Taunting Texans about bicycles :-D

I was reading about a brou-ha-ha down in Texas about people in Arlington protesting putting in bike paths as somehow unAmerican, because it was forcing people out of their cars.  That's silliness.  You put in a bike path, and guess what?  People can still drive their cars.  In fact, if there are enough people on bicycles riding around their local areas, it actually frees up highways and relieves congestion, so that you can go REALLY REALLY fast.  Such as on the German autobahn, where most people try to keep it under 100 miles per hour, but some do go faster than that.  I've even done it.  It's a serious rush for this American who is now constrained by 70 mph at most.

Unless, of course, people in Arlington, Texas are scared of the potential opportunity of driving fast.  I wouldn't have thought it, Texans having the reputation of being tough people, but hey, maybe they are wimpier than Germans on the road.  Oh, sure, they can take some risks, and sure, they have their race car drivers, but so do the Germans (hey, Formula I!) and the ordinary German citizens themselves go on the autobahn, which has no speed limit and see how fast they can go.

Yeah, that's a thrown gauntlet, people of Arlington, Texas.  It's less expensive to put in bicycle paths than another highway, so you end up spending less tax money for more transportation access, and it frees up highways for less congestion at the same time.  Once the highways are freed up from people just wanting to drive a mile or so, it helps ambulances and firefighters rush to emergencies when minutes spell the difference between life and death.

And there's even the possibility of increasing the speed limit on the highway after a while.... Unless you're scared of the idea of less congestion and driving faster.  Uh huh.  Yeah.  Prove to me, Texans, that you are not scared of riding bicycles and of the possibility of driving faster on your highways.  Oh, yeah, sure you have specialists who can ride fast bicycles (Lance Armstrong), and Indy car drivers who can drive fast, but your ordinary Texan?  Yeah, right.  Oooh, it might not be safe with bicycles on bike paths!  I bet you have bicycle helmet laws, too.   (Okay, we have helmet laws here in Seattle, too, but at least we have more bicycle paths.  And we have kamikazi bicycle messengers in Seattle who fear nothing.  I bet Arlington, Texas has no bicycle messengers because they're scared they might get hurt.)  Oh, and Germany and the Netherlands?  No bicycle helmet laws for adults.  And even 80-year-old grandmothers ride around on bicycle paths and on streets.  Those old ladies are fearless and would put some sport bicyclists to shame.

So the bicycle path was voted in by a narrow margin.  However, if Arlingtonians want to show they're not wimps, they should claim those bicycle paths!  Dominate them!  Ride those bicycles with their hair flying free in the wind!  Are you going to let 80-year-old German grandmothers look braver and tougher than you?  I hope not!

The Beer Bicycle

So, with Oktoberfest at a close, I discover this answer to drinking and driving:

http://www.bierbike-aachen.de/das-bierbike.html

Yes, it's a beer bike.  You rent out this contraption, have a bunch of your friends pedal the thing, while another (sober) person steers it, all the while touring the city of your choice as you all drink beer on tap.

Those Germans think of everything when it comes to accommodating Oktoberfest.

The city of Dusseldorf has decided to forbid the use of these beer bikes (you can't use them without a permit in Dusseldorf), not because of the drinking and driving issue, but because they're slow, and some passengers have fallen off and obstructed traffic (no one killed, though).

No, I have not tried this thing, partly because I'm not sure how many people I can get to go in on this with me, although it does look interesting.

Going back to the U.S.

Well, we just got the word today:  we'll be going back to the U.S. at the end of December.  We had hoped that we could have stayed until June or so--there were so many places and things we wanted to see and do, and there would have been more than enough work for John to do...if the customer had decided to proceed with the project.  However, governments all over are cutting budgets, and I think the project John was working on was not high enough priority for it to continue.  At least he has a job to go back to when we go back to the States, so that's good.

Still, I had wanted to visit England all my life, but I'm going to have to let that dream go.  I did get to go to Paris, and that was great, although I still have yet to see the Louvre.  Maybe if we get really lucky, we might be able to take a trip back to Europe some day...but...well, we'll see.

I'll have to find a full-time job right away when we get back; there are still college loans to pay, and improvements we should make on our house, not the least of which is a good interior paint!  So there is much work to do be done when we get home.  I hope I get a job very quickly, because I'm also going to have to get a car right away.  It's not like here, in Germany and the Netherlands, where you can get along very well by bicycle or train.  There are no commuter trains back home, not where work is, and bus service is limited.  Bicycling...well, it's very hilly at home, and so huffing and puffing up a steep 200 foot incline is not my cup of tea.

I admit I'm sad and had a small session that involved some tears...I was just getting to know the culture and discovering so many things and making friends!  But I did achieve the dream of going to Europe, and Derek will be here in less than a week and a half, so we'll have a family vacation at last, a dream I've had for the last 20 years (yeah, we haven't had a family vacation in that long).  So that's another thing to be happy about.  Two lifetime dreams achieved.  :-)

Whew.  Well, it's going to be rather difficult going back home, and a bit of a strain on our budget, but we'll manage, I'm sure.  We always do.

Paris, Part Two

I noticed that the prior post's map didn't show our route accurately.  Though Google Maps has a train route option, it didn't want to show the train route from Geilenkirchen to Paris, or even show the train route to Aachen to Paris. I mean, really, Aachen used to be called Aix la Chapelle (and still is, for the French), and there is the high speed train from there to Paris.

Paris, Part One

Yes, that's Paris, France, and it means I went there.  :-)


View Larger Map

So about a month or so ago, John suggested that we go to Paris for my birthday, and I stared at him in disbelief because that is what you do when someone hands you the fulfillment of a childhood dream on a plate.   "We could have dinner at the Eiffel Tower," he said.  "Why don't you make reservations?  We could go by train."

I was so floored by this that I didn't even blog that we were going just in case I might jinx it.

Happy Independence Day - and the Tour de France

Happy Independence Day, all you United States citizens, wherever you may be.

I'm feeling this day more than usual, as I'm not in the States, and I do miss it. On this day at home, we'd be hearing fireworks shot off here and there, sometimes even starting the day before. John would be suddenly seized with a bit of pyromania and have gone on a trip off to the fireworks stand to load up on explosives. I would be fixing something to be prepared on the grill, while our friends would be doing the same. We would often get together with our long-time friends, the Thompsons, and pool our food and our fireworks in a display of gustatory and pyrotechnic indulgence.

What the...? And Other Finds While Shopping

Yet another thing that makes this little ol' American gal stop and think, no, you are not in Auburn, WA any more, but in Europe, specifically a European neighborhood grocery store:

Yes, lest you think "Mäusepisse" can't possibly mean what it looks like, there is a picture to let you know that this does indeed mean "Mouse Piss." It is a liqueur that can be found in the liquor section of the local grocery store (all types of alcohol are sold in grocery stores--there are no separate liquor-only stores like we have in the U.S.), and which is made up of milk, vanilla, and (I think) wheat of some kind. And in case you were wondering what that rather phallic-looking bottle next to the Mäusepisse is all about, all I will say is that the label has pictures of happy little sperm swimming about on it.

