanum, the Catacombs and Ostia Antica where high on our list.  Despite that focus on the antique it is impossible to not be in awe (and scared of) of the wealth and power displayed by the churches, especially St. Peters.  It brought me a little closer to begin to understand the power the church held – and to some extend is still holding – over ordinary people and how frightening and unreachable its higher ups were and how much the church dominated life down to every detail.

But despite all this, the churches at every corner there is an undeniable joy in life that I have – during my formative years – come to associate with southern countries, esp. Italy.  It’s noisy, a bit chaotic, the buses go when they go (instead of every hour at 07, 22, 37 and 52 mins as they would in Germany) and I am glad I don’t have to deal with the bureaucracy there – but they sure know how to make ice-cream!

I come back from Rome still in awe so many years later, frustrated by too many tourist but with the definite plan to go back in the not so distant future during off-peak season.

Here are some pics from our trip.

150 ice cream flavors – we couldn’t resist even though it was cold

Caracallas therme – lovely and impressive and blissfully few tourists

The underground of the Colloseum

Vestia temple at the Forum Romanum

inside St. Peter – doves, sign of peace, everywhere

Forum Romanum

Free New Year’s concert at the Spanish Steps. Singing the National Anthem.

Ostia Antica – and amazing glimpse into life in Rom 2000 years ago,

New Years parade – Indian bag piping group from London

St. Peters

Swiss Guard protecting a Pope who with his controversial statements and message of poverty and humbleness needs protection more than many before him.

 

 

 

 

The List

So it is the three of us and 2 home offices on about 850 sqm. Not exactly a lot of space to spare – at least by Californian standards. The weather is grey, humid and cold and dryers do not exist. So I hang my laundry on little laundry rack things that – during the nice season – I put out on the balcony for relatively quick drying. It works – sort of – though my mom insists that I should be ironing all the t-shirts and pants, in fact pretty much everything.  In fact the laundry isn’t as nice and wrinkle-free as the one I pull out of the dryer at home. Just for clarification, though, I do not iron. I despise ironing and it is only done under extreme duress in my house.

The laundry rack in the living room will likely be a fairly permanent installation throughout winter and early spring.

But now we have that grey, nasty stuff going and the balcony option does not exist anymore. So it is hanging the laundry on the rack thingy in the living room but then we can’t see the TV anymore or taking it down to the special laundry hanging room in the basement. Not super convenient but doable.

So over the last few week I wash and haul down and hang and all is well until the other day I get down to the room with an armful (literally, the basket was full with other stuff upstairs) of clean wet laundry to find the darn place full to the last centimeter of hanging space. Geek-boy is trailing behind me. I offer a few choice words for commentary of the kind that I probably should not utter in geek-boys presence and start ranting about how inconsiderate the (…) neighbors are to take up all the space.

“Mom …” geek-boy pipes in “there is a list.”

“What (…) list are you talking about?” I reply annoyed, clean laundry slipping from my arms and me desperately looking for some place to deposit it.

“Here is a list on the wall that says when we can wash and hang laundry.” Geek-boy says absentmindedly because by now he is intently studying the list (he loves lists).

“So, we could have washed last week Tuesday and Wednesday and the next time we are allowed to wash is a couple of weeks from now.”

I stare at the list and wonder whether I just got sucked into some short-story by Kafka or something. There, in front of my very eye is indeed a list that tells me that I could have washed last week during two very busy days and in a couple of weeks when we’ll be away. Then there is one 2-day period in December and then we are into the new year.

I struggle for composure, seriously, still trying to keep the laundry slipping from the pile in my arms. I finally put down it down on a washing machine (not super clean but better than the floor where it would have otherwise ended up) and stare some more. Then I carefully check the neighbors big linen sheets – dry – take them down, fold them more nicely than I would have folded my own and hang my own laundry in the little space created.

We run our errand and then I go ring the neighbors door bell to apologies profusely for displacing some of their laundry from its rightfully claimed space. I mention my unawareness of “The List” and see the complete lack of comprehension in the neighbor’s face. How could I have not known about The List? How did I not intuitively comprehend that there had to be The List? How else did I think people could organize their laundry business if not by The List that gets posted in January and is valid for a whole year?

And here I am and the thought of The List had never even crossed my mind and I still can’t shake this feeling of absurdity when I think of The List.

