It is getting real

“The Golden State” – what’s not to love about it?

What I thought would be the biggest obstacle to our move has almost overnight solved itself.  A combination of my superior powers of persuasion and tenacity (in other words, staying on my mom relentlessly to use her network) and dumb luck (or as my highschool drop-out father likes to say charmingly to his Ph.D. daughter “girl, you got more luck than smarts”) I found us a house to rent.  It is expensive and compromises will have to be made but to the utter disbelieve of my local friends I found us a house in one of the most desirable neighborhoods.  I should be ecstatic.

I am glad.

I am freaked.

I will have to leave California.  I am not sure I can.  I love California.  The weather is wonderful and where will I get sushi, and Pho and there are no TJ’s in Germany and I can’t go shopping on Sundays and – oh my god, the weather, its freezing there now and I walk around in a short sleeve T here.  For a year I won’t see the Pacific, or the Sierra Nevada (Alps, I know), no Yosemite, no desert, no Redwood trees, no San Francisco, no … so many things.  I don’t know where to start.

My liberal friends and I (just to get one thing out of the way, I wear the label liberal with pride!) have complained so many times about politics here in this country but now I am thinking, it ain’t so bad, there are idiots in Germany, too, who have a tendency to flock into politics.  Moreover I don’t really live in America.  I live in California, coastal California.

It’s stupid, I know, I should be thrilled and on one level I am but the idea of leaving California is very unsettling.  I keep mumbling to myself  “I’ll be back” and then reminding myself that I really shouldn’t quote Arnie, like, ever.

Today I hit on another permutation of the theme.  We went to have Mexican food for lunch.  Not my favorite food but I do love Mexico.  We spent quite some time there years ago.  So I started thinking “Germany is so far from Mexico.  I’ll miss Mexico, darn, I miss it already”  and then went back to the comfort of  “it’s only for a year.  I will be back.”

Maybe I was right when I first came to California all these years ago and thought, knew and felt instinctively  “this is where I belong.  If live was fair, this is where I would have been born.”

Road Trip, Part II

Darwin Falls, just outside Death Valley National Park at the very end of a Canyon, pic: mine

I love National Parks, Monuments, Forests, whatever – they are grand, wonderful places with unique landscapes – or as in the case of Death Valley it seems more like a moonscape – stunning views, and sights that can simply not be found anywhere else in that abundance and perfection.

National Parks are also wonderful places for people watching – believe it or not.  How people approach National Parks is rather interesting.  Let’s leave aside for a moment those, who do not ever visit National or State or any other Parks and focus on those who go.  There are a few noteworthy types.  One type I always marvel about are the Indian ladies in their saris and sandals.  Now that makes sense in summer in Death Valley but I have seen them in the middle of winter at Lassen National Park, walking on what must have been 8 feet of snow.  So here I am in an undershirt, a t-shirt, a sweat shirt, a light jacket and a down jacket and three pairs of socks in my sturdiest hiking boots on snow shoes and there they are in a sari, a knit cardigan and strappy sandals.   I saw them again in Death Valley – and mind you in an unseasonably cold December temps where close to freezing.  I shiver just thinking about this choice of outerwear.

Another type are the gear heads.  They are predominantly male and seem to hail from all races.  We were puttering around the sand duns in Death Valley – a smallish area in the bigger scheme of the park, where mainly families go so the kids can play in the wonderfully fine sand and roll down the dunes – and there I saw two guys, decked out like on a Himalaya expedition hiking (walking really) into the dunes.  We are talking 2 pm and they have head lamps at the ready, hiking poles in both hands, performance clothing, water for days, backpacks large enough to have food for a three course meal plus wine and digestives in them.  And I wonder whether this is because they actually believe that leaving the car in a places as inhospitable as Death Valley is a virtual death sentence or whether they just like to buy gear.  I think it is the later, judging from the males in my life ….

The type that puzzles me are the rest area only visitors – which I think is by far the largest group.  They basically drive from vista point (as we call it in California) to vista point, preferring those with pick-nick tables and/or views of waterfalls.  They seem to make it a rule to never walk more than 200 feet after they are out of the car, then they have a quick glance around, take a dozen pictures or so and retreat to the car to drive to the next point of interest.  Daring things, like actual walks/hikes are not on the program.