Eurobiking...a start

So, I got myself a bicycle this weekend! It's what's known as a "city bike," which is a 3-speed, sturdy, every-day sort of bicycle that people here in Germany and the Netherlands just ride to do errands, for a little afternoon ride, and so on. It means freedom to me...we only have one car that we trade off on using, and there are times I'd like to go to the local grocery store to pick up a few items, but it's too far to walk and when John's using the car...well, it means I'm stuck. I bought the bicycle from Tanna, a fellow ex-pat, as she hasn't used it in a while, and she will be moving back to the States pretty soon. It fits well, but we'll need to get smaller wheels, as it is a bit of an effort for me with my short legs to get up on the thing. The pedal length and seat height are fine, but the wheels need to be 2 inches shorter in diameter. I can get up on the bicycle if I have one foot on a curb.

The hubby is a bicycling enthusiast, so he not only brought over two bicycles (a street bike and a mountain bike), he started a blog called "Eurobiking Through American Eyes." It's a blog on experiencing bicycling here in Germany and the Netherlands; if you want to know more about European culture vis a vis bicycling, it's a good read and pretty informative. It also has maps.

Me, I'm doing good just to get on a bicycle after years of not going near one. Today, I went for a short ride, not much more than a mile, just to practice getting stable on the thing. Yes, I wobbled a lot, like a newbie. Luckily, the landscape around here is pretty flat, so it didn't take the Herculean effort it would normally take back home in Auburn, WA. Our house in Auburn is on a steep grade, and let's just say it's an effort to walk up it, let alone ride. For me, anyway.

It's easier to bicycle in this part of Europe, in more ways than one. It's not just the flat terrain around here, but there are thousands of miles of dedicated bicycle paths both in the countryside and the city. I have even seen traffic signal lights specifically for the bicycle paths along side the main auto roads, so it's safer. But even in the areas where bicycles and autos share the road, there is a mutual courtesy amongst drivers and bicyclists that ensures more safety than the frankly rude behavior of both in the U.S.

And then there is the bicycle culture itself. Bicycling is a way of life here. Back home, there are three kinds of people who bicycle: those who are in it for the sport, bicycle messengers, and those who can't get any other kind of transportation. If you aren't into bicycling as a sport or as a job (and the messengers are often into it as a sport as well), then chances are good you had a few too many drinks when driving and had your license pulled. You are either in bicycling heaven or bicycling hell--among the blessed or the damned. If you are a heavy middle-aged woman like me, trust me, you will be stared at with suspicion or scorn, sort of the way a heavy woman going into Bally's Fitness gym will be either secretly or outright sneered at for not already looking good in spandex when she first enters the doors. I.e., one of the damned. I've always felt horribly self-conscious riding a bicycle after I hit 40.

In Europe, everyone bicycles. Young, old, thin, fat. Doesn't matter. I've seen white-haired grandmas and grandpas on bicycles riding about just for fun or to go on errands. Kids from toddler age (on bicycles without pedals--they push or walk them with their feet) to teens with their trick bikes. I've seen whole families out for a nice afternoon ride. I've even seen a very heavy woman in shorts bicycling, and nobody cares! It's no different than anyone getting into a car and driving to the grocery store or for a drive out in the countryside. It's just what you do if you want to go shopping or to do some errands.

I do like bicycling, but the terrain and most of all the anti-plump-middle-aged-woman-on-a-bike attitude back home was off-putting to say the very least. But here, there isn't that attitude. My only inhibition is that I'm so out of practice, I'm kind of wobbly on it. That should disappear with a smaller wheel diameter and more outings.

So I went out today and rode a bit on one of the bicycle trails near here, maybe a mile or so. The sun was very bright and warm, and so I was glad when John directed me to the bike trail through the woods, where there was lots of shade. It was beautiful and so peaceful, with birds singing and a slight wind riffling the tree leaves--a real reward for my little effort. Well, it sort of felt like a big effort, because there was still the residual inhibition I had from feeling discouraged from bicycling back in the States, plus I was just not used to it. But once I got on, and we entered the woods, it was quite nice. I'm going to make a point to do this again, and once I get the smaller wheels, I'll make longer trips out to the grocery store, and perhaps even to the Sittard market again. Wish me luck!

Hot Love in a German Grocery Store

Today was a gorgeous day--warm on the edge of hot, with a nice breeze--so I ended up contacting Anna H and we decided to go to the grocery store together; shopping is usually more fun when one goes with a friend, even if it's just a run to get groceries. We've shopped in three different countries and for everything from groceries to antiques to fabric.

It is especially interesting when one discovers food or other items while shopping that makes one...pause. These items seem uniquely European. For instance, these items in the grocery store (photo courtesy of Anna H):

These are all teas. The third box translates to "Hot Love."

I was curious about the ingredients, and one of them (forgot which box) contains kola nuts, which used to be an ingredient in Coca Cola (the Cola part, not the Coca, which refer to coca leaves, from which cocaine is derived, believe it or not). So I decided to look it up, and apparently the kola nut is often used to treat whooping cough and asthma, as it's a bronchodilator.

Well, now I must go back and get one of those teas, because after all I do have asthma, and anything that keeps my asthma at bay is a Good Thing. Whether I get anything else out of that tea would be totally beside the point. Totally.

The last time Anna and I went to the Sittard market, there was of course that interesting knife holder we found.

Yeow.

And a prior excursion to a Brunssum, Netherlands market, we saw the following, somewhat sinister, hair salon sign:








A close-up of the poster, wherein the customer looks positively delighted with her brain wash.

When we went to the very delightful town of Monschau for a bit of sight-seeing and (of course) shopping, we encountered this on the side of the town's fire station.

What does this mean? Why is the knight (without a helmet) in armor skewering the rooster? It seems the man is standing on top of a roof. The rooster is either in mid-crow, or its beak is open in surprised pain. Did the rooster crow inappropriately early once too many times? Was the knight so fed up that he climbed the roof, determined to shut the rooster up once and for all? There is a flame-like thing behind the rooster...it could be the rooster's tail, or it could be fire. If fire, perhaps the knight was seized with a desire for roast rooster and, pressed by extreme hunger, did not even bother to doff all his armor, but hurried up and skewered the bird, forgetting to de-feather the thing before thrusting it into the coals.

Your guess is as good as mine.

As a result, I try to keep my camera handy in my purse, just in case I might encounter some interesting item that reminds me that this Dorothy Is Not In Kansas any longer. :-D I forgot my camera this time, but Anna is generous in sharing her pictures, and she sent me the photo of the teas in the grocery store.