So, I guess, at least in winter, in addition to holidays, school vacation, work requirements and alike I will have to schedule my trips – business or pleasure – around The List. At least if I want clean sheets and towels.

Rules and Regulations

Piazza San Marco – almost empty. What a sight, even in the dark and rain.

Naïve as I sometimes am I thought and hoped that some of the buttons my parents used to push so successfully during my formative years had ceased to exist or healed over enough to no longer be readily pushable . Naïve – I admit as a recent episode shows.

It began most harmless the other day when I told my parents that I had booked an apartment for three nights in Venice for a long weekend. In my experience late November is the only time to visit Venice if you really want to stand a chance to encounter the occasional local, not just busloads of tourists from all over the world.

“But geek-boy is in school” my mother saw fit to say. I stare at her blankly. “So?” I think “One Friday away won’t damage his academic performance and a trip to Venice is way more educational than six hours of school, even if it is a double Latin.” Outwardly I continue to stare blankly and say something like “I’ll just take him out of school for a day.” I am thinking of California where this is accepted practice on occasion, sometimes life just interferes with schedules.

By now my mother looks highly alarmed “But they don’t like that.” she states. Such statements bring out the worst in me: trying to regiment my life by stating the likes and dislikes of some abstract entity referred to as “they” which could be the catholic church, the members of some club or association, the totality of all our neighbors or, like in this case, the school system of Baden Wuerttemberg just brings back teenage years and all the “one just does not do that” sermons I had to endure. With that comes teenage obstinacy.

“I don’t care what ‘they’ like” I can’t help but saying. Creating more alarmed faces, “they’ll” just have to deal with it.” Now I am on a role, words starting with f and b (bloody bastards being the friendly variation) come to mind and want out but are held back at the very last second.

I know it is futile to argue and so does my mom and so gladly after a little more sparing the topic gets changed but leaves me with the distinct feeling that as a mother I am a lousy role model and will be single-handedly through this act of defiance ruin my child’s chances in life – or worse yet, risk “their” wrath which will come done in full force on the innocent child.

Needless to say, we went to Venice, it was fun and way more educational than double Latin class and we had the chance to see San Marco Square pretty much empty. Okay, it was on a Friday in late November, after dark and it was raining. But still ….

A week in France isn’t a good time to start a diet

Ever being the Californians we decided short notice (absurdly short notice, as in the week before) to take a week off and drive over to the Alsace region of France and easy two-and-a-half hour drive from where we are. There are tons of vacation apartments (gites) in this area but all but three got eliminated on the particular site I was using due to the high-speed wireless internet connection requirement.  ever the Californians ….

So we piled way too much luggage in the car and off we went. It was four of us, my best friend since middle school days joining us as well.

Now, there is much than could be said about France in general and the Alsace in particular but I’ll condense it. First I have to mention that despite three years of French in school (or rather because of it) I have a rather broken relationship with the language. I hated and feared French classes and always skirted an F.  After three years I was able to drop it and it was one of the best days of my school career which wasn’t very distinguished but ended well after French (and Latin) were gone. Anyways, I have never managed to mend my relationship with French always maintaining that I will learn Mandarin or Arabic before I learn French. This time I thought that – maybe – I could learn to understand it and maybe read it. Who knows, three more visits and I will get comfortable with the notion that maybe one day I might be able to say a couple of sentences.

So, this goes to say that I didn’t feel quite as awkward as I thought I would despite the fact that the French must have thought me weird because I kept answering in Spanish, when addressed in French.

The Alsace is beautiful, great for hiking, lovely little towns and villages which – in late October – were only somewhat inundated with tourists; in summer, I am sure they must be quite unbearably flooded.  They have lovely old houses there, many nicely restored, many of the little towns look like right out of a picture book.

We went on lovely hikes in beautiful terrain, not Alpine but still rugged and demanding, with lovely vistas. Old castles and ruins abound and the aforementioned little towns to visit afterwards for a coffee and a petit pain au chocolate.

Despite my broken relationship with French and basically most things French I have always loved French cheeses – and, boy, they are every bit as good as I remembered them. The prices, despite France not being cheap at all, are fantastic. I basically got three to four times as much cheese per dollar as in the US. And: I can get them all, all the good goat cheeses as well as my all-time favorite, the Chaource, which I can hardly even get in the US and if I can find it it’s worth its weight in gold (well almost).