Then there are the like so us, who actually hike, ideally to the end of the canyon, even if it is blocked by boulders, or icy areas.  Our rule of thumb has been for years now that you loose about 80-90% of the people for the first  mile you go.  So of 100 only 10-20 will still be with you at the 1 mile marker. After that, the attrition rate is lower, as these are often pretty determined individuals but I would still put it at about 50%.  So you do the math but one thing is for sure, it does not take terribly long to be almost alone.

Every once in a big while you come across an extreme hiker, one of those “crossing the Sierras with a daypack” guys, who have been on the road – or rather path – for days and look unwashed but exceedingly fit and healthy.  Those I envy a bit, as I can’t put up with that level of discomfort just to be able to say “I crossed the Sierra Nevada in winter on skies.”

But whatever the visitors – National Parks are amazing places!

Road Trip

We are on a road trip right now.  A very American thing to do and – I have to admit – I like them, too.  I spent too much time in air planes anyway and the idea of just throwing stuff into the trunk and not debating with my son whether we can take this book or that, and be able to add this extra pair of hiking boots makes things easier.

Also, road trips are much more educational.  On one many years ago (before the son) my husband and I ended up in a small town in Utah.  It was Saturday night, we’ve had early dinner (there were two options: early dinner or no dinner, so we choose the first) and now felt ready to crash in our Motel with a book and a bottle of red wine.  So we went to the local store and started rummaging the shelves coming up empty handed.  I asked the cashier where he kept the wine.  He made a very serious face, said “come with me”, walked us out of the store, pointed south and said: “if you take this road and drive south for about 200 miles – that’s where you can buy wine.”  I learned something there – I never go on a road trip again without a few bottles of wine.

Today, we ended up in a town in the south-eastern Sierra, outside Sequoia National Park but not in Death Valley National Park yet.  The claim to fame of this town is a naval base, which is somewhat surprising as the Pacific is about 180 miles away and the promised lake is no more (it has been dried out for many years).  It is one of these places that lack all charm and character and are populated by a very surprising number of auto parts stores.  But then, maybe that isn’t surprising after all: we were looking for a place not too far away where we could go on a little hike and ended up in a interesting area, full of boulders, and low shrub, tumbleweed and some Joshua Trees and huge RVs with trailers with dirt bikes on them.  Pretty much everybody from the kids onwards was riding dirt bikes around (the motorized kind, of course), creating huge plumes of dust by spinning the wheels around.  Also there seem to be a good supply of small, all terrain like cars which they used to drive around as well.  As we walked through the camp, I told my husband that I assume that nobody in this whole group will walk more than a mile in a week in the wilderness (and the fire wood piles looked like they would last a week).  we hike up a small hill to enjoy the view at sunset and as we left a whole succession of cars came spinning up the little hill, apparently the idea of actually hiking up that thing did not occur to anybody but us.

The views we got from the RV crowd as we walked back to our car confirmed that much.  This is a world completely foreign to us, the whole idea of driving a huge-ass RV to the high dessert and then sit around all day or drive dirt bikes around the camp all day long, then take drive up the hill after sunset, then sit by the fire and do it all over the next day, and the next is rather unappealing to me.  However, here, we are clearly in the minority (and would be on all topics related to god, guns, politics, gay marriage, abortion, birth control, sciences education and untold others).  It is always strange to come from the liberal coast to places like this and feel so completely outnumbered.

Destination Imagination – Or How to Stifle Creativity

I was wondering where to post this one, here or on my other blog called America explained (I admit, I am not lacking ambition), but decided to post it here.  Check out the other blog, though, if you are interested.

My son is a geek, he likes sciences and is good at math.  He is similar to his mom, who likes sciences – and isn’t all that great at math.  This year we signed him up for a program called Destination Imagination (in short DI) which is a nationwide contest in which teams complete a challenge – often engineering-related but for variety there are also plays and more social type challenges.

The not so creative creativity contest. pic: hongkiat.com

We liked the idea of elementary school kids using their imagination and creativity to solve problems.  That is the theory.  The practice is – the opposite.  The team of youngsters has to pick one of five challenges, if it was me the challenge would be something like: “build three small cars propelled by different mechanisms which can go a predetermined distance.”  I might add something like “Don’t use nuclear power to propel them.”