Anyway, afterward, we put away our groceries, and I joined her for a lovely few hours of knitting out in her back yard, sipping iced tea and munching on croissant-like rolls with bits of ham in them, cherry tomatoes, and potato chips, while watching the sheep graze in the yard beyond. Altogether a very satisfying day.

Shopping and Bargain Hunting

Before I post about our next touristy outing, I want to mention the shopping. Shopping in Germany and the Netherlands is a wonderful experience, particularly if you are a bargain-hunting sort of person like me.

First, there are the things you can get absolutely free, if you have no compunction about looking at what your neighbor is setting out on the curb. In Germany, people are apparently not allowed to sell their used items in garage sales (although they do have flea markets where they can set up booths to sell stuff). They have to set it out on the curb on certain days for pick-up. It is totally permissible to take whatever is left out on the curb. As a result, I ended up with a perfectly good bed frame and bed lattice, as well as a nice rug, because I had walked over to Anna H's neighbor's house and asked if I could take them. I have been told that Germans are shy about taking stuff like that during in the broad daylight (they may come by and take them at night), but hey, I'm an opportunistic American and have no shame about getting a bargain.

What happens to those items they leave out on the curb? They're picked up by thrift shop owners. And seriously, you would not believe the bargains you can get there. Antique wardrobes for a pittance. Tables. Beautiful china--I picked up three lovely Bavarian bone china tea cups and saucers (they had gold edges and some lattice work on them) for only 3 euros total. Today I decided to go to the military base library to drop off a DVD and pick up another season of Babylon 5, and because it was close to a Kringloops thrift store in Brunssum, I impulsively went there.

I did not buy anything there today, but dear heaven, I found another amazing bargain: a castle-style spinning wheel in nice working condition, complete with a couple of bobbins and an attached skein-winder. Nothing wrong with it that a bit of oil wouldn't fix. Price? Twenty-five euros. Yes, that's 25 euros. That's about 30 dollars U.S. As a comparison, a spinning wheel like that would cost about $250 to $300. I was sorely tempted to buy it, but I was strong, yes strong, and didn't, because I really do not need another one, and the one I already have is better than the thrift store one for production spinning. But still, my heart beat faster at just being in the presence of such an amazing bargain.

There are also morning markets in various towns and cities. The one in Geilenkirchen (about 9 km/5 miles from here; we lived in the City Hotel there when we first arrived) is not large, but has about 10 to 12 farmers and vendors selling things like fruit and vegetables, meat, eggs, cheeses, plants, candies, and some handcrafts; it opens every Friday morning at around 9 am. The fruits and vegetables are of very good quality, and as for the cheeses, well, the only place I've found cheeses that are comparable in quality and variety are in high-end American grocery stores like Larry's or Metropolitan Market. (With the exception of cheddar. Cheddar seems to be rare here.) I have not found the Süsterseel outdoor market, if there is one. You cannot go wrong buying fresh eggs there, either. Not only are the eggs fresh, but they're of a very high quality. The yolks are high-domed and orange rather than flat and yellow, which points to a high Omega-3 content. The eggs I get from the Safeway at home simply do not come up to this quality, even if they're Grade A. I hate to slag American eggs, but I have to tell the truth here, sorry.

However, it seems that the larger and older cities do have very large open-air markets and from what I understand, each of them have their specialties, whether it is antiques, fabric, pottery, etc.

I want to bring special attention to the Sittard market, which is held on Thursday mornings (except on holidays) from about 9 am to 1 pm. Why? Because I know a lot of people who are fabric and sewing addicts (hi Mom!), and the Sittard market in the Netherlands specializes in fabric and sewing notions. It is the fabric addict's heaven. Here's where it is on the map:


View Larger Map

As you see, it's only 6 kilometers (3.75 miles) away. I could very easily bicycle there, but then I wouldn't have enough room in the bicycle basket to carry the stuff I might buy. If I had a bicycle, that is (which I hope to get soon).  If you click on "view larger map" above, zoom in almost to street level, and then click on the satellite view, you'll see a square almost entirely covered with little white blocks.  Those are the vendor stalls in the main square.  The market includes those stalls and stalls along the radiating streets.  It gives a good idea of how large that outdoor market is.


I went to this one last Thursday, along with Anna H. I had been to this market before about a couple of months ago, in March. It is heaven for people who like to shop. The large city square in which the market operates is edged by more than a few lovely restaurants and cafes, and down the various narrow streets are even more stores to delight shoppers. You could conceivably spend all day there. You could get there at 9 am, have some breakfast at a cafe, shop at the various booths, then retire for lunch, then shop some more at the booths until closing time at 1 pm, and then move onto exploring the other shops on the streets that radiate out from the central square.

The market square is obviously very old, and the market has been going on for centuries. You will find the usual baked goods, cheeses, meats, and vegetables there (very good quality veggies! I have not yet found bad vegetables in any of the markets). However, you will absolutely find lovely fabrics, notions, and amazing bargains. Feast your eyes on this (click on any picture to enlarge):

Yes, you're seeing that right: 1.5 euros per meter (approximately $1.85 per 1.09 yards) for some nice quality polyester cotton, 45 inches wide. There's more.

Though I'm used to going to farmer's markets and street fairs, the Sittard market combines the best of both in things for sale and its weekly occurance.  It has a touch of the exotic in that you will see women of more than a few nations here, as it's in the "tri-border" region of Europe (Germany, the Netherlands, and Belgium), who either work or whose husbands work for NATO, and then there is a sizable southeast Asian population also living in the Netherlands.

As a result, I saw a number of women who looked Indonesian and quite chic and modern, and more than a few Muslim women dressed in their traditional headscarves and long dresses.   I could hear French, German, Dutch, and English spoken, with the occasional Arabic. 
   
Isn't that some lovely fabric? I love the ecru lace.  A group of Muslim women were gathered around this booth (I wish I had taken a picture--their clothes were so colorful!); I wouldn't be surprised if they were looking to buy some for a wedding, or perhaps for a fancy veil.  I touched one of the lengths of cloth and lifted it up to examine the detail, and caught the eye of one of the Muslim women, who was also looking at it.  I smiled, and she grinned and nodded as I held it up and said, "das ist gut."  I thought, it doesn't matter that I can't speak her language, women are alike the world over when they go shopping!

This is just one row among many, which stretches out to about half a football field in one direction (or, it seems like it's that long to me). Yes, quilters, you are seeing some very nice quilting fabric. For non-quilters who want to cheat, there is even pre-assembled lengths of fabric made up of fat quarters.

It's not nearly as large as the Puyallup Sew Expo in Washington State, but keep in mind that this is a weekly market, rather than the yearly event that is the Expo. However, you name the fabric, the Sittard market probably has it. Cotton, polyester, silk, linen; fabric for knitwear, drapery and upholstery fabric--any kind you might think of, including notions and threads for all sorts of sewing machines, including Sergers.

There are non-fabric parts of the market (they sell very nice clothes, too), more amenable to those of a mechanical bent. There are hardware and tools galore, plus bicycle parts. And there are the food vendors.