The food in general, is fantastic, the pates, the nice cold cuts, did I mention the cheeses, cakes, chocolate, wine, I could go on. The operative sentence of the week was uttered by my friend, who constantly tries to go on a diet and generally fails before starting in earnest “a week in France is not a good time to start a diet”. I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Geek-boy was also pretty content with the situation and hiked like a pro, no whining, no complaining and we did serious tours. He, who can never be for more than a few minutes without holding something in his hands (compulsive, ever since he was a tiny little baby) found another endearing French quality. Standing in the middle of a forest trying out a whole bunch of sticks (Geek-boy always has at least two to three sticks in his hands while hiking) he proclaimed “Man, the French have good sticks.”

A good number of these sticks are now under his bed back here at home, a good stick can’t be left behind, we learned that many years ago.

So, in all it was a pleasant week, with good hikes and good food and I might actually be tempted to give France another try in the not so distant future. As to French – not ready to sign up for classes just yet.

 

Lovely little town in the Alsace

One of many cute houses, nicely restored and presented

Half-timbered houses are typical for the area as well as southern Germany and Austria.

All the spices in the world – but for Mexican ones. Sigh!

even as a German I have to admit: good bread

Oh, the cheeses! Just look at all the cheeses!

 

I can’t remember when I last saw somebody pay cash in a Californian supermarket. Must have either been in the eighties (although I wasn’t there to witness it) or a child buying a candy bar or something. One pays with credit cards and that is that. Regardless, in the few instances that somebody actually desires to pay with cash (me, on occasion, I have to admit) the sum seems to always be something like $4.26 or $10.01, in short, something that will put a heck of a lot of small coins in your wallet unless you have a 1 cent piece. As a rule, one never has 1 cent coins unless a) one is abroad or b) pays with credit card or c) one’s spouse has in excess of 10 of them for some unfathomable reason. That’s when the little jars with 1 cent coins by the register come in handy. Leave the one you get paying that $9.99 total with a $10 bill – take one in the above $4.26 or $10.01 situation. Love it. Convenient, logical at no cost, basically (well, the occasional cent). Total win-win.

Here cards are used as well, but a lot less. Merchants hate credit cards because of the fees but bank cards are used reasonably frequently although I manage to mangle up my pin basically every other time having to re-input under the glaring stares of the shoppers behind me who view my behavior as an deliberate plot to willfully waste their time.

A cent piece in need of a jar.
(c) Tina Baumgartner

Rummaging through the wallet and pulling out 23 one cent pieces and a similar number of 2 and 5 cent pieces to come up with €1.89 for two packages of gummibears is, however, completely accepted and does not elicit any type of stares and glances (other than from me). It is what the diligent German Hausfrau does to lighten the coin burden of her wallet and it is also considered a public service as it supplies the cashiers with the small change direly needed in case a schmuck like me shows up and pays a 10.01€ Euro bill with a tenner note and a Euro piece for 99 cents in change.

Just today I was in line behind a guy (not particularly cute, if you should wonder) in a 10.01 € type situation and after some unsuccessful rummaging by him I took out my wallet and handed him a cent. He basically couldn’t believe his luck. Nobody, it seems, had ever offered him a 1 cent piece in a situation like this. The cashier had a similar incredulous facial expression leading to my conclusion that most likely nobody has ever offered anybody else a 1 cent piece in the history of modern German retailing.

Which brings me back to the jar – the logical, mutually beneficial, practically cost-free solution to all our cent problems (or most of them). Can we just adopt the jar here, please?

I was about to suggest this to the cashier but stopped myself suddenly realizing that being such a smart-ass bringing in those American habits would – in one fell swoop – destroy, in fact obliterate, any good will I just created by my 1 cent gesture.

Let the rummaging continue!

Trying to be a good expat

I am an American citizen, actually a fairly recent American citizen but still and therefore I am an expat here in German, just as much as I was an expat in the US (I am, of course, a German citizen as well). So basically wherever I live I am an expat. Kind of an intriguing idea, actually.

So anyway, while being an American expat living in Germany I am trying to be a good citizen and my opportunity arrived recently in form of a fat old envelope containing my absentee ballots for the November election.

Man, that’s intimidating stuff! It comes with an 80 page (you read that right!) instruction and explanation booklet presenting arguments for and against all the propositions, statements from all of the people who want to be elected and all is very well laid out and all of that but it’s still 80 – eight – zero pages of stuff to read and process.