In real life the challenges reads something like: “build three small cars propelled by different mechanisms which can go a predetermined distance.” and then follow about 10 pages (literally) in 8 point print detailing every last aspect of the challenge.  The size of the care down to the quarter inch, how much it can cost, what materials can be used and not used, how much the vehicle can wobble and still be considered running smoothly – a condition.  Also the cars don’t just have to go a predetermined distance, they have to follow some excruciatingly detailed path inside a 20′ x 20′ feet square in which certain areas are marked off.  The ways to propel the cars are spelled out (so much about thinking creatively) and everything that is fun is explicitly forbidden.  Geek mom that I am my first thought was “firecracker tied to car”.  I thought it was brilliant – but, of course, the Safety Rules prohibit that.

Not only spell the rules every aspect of the challenge out , they are also subject to repeated revisions and so the parents will enjoy immensely the opportunity to compare different versions at various times and adjust the project.  Wait, the parents are not supposed to participate at all other than in a facilitator’s role (basically keeping the kid’s from smashing each others’ heads in)  – so the 8 year olds seem to be expected to read the rules, understand them and act accordingly.  No idea in what universe the people who came up with this live.  One thing is sure, thought, they do not have kids and where born middle-aged.

Somehow this whole mess is in some ways indicative of – and here I can’t speak for all of the US but certainly for the engineering driven culture of Silicon Valley – where creativity seem to be to follow very detailed rules and dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s.  The challenges couldn’t be more contrary to their alleged purpose if they tried.   To us it is painful to read the rules and see the kids struggle with trying solve the challenge, have some fun and stay within the narrow confines of the rules of this alleged contest in creativity and imagination.

If it was just my son I would encourage him to use a firecracker and a few more things that sparkle, bang and stink – even if it means he gets disqualified, at least he would have some fun and go out with a bang.  But as a member of a team of little geeks we’ll play by the rules.  Just this year, next year I am thinking of a challenge myself.

Weather

You have no idea (or maybe you do) how many time I had to have the weather discussion.  It goes like so:

Person: “Oh, so you are German.  Why did you come to the US?”

Me: “To go to graduate school in Boston.  Afterwards I came to California.”

Person: ” Oh, interesting.  Why did  come to California.”

Me (thinking “duh”): “Because the weather is better than in Germany.”

At this point people reliably think I made a joke – not a very good one, but a joke nevertheless.  Thing is I didn’t, I meant it – Weather. Is. Important. Period!

It ain’t quite that bad in Germany – most of the time. but stil …
Pic: thegoddessblogs.com

Of course, weather wasn’t all, there were many other factors involved in the decision to move to california, but the weather, honestly, played a big part for me since I am one of those Vitamin D deficient, seasonal-depression-suffering sun lovers.   Since I came to California I have only been back to Germany twice in winter.  Once early on – and regretted it immediately and vowed to never repeat that foolish mistake again.

Just last week, though – mid-November – I had to go to Germany for a conference.  Why anybody would chose to hold a conference in November in Germany is a mystery to me, there are lots better places I can think off,  southern Spain, for example.  The whole experience was – frustrating.  I am just no longer used to freezing temperatures and what the Germans I spoke to considered fairly decently warm weather almost froze my behind off.  I no longer have long underwear type things, the soles of my shoes are thin and 90% of my tops sleeveless.  Here I thought I was doing a decent winter packing job by bringing a jacket and an overcoat, a scarf and shoes that do not fall into the strappy sandals category.  After 10 minutes waiting for a taxi cab I was frozen stiff, the cold air literally crept into the sleeves of my coat making me realize how useful long underthings can be.

I am back now in California and sitting here in a sleeveless T-shirt and barefoot, it isn’t really warm – only about 20 degrees Celcius and the sun is shining.  I am loving it!

Tipping

What is enough and what is too much or too little? pic: people.howstuffworks.com

Tipping is a well-known contentious  issue between Americans and Germans.  Americans tip a lot and find Germans and their tipping habits (or lack thereof) cheap bordering on the offensive and Germans find American tipping habits patronizing and claim that they ruin the prices for everybody (and that, of course, everybody should be paid a decent wage so you don’t have to tip somebody so they can pay their rent).

Now, none of this is new.  If a German planning to visit the US picks up a travel book it will have a section about tipping and it will clearly state a number between 15 and 20% as the expected amount.  Likewise an American traveling to Europe will find cautionary words about over-tipping.  And still Germans under-tip and Americans over-tip.  They just can’t help themselves.  It seems to be such a deeply ingrained cultural norm that it is hard to shake.