Of course, Anna and I didn't spend all our time among the fabric. We also shopped for groceries. Don't those tomatoes look luscious?

I bought some Old Amsterdam cheese (tastes like a mild cheddar, kinda sorta), plus two others, some fresh ginger, a ripe pineapple, some Belgian waffles, lettuce, and zucchini, and some other things for dinner.

After relaxing and having a bit of lunch at one of the restaurants, we also window-shopped at some stores off in an alley. I had to go in the shop that featured this:

I had seen this before, when John and I went to the market a week ago (but it wasn't open, as it was Ascension day, a holiday), and I thought, okay, that's so wrong. However, another part of me couldn't help laughing. Anna and I had to go in the store (which turned out to be an upscale household goods and decor store) and get a closer look. The salesman there spoke English quite well, but not idiomatically, so when I said that there was something rather wrong with that knife holder, he assured me that it was their best-selling set of knives. I mentioned this to John when I came home, and he said "yeah, to divorcees."

Hmm.

However, there were other items, much more charming, that I would have loved to have bought, but were too pricey for me, such as this very cute Japanese dish set (the bird is a soy sauce container, the lily pad is a soy sauce bowl, and the fish is a chopsticks holder). The set (one place setting) cost 65 euros, which was too much for me.

Anna noticed that we probably ran out of time on our parking, so we hurried off and luckily left before anyone could see that our time had expired.

I highly recommend the Thursday morning Sittard market if you wish to have a great shopping experience and find some bargains, especially if you're a fiber addict. Since it's in the Netherlands, the chances are good that the vendors speak pretty fluent English, and if they don't then the very friendly Dutch customers do and sometimes offer to translate. However, though I don't speak any Dutch, it's never been a problem for me to shop there, even when the vendor doesn't speak English.  Everyone knows a good deal when they see it. ☺

Some things I like about living in Süsterseel, Germany

I mentioned that we settled in a small town called Süsterseel here in Germany. It's located in the Heinsberg District, and within the municipality of Selfkant. I don't think it has much more than 5,000 people in it, although I could be mistaken.

I'm within walking distance from a great little bakery. Maybe 3 blocks away, tops. Some of the gals who work there speak a little English, some don't, but that's fine. They are always helpful and eager to help me learn German, which I appreciate. I have not yet found one baked item that wasn't fresh out of the oven and delicious. And the pastries! Oh. My. God. They're not overly sweet. Also, because it's three blocks away, I don't feel naughty buying some, because hey, I walked first! And afterwards!

It's generally quiet. No noise at night; this town is in the middle of farmland. Even during the day, all I pretty much hear are birds singing, with the occasional lawn mower. There has been some hammering in my back yard, as one of the neighbors has taken down part of the fence and is building it up again. But that's all. Rarely any traffic noises. Sweet!

People are friendly. It's nice to walk or drive to and from home and get a friendly nod or "morgen!" from people in the neighborhood. Some people say that Germans aren't friendly. They are indeed a private people, but perhaps it's because we live in a small town that people will smile and greet you as you pass. Regardless, it's nice.

The surrounding landscape is beautiful! It's spring, the grass is green, and the fields are bright yellow with flowers. These are rapeseed flowers, used to produce oil. Certain types of rapeseed produces Canola oil; whether these are the same, or whether they're used to produce biofuel or as feed for cattle, I don't know, but nevertheless, these fields of yellow flowers are so intensely yellow they seem to glow like something out of the Wizard of Oz when the sun strikes them just so.



Corellary to #4: People's gardens are lovely, and they have large vegetable gardens. In fact, our neighbor across the street has a large vegetable plot that has onions, shallots, potatoes, cabbage, and other vegetables.

Surprising things happen, such as marching bands marching down our little street on Ascension day.

There is an antique furniture store within walking distance. I might just buy one more item there. ;-)

The Netherlands is within walking distance. I kid you not. As the crow flies, it's one third of a mile. Going along the bike path/pedestrian trail, it's just a tad over half a mile to the border.  We saw this gentleman in his horse-drawn buggy about a mile away from Süsterseel in Jabeek, Netherlands.

Last but not least, I live within walking distance of Anna H, also of WA U.S.A., who totally is in tune with my yarn addiction; indeed she aids and abets in it. She also understands how to alleviate homesickness using fast food therapy.

Eeeuuuww!

I interrupt my castle travelogue to report that I just discovered a dead mouse in my kitchen. A Dead Mouse.

I was mopping the kitchen floor, and the mop hit the baseboard at the sink and the baseboard fell off. I bent over to pick up the baseboard and put it back and froze as I spotted a mousetrap...with a mouse trapped in it.

It was clearly dead, in fact downright dried up and mummified. Who knows how long it had been there? It had to have been there before we moved in. No doubt the Bad Last Tenants found signs of mice, set up the mousetrap and didn't bother to get rid of it before they left.

I suppose I should be grateful it wasn't alive and wriggling its little life out in the trap, but there I was, bent over and staring at the desiccated thing, feeling the gorge rise up in my throat.

I stood up so that the gorge would not rise any further. After a few deep breaths (luckily I had been mopping so the air was quite fresh-smelling) while deciding how to dispose of the thing, I took a pair of grilling tongs and gingerly picked up the mouse and mousetrap with it and took it out to the garage to the waste bins...only to be confronted with a quandary: in what bin would the recycling-conscious Germans put a dead mouse and mousetrap?

So there I was, dead mouse and mousetrap at the end of the grilling tongs staring at the multiple choice question of recycle bins before me. Obviously the "gelber sack" was out of the question, because though the rule of thumb is that if you can't write on it with a ball point pen and it isn't glass it goes into the gelber sack, the answer is yes and no regarding the mouse and mousetrap. It was a wooden mousetrap, and it was totally possible to write on it with a ball point pen, but of course you can't write on a dead mouse with a ball point pen, and I was not about to separate the two, even though I'm sure Germans would be conscientious enough to do so, in the way one separates the metal lids from glass jars before recycling (the metal lids go in the gelber sack).

The other obvious choices would be either the "hausmull" (general house trash) or "bio waste." I decided on "bio waste" as that sounded hazardous and nasty enough for something like this. So I tossed it in there, and hoped I made the right decision, because there is no way I am going to dig that thing out and put it in another bin. Yuck!

Wood

I decided to go shopping today (Wednesday), so I got up fairly early, dressed, and stepped out. I couldn’t find my umbrella (I’m only partially unpacked, as the wardrobe here is pretty small), so counted myself lucky that there was no rain, or so little as to not matter. There is a grocery store--somewhat akin to a Safeway--called the Rewe, which has all manner of food, including international food. I remembered to take my shopping bags with me, as it’s expected that you bring your own bags as well as bag your own groceries. I felt rather proud of the fact that I had remembered to buy some shopping bags as well as take some canvas tote bags with me in my suitcase so that I could shop in the proper European way.