Now I always tell geek-boy that there are two things I am sure as hell am not namely lazy and dumb and two graduate degrees should be ample prove of that – but this is taxing. Seriously. Here I am sitting on a Saturday evening, dinner in oven awaiting guests trying to figure out the pros and cons of another Indian casino in California that is not, like all the others, on tribal land. Great source of revenue for the state? Huge nuisance to the residents (for sure), dangerous precedent potentially bringing a casino to a neighborhood near us some time soon (don’t worry, says geek-husband, too many Indians in our neighborhood, they don’t gamble)?

And how about that health insurance thingy, more oversight, always a good idea, but then, maybe too much is bad and conflicting agencies trying to do the same thing and getting into each other’s way. Whom can one trust , the nurses association or the California OBGYN society (made that up, any resemblance with real organizations like that is purely a coincidence)?

I think I need to go to the kitchen, the food needs attention and that trumps, for right now, good citizenship. But the clock is ticking and so I better make up my mind, pronto.

Weird Stuff

“Tank & Cut” – not the new innovation in service, if you ask me
(C) Tina Baumgarter

Every once in a while here in Germany I come across something that makes me stop in my tracks and stare – maybe even with an unbecomingly open mouth and an overall slightly brain-dead expression. The first such occasion happened fairly soon after we arrived here. I left the hardware store (what else) and my eye fell on the gas station across the street where I realized that a hair dresser – of all things – was trying to create a symbiotic relationship with the gas station. All under the idiotic and completely wrong slogan “tank & cut”. To understand the degree of idiocy you must know that “tanken” means to gas up in German. Now I can’t make up my mind whether I find it weirder that somebody uses English in their slogan for a German hairdressing service without bothering to check with somebody who actually speaks the language with a certain degree of fluency whether what they are saying actually makes any sense or the fact that somebody seems to think that there is indeed a certain logic to getting a haircut while gassing up, or before or after. Just imaging the following conversation:

“Oh, honey, now that we are here at the gas station I’ll go and get a quick perm.”

“Why, darling, what a great idea, I think I get a trim as well.”

Makes perfect sense, now, doesn’t it.

The latest such weird moment happened the day before yesterday. I went to a toy store with geek-boy to buy play-doh (what we need that for is a blog for another day) and while there we had fun looking at all the stuff on sale. A rather large section had lots of model train related products (at absurd prices I might add) including the usual trains and tracks plus all the little houses, trees and people to decorate the scene. All very cute and ever so detailed and – actually – a wee bit obsessive to me. I stared in disbelief at tiny plastic flowers, pets, intricate trees, firemen, retirees, kids, families in single and multipack when my eyes came to rest on a selection of nudists some quite overweight.

Nudists for your model train! You never knew what you missed.
(c) Tina Baumgartner

I am no prude, seriously, but a selection of nudists for your model train landscape?. There is something really weird about this. More disconcerting even a selection called “bathroom stories” depicting, well, just that. I’ll spare you the picture I took but it more than borders on the tasteless, weird and possibly even kinky.

So on we went, though selections of My Little Pony, board games, Pokemon cards and stuffed animals to pay for our play-doh. Problem is I really can’t unsee the stuff I saw in the ever so harmless sounding model train section.

Weekend Trip Recap

Once in a while one encounters a place that is such a perfect embodiment of an idea that it almost seems unreal, like the place is trying to mock itself by shamelessly overdoing it.

This weekend we visited such a place – and I am not just speaking of Ludwig’s castle Neuschwanstein but the whole area around it called Allgaeu.  It is rolling hills and happy cows, churches, fountains made from hollowed out tree trunks and free-ranging chickens, farm houses where each son of the family learned a different trade and so they all band together, bring their friends and build their own houses (to code, not just some artsy-fartsy shacks).  It is a place where villages are old and build around the churches, the home of amazing bakery products and meat-and-potato/dumpling dishes like you wouldn’t believe it.  This is where the streets are full of cow shit and nobody minds and of profuse flower pots on each and every balcony.  This is where – if one were to believe in such things – one would want to be reincarnated as a cat on such a farm.

Behind the rolling hills far enough away not to cast too much of a shadow rise the raggedy Alps providing a dramatic backdrop to all that absurd idyll.  This were geek-boy decided that he liked rural and could live in such a place (I let that one go) and geek-husband declared that this was ridiculously idyllic (no mention of moving there, I think he realizes that high-speed Internet access is not up to expectations).