I had an experience along this line a few times:

German guest: “how much should I tip?”

Me: “let’s see, the bill comes to $51 …”

Guest: “How about $55?”

Me: “Ehmm, no, that isn’t quite enough, that’s not even 10% , more like $60.”

Guest: “WHAT????”

Me: “Well, I told you15-20% is normal, so okay, $59.”

Guest: “so you really mean it, you have to tip that much, I really didn’t know that …..”

Me (invisible eye-roll): “We did discuss this before, this is just how it is here …”

Guest: “sure, yes, I just didn’t realize that it actually really is the case, I thought is it sort of a suggestion …” (trails off)

I could, of course, relay a bunch of experience where I am leaving a restaurant/bar after my American company has paid the bill and see this huge grin on the face of the waiter. “Oh oh, over-tipped” I think to myself.  “Didn’t I just tell him/her that 35 Euros is good enough if the bill comes to 32?  Did he/she have to make it 40 again? Sigh!”

Just, those encounters are all around less dramatic and antagonizing.

The thing is, I can’t just blame others.  After all these years in the US I still have trouble with tipping, I, of all people know, how much to tip (and have figured out the trick to make the calculation easy: in California to tip twice the amount of tax you pay – that gets you in the right ballpark) but I have to remind and force myself to do it right every time.

Some things just aren’t as easy as they seem.

The Great American Indoors

Me, in a restaurant in California during the summer, pic: http://foodtrainers.blogspot.com/2010/12/shiver-yourself-skinny.html

There is something very strange about the American indoors for a European such as myself and here is what it is:  on a random hot Silicon Valley summer day my family might decide to have dinner in a nearby restaurant.  I am in shorts and sleeveless T-shirt so I go to my closet and get a pair of long pants, a T-shirt with sleeves and a cardigan.  I also pack a jacket for my son and ask him to put on socks.

I am not crazy, I am just going to a restaurant with air-conditioning which will be keeping the room at a nice and steady 60 degrees Fahrenheit which for me, especially when sitting instead of moving, is right around the temperature where my toes start to lose any feeling and any uncovered spot of skin shows a serious case of goose-bumps.

Fast forward to winter – not that dramatic in lovely California – so let’s fast forward to winter in Boston, where I used to live.  It is cold, so you layer: underwear, t-shirt, sweater, maybe cardigan and a down jacket, hat, gloves, two pairs of socks and lined boots.  Then you walk, let’s say to the next T station (subway), enter and proceed more than 10 steps form the entrance where you start ripping the down jacket off.  By the time you get to the platform and then into the train you will have ripped off pretty much every piece of clothing that can be ripped off without getting the police involved and sweat is running down your back.   As you leave the subway the process reverses itself at a frantic pace;  sweater over the head, cardigan on, down jacket on top, sweat running down the back and then the onslaught of cold air.  Five minutes later you enter the office building and start peeling of again in a lovely 80 degree environment.

I have never quite understood why we have to have winter temperatures in summer and summer temperatures in winter.  If I have to sweat, I’d prefer to sweat in summer.  If I have to freeze, then winter would be the time to do so.  It would save a lot of energy and I wouldn’t have to have my entire wardrobe available year around.

Seasons

One of the things my German friends and acquaintances tell me they would miss if they lived in California are seasons.  Now mind you, Silicon Valley ain’t LA: we do have season.  We have colorful fall leaves in October and November, we have rain in late fall and winter, we have tulips and daffodils in spring – and what says spring more convincingly than daffodils and tulips? – and then we have the hot days of summer.

Love it, enjoy it and then leave it: winter (here near Truckee in the Sierra Nevada), pic: http://serene-musings.blogspot.com

But somehow they don’t seem to count in the minds of the Germans.  As long as you are not freezing cold for at least a few weeks somehow they do not accept it as winter.  And if you don’t have winter, then, it appears, you don’t have seasons.  For me the rain and short days here are more than enough for me to get mix  fix of seasons.  I once established the rule for a decent climate the following way: I have to be able to go to the trash container (about three steps from my back door) barefeet any time – day or night – any day of the year.  If that is a given, the weather is acceptable.