On the way, I saw this interesting, but rather frightening-looking statue. What it is or what it means, I have no idea, but here it is:

It was not at all difficult to shop for what I wanted (breakfast things--milk, cereal, margarine), and I had been warned not to expect to find milk in the dairy cooler, but in liter cartons on the shelf. I was surprised to find eggs also in the shelf and not in the cooler. Well, eggs keep pretty well, and I expect the stock clerks probably bring them out from a large refrigerator in the stockroom as they’re needed. Most items have pictures on them, as they do in the States, and German isn’t that far away from English that I couldn’t decipher meanings of certain words. Fleisch/flesh/meat; Schweine/swine/pork; Frische/fresh; Hahn/hen/chicken; Milch/milk; and some words are exactly the same, such as Butter/butter and Yoghurt/yogurt. So I picked up some margarine (spelled the same), yoghurt, milch, apples (apfel), brie cheese, BonBel cheese, and cereal (forgot what that’s called, but it was clear from the box that it’s the whole grain granola kind, which is what we usually get). I don’t know why I was surprised that there was American Kellogg’s and other U.S. cereals there, but I suppose if there is a McDonald’s within stone’s throw of the hotel window, there will be American products in the grocery store).

I refrained from getting bread at the grocery store, because I really wanted to go into a real German bakery, two of which were in close proximity to the hotel. The bakery I went to had bread of all different kinds, including luscious-looking pasteries. But I was very good, and only got some buns as well as a loaf of bread. The buns were basic dinner rolls--what I’d call French rolls with a crisp crust and soft white porous crumb inside. The loaf of bread was called (if I remember correctly) a landskraft. It tastes like a whole wheat bread--not as sweet--with a firm and crisp crust, and a beige, medium crumb inside. I had the bakery attendant slice it for me, and it’s sliced fairly thin. I had to take a picture of the bakery, as it was the very first German bakery I had ever entered. The clerk said it was fine, but when I pointed the camera at the cases (with her behind it), she shook her head and clearly said in German, “not with me in it!” :-D I wish I could have taken a picture of her as well, but them’s the breaks.

I brought these home and decided to try a roll for breakfast...only to find that the margarine tasted like Crisco shortening! I was certain that it was margarine, because that’s what it said on the package. Hmph! Maybe I should just get butter instead. You can’t mistake butter, and I don’t mind it if it’s unsalted butter, either. But dang! I’m not putting Crisco on really nice bread.

After that, I decided to knit some washcloths; Anna (not AnnaMK) gave me some Lily Sugar and Cream cotton yarn for the purpose, as there are no small face cloths/washcloths here in the hotel. There are large bath towels, there are hand towels, but there’s no towel to wash my face with. Apparently, this is not a customary thing to have in a bathroom. It also proved handy when I wanted to boil some water and didn’t have a pot holder or hot mitt. The simple garter stitch construction made the wash cloth thick enough to work perfectly as a pot holder.

Lesson: the resourceful traveler will take a knitting or crochet needle as well as yarn. You never know when you will need to quickly knit or crochet a washcloth or pot holder, or indeed any other useful item. Had I forgotten a hat or scarf in this chilly, rainy weather, I could have knit or crochet that, too.

As I was warned, everyday things are the same on the surface, but different underneath: bath towel, hand towel, but no wash cloth. For example, it seems Germans rarely do business--well, in this area, anyway--with credit cards or checks. Cash or debit cards only. Which, when you think about it, is pretty sensible. It means you save up for what you want or pay as you go. You don’t live beyond your means. If you can’t afford it right now, you don’t buy it.

We got word today that there was another house that just came up for rent, and that we would have to see it this afternoon. Toni the real estate agent said it’s a bit far out, but it was what he called a “Boeing house.” AnnaMK said that it means it’s a very nice house, something that we U.S. Northwesterners would feel comfortable in. John wanted to look at the first house we had seen once more, and then we would go to the other house, which is out in a very small village called Schöndorf. I’ve been told that the name means “beautiful hamlet.”

The first house was the one that was very white--white walls, white tile, and so on. The smell of oil was stronger this time in the basement than the first time we visited. I was willing to take this house, but Toni said we really needed to see this other house. So we went.

As we traveled with Toni northward from Geilenkirchen to the Waldenfeucht area, we talked a little. He’s a very expert driver, taking corners and getting past other cars and obstacles in these narrow village streets with ease. John told him he was a smooth driver, a phrase Toni was not familiar with. We tried to explain it, but he still looked puzzled, saying he drove as the speed limit dictated. I thought it over for a bit, and said it was the same as a graceful or elegant driver, which he understood and looked very pleased to hear. We found that Toni had not always been in the real estate business; he had once been a master carpenter, work that he loved. He loved the feel of wood, and what he could make of it; it had given him a great satisfaction to see the result of his own hand work, he said. John was very impressed; he told me that to be a German master carpenter meant that you were trained in all the modern and traditional ways of German wood working, from the making of houses to fine cabinetry and furniture. But, it turned out that Toni had a bad back, and after multiple treatments and surgeries, his doctor finally told him he had to give up carpentry. And that was why he turned to the selling and leasing of houses.

This made me feel sad, that a master artisan--a master artist, because that’s what a German master carpenter is--had to give up something that he loved so much. It made sense, though, what I had noticed earlier, the way Toni had looked at houses. He had assessed them in the same way an artist would assess a work of art.

After driving through more villages than I could remember, we finally came to the house Toni said we must see. And oh, what a house! A feeling almost of intimidation came over me then: me, little old me, in this house?

As we went in we were met by the owner and her sister, who had been working on cleaning it up. After shaking hands with the owner and sister, they showed us the house. I walked past the rich dark wood of the double foyer doors into the open dining room and living room area, and almost wept, and at that time I didn’t know quite why. But as I turned around and looked at the rooms, and then to the sitting room with the traditional German fireplace, and then up the wrought-iron and wood spiral staircase to the bedrooms upstairs, a deep feeling of home came over me, and homesickness so strong that I had to press my lips together tightly to keep it back. The walls were a warm pale yellow textured with rust glaze, the ceiling was white plaster with beams of dark wood, and the floor was a patterned rich red tile, the color of the Sangre de Cristos mountains in Santa Fe, New Mexico at the moment of sundown, the color of seasoned redwoods. Upstairs, the owner had put in hardwood floors, and even the ceiling was paneled in wood. The upstairs felt airy and light and yet solid. The downstairs felt so warm and welcoming, rich with wood and wood colors.

The back yard was large, and park-like, with tall trees surrounding the property and a pond at the very end of it, and beyond it was farmland as far as I could see. But I came back to the house again, and had to look at the ceiling beams, and the wood fixtures. This is the house, I thought. I want this house, even if it’s bigger than any I’ve ever lived in or ever will live in.

It was unreasonable of me--it was further away than we had wanted from John’s place of work, it was much larger than either of us needed. What if there was a family, with children, who needed this house more?