We hiked for hours and finally ended up at the famous castle. It is amazing – and a bit of a let down at the same time.  Here we were on a grey mid-October day and the place was crawling with tourists.  I can’t even imagine what this looks like on a sunny July day.  They might have to close the road to walk up because there are so many people. Of course, I understand and of course I can’t judge because we were tourists, too, and of course the place is otherworldly somehow but in the end I enjoyed the villages cum cow shit and the rolling hills with raggedy mountains towering over them more.  Maybe we have to go back in like late November, maybe then one gets the castle without the crowds and a bit more of an idea of how it must have all felt when Ludwig was frolicking around there (I assume he was frolicking, I mean, why wouldn’t he).

So, today a few pictures which because of the grey skies – being the worst for a photographer – don’t do reality justice.

 

More Neuschwanstein on a grey October day
(c) Tina Baumgartner

Neushwanstein on a grey October day
(c) Tina Baumgartner

Can’t even call it a village – no street names, just house numbers
(c) Tina Baumgartner

Across he border in Austria – just as idyllic
(c) Tina Baumgartner

Happy Allgaeu cow in evening light.
(c) Tina Baumgartner

historic and idyllic
(c) Tina Baumgartner

pretty art deco details on the local pharmacy
(c) Tina Baumgartner

Tourist on the Marienbruecke, on a grey October day, more kept storming on until there was hardly any moving anymore
(c) Tina Baumgartner

this is how I want to be reincarnated
(c) Tina Baumgartner

 

I am getting my mojo back

German guaca – came out alright

To get my cooking mojo back I made guacamole.  What better to get one’s Californian cooking mojo back than guaca with the possible exception of California roll? (which is a bit ambitious but I did find a source of nori and I brought Wasabi from California – and I found it here – but making the rice just right will be a lot of hassle if I remember correctly)

It came out rather decent, really, and the question was: will the chips be any good? And I am happy to report that they were and the whole thing tasted just fine, in fact, tasted totally California.  To offset this exotic cuisine we had bread dumplings with chanterelle creme sauce and bacon for main course and now I am indecently stuffed and can’t possible write any more.

But the signs are good that the cooking mojo might come back!

 

 

The Art of Cooking

Something really strange is happening: I can’t cook anymore. I mean, I guess I can still cook but it is not easy and natural anymore. Back home in California it has – at times – been hard to think of something to prepare and I remember frantic searches on the Internet and leafing through cook books just to come up with nothing and then ending up preparing pasta. But I also remember times when we needed dinner and nobody had gone shopping and I just opened the fridge and the freezer and grabbed some stuff and came up with a dinner that everybody – including picky “I hate veggies” geek boy liked. In my blissful memory the latter scenario is much more frequent than the former.

Another day another Schnitzel (c) Tina Baumgartner

And now I am stuck in scenario 1 – pasta with meat sauce. It is literally all I can ever come up with, well there is Schnitzel and sandwiches – but sandwiches don’t count as cooking, really. I wreck my brain to think of what I prepared at home in California and I draw a blank. Pasta? Schnitzel? I know there was other stuff, and it wasn’t sushi because we go out for sushi. Maybe it was fajitas, that must be it and fajitas is really not much of an option here, but then fajitas were prepared every other week at best. So what is different, what turned me into this unimaginative non-cook?

I can only speculate. The kitchen is tiny, I mean “bump into each other when turning around” tiny. Just a few minutes ago I felt like yelling at geek-boy to get the hell out of the darn kitchen because between his dad and myself there simply wasn’t enough space for a third person.

I also don’t have the provisions I have in California where I have stuff in the pantry and the freezer, where I actually have a pantry and a freeze which deserve the names.

Then there is all that German food that I am all of a sudden apparently expected by the world to prepare. I go to the store and find “Sauerbraten” spices (Sauerbraten is a special kind of German roast that is marinated in wine and/or vinegar overnight to make it slightly sour. It is eaten with Knoedel). I haven’t made a Sauerbraten in like – ever, literally and since I moved to the US I made Knoedel once. I mean, seriously, Sauerbraten spices?? The flip side is that I can’t find the stuff I need for survival. Today I was trying to find Tapatio – no luck, neither did I get Tajin, my favorite spicy, limey Mexican spice – and soy sauces comes in tiny bottles.

Of course, one can argue that it is possible to cook without Tajin and maybe it is indeed. I am about to find out.