I am frequently asked whether I don’t miss the crisp freshness of a brilliant nippy fall day or the beauty of a sunshiny snowy winter day and my answer generally is “naw – you know – not really.”  I can certainly appreciate either – for a day or two – but not for weeks.  The more important issue is that the brilliant, nippy fall days, just like the sunshiny snowy winter days are but a legend.  There is one per year, sometimes two, sometimes none but by and large they are a fidget of our imagination.  One such day, especially if it is a weekend day and can therefore be duly enjoyed – is remembered for years, talked about and conjured longingly and lovingly.  The reality is quite different: rain, freezing cold, endless gray days, fog (no after two days it is definitely no longer romantic), slippery ground, storms in one word: yuck.

If I need a snow fix: there are the Sierras, drive there, enjoy for a few hours or days, drive home to a place safe from snow and all the inconveniences associated with it.

Man, I have become such a Californian 🙂

Parents

Every expats greatest fears evolve around their aging parents (and other relatives).  We live in fear of that 2 am phone call that can’t bring any good news.  My father just had a very big birthday and since I had just spend the entire summer in Europe and the prices for flights hadn’t dropped as I had hoped  I wasn’t there for it.

No, that’s not my mom. I picked the Queen because my mom sure wouldn’t like to be shown on the Internet, but the Queen should be used to it. Pic:britannica.com

He is doing very well for his age, mind you, but just that: for his age and the questions I am inevitably facing is “how many more will there be?”, “How many good years will there be?  Years where he gets around, is mentally sharp and able to enjoy life and his only grandchild?”  Of course, I am facing the same questions for my mom, but she is a fewer years younger and hasn’t had a big round birthday recently so it is easier to ignore the concerns around her for the time being.

And it is not just birthdays that bring the inevitable to mind, everyday problems they are having, with paying bills, cleaning the windows, painting the bathroom ceiling and visiting friends who can’t easily be reached by public transportation, etc.  So fear and a bad conscience at some point are pretty much a constant, albeit low level, companion in ones life. The question of what happens when the parents can’t take care of themselves anymore is best repressed, as there is not answer to it.  There will have to be one, some day, but right now there isn’t.

I have a sister who lives close to home and takes care of things.  She resents me for being so far away and not helping out.  If I think about it, I understand that position.  But I didn’t run away from my responsibilities because they were too much, I left long before old age was an issue, and I left for what I thought would be a better life for me, not to avoid taking care of my daughterly duties.   That gets hard to keep apart at some point, though.  Problem is that by then one is so enmeshed in a new life and new responsibilities, for example towards a child who for all practical purposes is a little Californian, that one can’t just up and go forever.

I am thinking that spending a year there will give me the opportunity to paint and clean and file bills like a mad person – but I do know that it will not be the solution, just something to appease my conscience.

Once you are gone …, part 2

I argued before that after 10 years (or so) one doesn’t belong to the place where on came from anymore but somehow 10 years (or so) aren’t enough to truly belong where one moved to either.  This, too, is sad but true.

When I moved to Boston in 1997 I felt I belonged within three days.  Almost 15 years later, I know I never will.  I can’t quite say why or how that is, just that it is a fact.  In school I belonged because we all somehow did through our shared experience but later I realized that I am not an American, never will be and that this will set me apart forever.  Despite 15 years here, 12 in the Bay Area (admittedly more than many Americans spend here) I am lacking the cultural background and experiences people who grew up here share.  Sounds trivial?  Maybe, but somehow it is important to be able to talk about the girl scout days, that TV show in the 70s, and crack those jokes so much based in the culture of a country that I can learn, but never truly understand – or pull off.

I can simply not speak about my cheer-leading days not just because I never was a cheerleader (which I wouldn’t have been) but also because something even remotely like cheer-leading simply did not exist (and still doesn’t to the best of my knowledge whatever that is worth these days), not did homecoming or formal dances.  I wore my first long gown at the wedding of an – American – friend in LA.   I can of course, crack jokes about Star Trek – but only in German as I have hardly seen any episodes in English (and my English is very good, if I do say so myself, so it is not lack of vocabulary).

Where does that leave me – an observer, an astute one able to learn but still an observer.

So maybe that is just who I am, an observer, somebody who doesn’t really belong anywhere and for that reason might be the perfect person to live in the Bay Area, a place where most people who live here didn’t grow up and therefore don’t belong.  maybe the sense of not belonging makes us kindred spirits.

This realization makes me nervous about spending a year in German, what if I really don’t belong there and find few people who likewise don’t belong.  I guess, we’ll see.