I asked Toni, were there any other houses than this? He looked askance at me, and asked if I didn’t like this house. I said, no, no, I loved this house, but it was large and away from John’s work and....I trailed off.

I felt greedily glad when he shook his head. It was a bad time for renting houses, he said. All but the two that he had shown us--this, and the other we saw earlier this day--were claimed by other renters. These were the only ones left.

I looked at John, and I said we should think about it. I knew John wanted to bicycle to work, and this was a bit farther than he had wanted to bicycle. We were in this adventure together, and I didn’t want to deprive him of one of his aims, although I could see he was strongly attracted to the house as well.

We came home after that, and such was John’s enthusiasm that he called AnnaMK right away and said we’d take it. But then came the afterthoughts: it was big, bigger than we needed; it would take a lot of heating; there was the yard to upkeep, when we both wanted to do quite a bit of traveling around Europe when we could; and on and on. John called again, and asked for a day to think about it.

I had my doubts as well, but attendant on it was an underlying uneasiness that I couldn’t quite identify, a sense of discomfort that was not in concert with my feeling of home and familiarity when I entered the house. It was something I had felt earlier, as I had visited the NATO base. I felt I had to think about it for a bit, and so I let the idea of the house rest for a while. I wanted whatever place I chose to be right, and be right for good reason.

Traveling with Anna and finding a bargain

Today, Tuesday, started out with a frantic search for information. John had neatly put some information--including how to get to work--into a binder and because he is committed to having all of that in one place and not scattered about. However, he decided to hide it in the hotel room, as it did have a copy of my prescriptions and other info in it that might be tempting for someone to take.

Well, I was awakened by a groan and frantic noises as John searched for the binder and couldn’t find it. He couldn’t remember where he had put it, and had a terrible feeling that he had left it out and that someone had taken it. The poor man was in terrible despair. He went out to the rental car to see if he had left it there, but no, it wasn’t there either. We drove to all the places we had gone that we might have taken it out, but no, it wasn’t there either. So he made some calls and got directions to work, while I promised to look further.

I had promised Anna H of Kalitsu’s Compendium blog that I’d go thrift store shopping with her, but I felt that it was a bit more important to find that binder, so let her know that I might not be accompanying her. I went downstairs to see if any of the maids had seen it, but no, they had not.

So I sat quietly in the room, composed myself, and thought about it, going over the last day or so and reviewing John’s movements here, and thinking, “if I were John, where would I have hidden it?”

In less than five minutes, I knew where he had hidden it, and indeed there it was. (We have been married for a long time, yes.) So I called his office, left a message that I had found it, and then called Anna again, telling her that all was well and that I would very much like a tour of places I’d need to know about, including thrift shops.

Anna is a sweet gal with kind eyes, about my age; she’s our Federal Way United Methodist Church’s pastor’s sister. It looks like she and I have a good deal in common, in that she’s also a knitter and a writer, and it was nice making friends.  She promptly came over to the hotel, picked me up, and off we went.

Our first stop was to the NATO base library, where I picked up two books to read. I intend to read much more than I have in the past; I used to read at least a couple of books per week, but ever since I’ve started writing novels, it’s shrunk considerably. I’m ashamed to say I’ve probably read only a couple of fiction books per YEAR. Bad, bad, bad me. I picked out Jennifer Crusie’s and Bob Mayer’s Don’t Look Down, and a book called The Quilter’s Apprentice by Jennifer Chiaverini. Anna recommended this last one, and I thought I’d give it a try.

We then went to the Netherlands, to a town called Brunssum--yes, I’m that close to the border--to two thrift shops. I was surprised to find that the thrift shop carried not only plants, but live birds. It was dim and rather dusty, and I looked around, but didn’t find much of interest to me at the moment, although Anna found a nice office chair appropriate for her sewing area.

We left to go to the second, which I thought was better organized and well lighted. I spotted a table I liked, but didn’t buy, as I want to wait until we find a house to rent before I buy any furniture. Believe it or not, I found a real Japanese teapot, which I did buy, as it was only 2 Euros, and I really wanted a teapot here at the hotel.

And then...my, oh, my. I turned around a corner and what should I find but a spinning wheel! Not just any, but a Louet S20. Not just any Louet, but one that was beautifully painted with folk decorations on it. I know I let out an audible gasp, and said, “oh, my God!” especially after I saw the price. I think it was only 25 Euros. That translates to around $35. It was in perfect working condition, except for a small piece near the footment that could be easily replaced either by a flexible piece of plastic or a piece of leather, and given perhaps a dusting. And that’s all. To give you an idea of what such a spinning wheel would normally cost new, it can be around $300 to $400 unpainted back in the US. But this one was painted with a beautiful folk design, came with a skein winder, and three bobbins, also beautifully painted. Something that beautiful, with solid action and great working condition, with only one small, fixable thing to make it absolutely perfect...well, I don’t think it would go too far to say it could very well cost $400 to $500 in the U.S.

If you want to see a picture of it, go to:

http://kalitsu.livejournal.com/225378.html

And scroll down until you see that lovely, lovely spinning wheel. As you see, Anna bought it, and I will be teaching her how to spin with it. But dang, what a bargain! As John put it, it’s like finding an immaculate ‘67 Chevelle in perfect running condition for $4,000, but you have to buy new tires.

I was very excited about this find, so much so that I chuckled over it all the way back to the hotel.

John and I had dinner not long afterwards at a steakhouse not far from the hotel. We decided to try Chateaubriand, which was delicious. I have often heard of this dish, but didn’t know what it was until now. It’s a lovely, tender steak surrounded by different vegetables, including Brussels sprouts. I usually detest Brussels sprouts, but decided to try it anyway, and was pleasantly surprised. It was not the overcooked, smelly vegetable I often encounter in the U.S., but seemed to be delicately steamed or sauteed so that there was no strong flavor or smell at all.

I should mention that we are on “actuals”--that is, John’s company pays for our food up to a certain amount until we get a place to live. Since I am limited by the hotel room’s kitchenette as to what I can cook, we end up going out almost every evening for dinner.

Boo hoo.

Not.

Hotels and houses

I found to my dismay upon arriving in the hotel last night that it smelled of cigarette smoke, but I have a feeling that there may not be very many non-smoking rooms in this hotel (City Hotel). A lot of people smoke here, more than I am used to seeing in the Puget Sound area, and so far as I can see, there are not any no-smoking areas in any of the restaurants.

However, I seem to be doing all right nevertheless, and sleeping here is fine, especially after we kept the windows open over night.

We had an appointment with our relocation person (I’ll call her AnnaMK for now, to differentiate her from Anna of Kalitsu’s Compendium blog, who lives not far from Geilenkirchen), whose expression I think would be normally efficient, cheerful, and determined, but because of changes in process from Boeing relocation headquarters, was now efficient, grim, and determined. I think part of that was because we woke up late, still cross-eyed from fatigue and lack of sleep, and didn’t get to her office until almost 10 am.

AnnaMK is a Dutchwoman, and a has a sterling reputation of being very down to business, very efficient, and very helpful to all the expatriates. She also has a good reputation amongst the business people here in the Heinsberg (county) area as a Boeing representative, and justifiably proud of that reputation. However, the change in procedures demanded by headquarters has put a serious dent in Boeing’s reputation (not hers, of course), because it has delayed payment of vital things such as rents and utilities. And not being on time is a serious, serious thing for Germans. I don’t think headquarters quite understands that there are cultural differences in how countries other than the U.S. work on a local basis, which I find astonishing, considering that Boeing works internationally.

We were quickly bustled out to the NATO base, where the hubby will be working, so as to get passes. It seems I’ll have use of the base library, which is a lovely thing. I don’t know what other reason I might have to go to the base, other than to drive John there occasionally. For some reason, I’m not that enchanted with having my own car, although I am fine with driving (more or less). I think i would prefer to ride a bike or a moped.

More bustling proceeded, and our bleary minds vaguely comprehended that AnnaMK would return around 3 pm so that we could see about finding a house to rent.

John and I scored some food at the German equivalent of a sub shop across the street from the hotel. I have to confess I don’t remember what either of us ate, other than John’s was open-faced, and mine was wrapped in foil. Jet lag no doubt did something to my memory.

What I do remember is that it seems to be a favorite of the base personnel, as there were more than a few plaques of thanks from the local base, and we saw some young (so young!) American airmen who sat down with an Italian airman at the table next to us. They were all wearing fatigues. The Americans were trying to explain the Superbowl to the Italian, who had a bewildered look on his face.

We came back to the hotel, and did stuff I don’t remember, because it was a blur. But whatever we did, we were preoccupied enough that we forgot the time, and John suddenly stood up abruptly and said, “oh, shit, we’re late!” So we once again bustled out of the hotel, where AnnaMK and Toni, the real estate agent, were waiting. After many apologies on our part, we were on our way. Toni is a slim man in--I’m guessing--in his late 30’s, dark hair with dark...hmm...artistic eyes, is the best way I can describe him. As we went from house to house, he seemed to look over how the house was made in an assessing manner; not in the way one might value a house monetarily, but as someone who was assessing how it was made. I’ve seen that manner before, in the way my mother, an expert tailor, assesses clothes.

I wish I had brought our camera, because I would have remembered each house better. However, three stood out in my memory. One was a house that was palatial in size and look; we went through a gated yard, and behind the very large 4-story red brick house was a 3-car garage. That garage made me think of stables, but the kind of stables I’ve heard were built for noblemen’s horses--brick, sturdy, and well-kept. We went in through a door facing a generous yard, and I could not help noticing the marble entryway and staircase. It was spiral, going up and down one side of the building, with the stairwell clearly inside a sort of tower.

This house was very old, Toni explained, and the owner was turning it into three apartments, one smaller downstairs, and two upstairs with two floors each. It was very pretty, I thought, however the feature that stood out the most was the amazing finished attic. It was painted a pretty pale pastel yellow, with parts painted in white, and so full of light. You could see down to the street through the very large windows.

John turned to me and grinned. “It’s an artist’s room,” he said.

It really was. Anyone creating art in such a space could not help but be happy and abundantly creative, i thought. Even though the day was gray and cloudy, the room still seemed so full of light.

The house was in a location with shops close by, and the people provincial in nature--that is, the kind who might wave to you and smile as you went by. But, it was quite a ways away from work, and John thought he’d want to calculate how far a bike ride it’d be. Plus itt was on the upper floor, and let’s just say after walking around a lot through airports and other houses, my hips were killing me, and I didn’t think i’d like having to climb three stories just to get to the first floor of the apartment house.

We went to see a few more; a few rather dark and small even for us, and one very dreadful house that not only smelled strongly of oil, not only had strange acoustics (John’s sensitive to that), not only was painted in mid 1970’s decor, but had an atrocious bathroom of rust orange and olive green fixtures. I don’t consider John to be very psychic or superstitious, but he could not get out of that house fast enough. “Something bad happened in there,” he said. “I don’t care how close it is to work, we’re not renting it.”

He later said it was the kind of place Ghost Hunters on the SyFi channel should look into. He had a half smile as he said it, but it was only a half smile, as if trying to make a joke about his feelings about the place.

The one that we thought might be acceptable was much closer in to John’s job, but it was...well all white. White paint, white tile, white bathrooms. It felt cold to me, and when we went downstairs to the laundry room, there was a rather strong smell of oil. German houses are fueled either by oil or gas, and I have been told that there is something in the Canadian government’s contract with their military personnel relocation that the have to have natural gas powered houses. I don’t know what that’s all about, but as a result, it’s rare for a U.S. person to get a natural gas powered house or apartment.

We went back home, and once again fell into bed before getting up again to go to a lovely Italian restaurant, called Cappricio (I think...I don’t want to go outside in the rain at the moment to look). It was late, and there was one other table filled, and we had doubts as to whether they would let us eat there or not. But it seemed the clearly Italian owner was amenable to a few more guests, and served us up a lovely dinner. I don’t remember what John ate (fatigue and jet lag again), but I had a lovely lasagna. It was different than what I am used to in a lasagna; instead of the marinara sauce I’m used to in the U.S. Italian restaurant, it had a creamy tomato one instead, what I would call a carbonara sauce. It was elegantly prepared with a nice presentation, and piping hot from the oven. We had some rose wine along with it, and crusty hot Italian bread, which I believe they bake there in the restaurant.

I tried to voice my appreciation in both broken German and Italian. and the owner smiled and told me the proper words in Italian...which I promptly forgot. Jet lag brain again.

The food and wine did us in at last, and John and I dragged ourselves upstairs, changed our clothes, and went to bed, once again like stunned zombies.

Airports

As I mentioned, the plane flight from Seattle to London was very nice, although of course it was difficult to sleep on the plane, even with the comfortable seats.  The airports...were interesting.

I have been through SeaTac Airport many times, so there was no trouble navigating that.  There were the familiar faces of Asian people, and other people from the Pacific Rim.  There are a few nice shops here and there, with local goodies you could buy.

Heathrow, in England, was glitz-o-rama.  It seemed to this gal-from-the-relative-sticks to be a huge, ritzy, shopping mall of the rich and famous.  In my sleep-deprived state, all that truly registered was shiny-bright glass, gold, silver, and ultra-modern decor.  Godiva chocolates, designer purses way beyond my price range, and...I don’t know what else.  Amazing.

There is a difference in people there....how do I put it?  In SeaTac airport, in the Puget Sound area, it is possible to tell what people’s cultural heritage is if they’re Asian, if they’re African American, and perhaps if they’re from a Hispanic background.  Caucasian people...well, you can kinda-sorta.  You see a red-haired, freckled person and you might assume he or she has some Irish in them.  You might be able to discern some German or French or Swedish.  But it’s as if each national characteristic is blurred in American features, so that it’s difficult to tell.  Certainly, you can’t tell by accent.

Heathrow...it’s as if the Caucasian people’s features suddenly came into focus, and when they spoke, I thought, oh, of course he or she is French, or German, or English.

Navigating Heathrow was a bit of a nightmare, however.  John and I didn't know where the connecting flight would be coming in, whether it was the A or B terminals.  When we looked at the departure board, it looked like it said B, but when we went to B, the flight attendant there said maybe it was B, but they wouldn't really know until about an hour before the actual flight, although it would probably be A terminal.

So we asked how to get there, and you'd think it'd she'd tell us the way back to the shuttle, but no, she told us to go downstairs, which we did do, but were halted by an official-looking person who said it was the wrong way, and we had to go somewhere else.  We took those directions, but ended up back where we started in the B terminal.  So we went back to where the flight attendant said to go, and ended up facing a very long concrete underground tunnel.  There was a sign with an arrow that said "A Terminal," so John and I shrugged our shoulders and decided to hike it.  We had time--we had a 3-hour layover.

It was a long, cold concrete tunnel lit only by dim blue lights, and every once in a while a female voice would call out numbers into the echoing emptiness...empty but for ourselves.  There was a distinctly dystopian feel about it as we trudged down the tunnel with our carry-on luggage.  

"Soon," I said to John, "THX 1138 will come running down this hall, seeking escape to a free world."

"Or Daleks will soon fill the tunnel, bent on the destruction of England and our world's timeline," he replied.  "We are doomed."

We heard the sound of a small electric motor, and when it appeared toward us, it contained another official-looking person driving a golf-cart like vehicle within which a moaning Indian woman was holding a part of her sari over her nose and mouth.  They soon disappeared, the sound of the electric cart echoing faintly behind us.

"This does not bode well," I said to John.  However, we stubbornly walked on.

Nevertheless, we did emerge at the A terminal once again into the light of Ralph Lauren and Gucci.  After a few more misdirections, we found the British Air business lounge, where we collapsed for the next half hour.  John gulped down couple of glasses of apple juice, and I chugged an English ale (the name of which I don't remember), because I figured I deserved something cold and alcoholic after what must have been a half mile trek through a Dr. Who-inspired tunnel.  We did luck out in that the connecting flight did come into Terminal A, and we both tried to fit ourselves into very tight seats, obviously coach class, because John is not an overweight man.  However, he was introduced for the first time to clotted cream ("with golden crust") on scones, which he liked, so his weight status may change unless he gets on his bicycling regimen pretty soon.  And I must say, the British do tea right; good and strong, without a harsh edge.

We arrived in Dusseldorf in good order, sooner than anticipated, because of a very strong tail-wind.  However, once we got there, all that tea made me make the mistake of delaying us by going to the ladies' room, wherein I noticed not tampon or sanitary napkin dispensers, but thong panties and vibrating dildo dispensers.  Why those items seemed more urgent for women finding themselves in a German airport than tampons or sanitary napkins, I do not know.

It was a mistake because we were the last to get to the baggage claim, which meant that we had to spend some scrounging for baggage carts.  Finally found them, but it took three of them to get all our luggage on (John decided to bring his bicycle, of all things).  So I managed to cleverly maneuver two carts, while John had to maneuver one cart with an enormous black box on it.  It was tricky, because the only way you can move those carts is by depressing the handle.  Otherwise, it would stop.

It would not be beyond imagination to say that a few people pointed and laughed as we came down a rather alarming T-shaped ramp to the airport entrance, and I struggled with two heavy carts that seemed to want to careen in opposite directions. However, my yelling "whoa Mama" and angling the carts together side-by-side did the trick, and we descended the ramps in reasonable order.

We also managed to get the carts down to the rental car place.  After John figured out how to work the reverse in the car, we got in and drove through the night to Geilenkirchen.  

I don’t remember much about the check-in, except the cheerful apple-cheeked receptionist named...I think, Nicole, and that the room we entered smelled unfortunately of cigarette smoke.  And that when I tried to use my nebulizer, I found that it did not have a universal power supply as I had been told it did, so it grumbled, and when smoked came out of it, I had to hastily unplug it.

We ended up opening up the windows to air it out, changed our clothes, brushed our teeth (I think) and then dropped into bed like stunned zombies.

I'm flying off to Germany!

So, I'm now on a British Airways 777 flight to Heathrow in business class! I have never traveled in other than coach, and I must say this is very different! It is not cramped at all, and has these interesting seats where you are side by side but facing each other. The seats are thankfully wide, so I don't feel cramped at all, and there are foot rests that are cushioned.

John has the window seat, but I'm all right with that. And really, it wouldn't make much difference, because you don't have to squeeze by anyone to get out. You get your own video screen and the beverages are in real glass wine and water glasses instead of plastic.

I am having a nice California Chardonnay (Marmesa Vineyards 2007) before dinner, which will go very well with the Asian-style grilled prawn with smoked aubergine purée and stuffed courgette roll with goat's cheese appetizers. After that will come s fresh salad with vinaigrette, and the main course will be sauteed salmon with fingerling potatoes, fava beans, morels, and horseradish sauce. I'm not certain whether I will have the vanilla panna cotta or the farmhouse cheddar and Wisconsin blue with carmelized onions for dessert, however.

Yes, I am sitting in the lap of luxury right now-- as far as plane flights go.

It does not really make up for saying goodbye to family and friends, though. I admit I cried a bit at home in the last hour before we left for the airport, and hugged the Alien Child hard. Even now I'm tearing up, writing this.

He almost didn't get a chance to see us off, as my father-in-law's car was very full with our luggage and couldn't accomodate anyone else than John and me. But my brother Dave also came to see us off, and offered Derek a ride, so all was well.

We sat in a restaurant for a bit and talked for a while, and the guys toasted our journey with some 15-year-old Glenfidditch. I'm not fond of scotch, so I just had some water.

Dave had the foresight to have his camera ready, so we took one last family picture. A very nice security gal offered to take a picture of us all, so Dave now has a picture with him in it as well, which I am sure he will email to us once we are settled in Germany, or at least have Internet access.

And so here I am, on my way to Heathrow. I've finished my very lovely dinner. For dessert I chose the cheddar and Scottish oat cake (Gerri, it was just as I imagined it would taste! Remember how I guessed during critique group how oat cake would taste in the first chapter or two of the Irish werewolf novel I'm writing? So gratifying to find that my imagination is so spot on). It was quite good and went well with the cheese.

It's 2:00 am Pacific time, and I've had a bit of sleep, but can't seem to get more. So I'm finishing up this post on my iPod Touch and will listen to some soothing music on same to see if that will do the trick.

Until next time!

Karen, world traveller