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

End of the old, beginning of the new

Whew.  So I said goodbye to the folks at my day job  on Friday (BergerABAM, the best place I've ever worked--I'm going to miss my coworkers something terrible, seriously.  That place is alive with creativity and innovation, not to mention just plain ol' nice people) and today is my first day at home full time. 

I'm just as busy, although I took some breaks to play Farmville, Country Life, and Cafe World.  Bad, bad me.  At least I've stopped playing Farm Town, and I'll put the other games on hold within the next few hours.  There are too many things to do, and too little time in which to do them.  I have to get taxes done early, make sure the insurance is all up to date...so many other things.  I just sold my old spinning wheel (and got rid of more wool fiber), and have a buyer my car (although the owners-to-be are fine with me using it until I don't need it).  Got my medical info updated and in order. 

But taxes...ugh.  I really do not like doing the taxes, even though we have TurboTax.

Numbers.  That's what gets me.  I have a fear of not doing the arithmetic right.  Funny thing; I'm all right with algebra, I could do calculus in college just fine (averaged a 3.5 in my calculus classes), but it's possible to do those without ever having to add, subtract, multiply, or divide actual numbers.  You ask me to do basic arithmetic in my head and I freeze.  I can do it, of course.  But my first response is to freeze, see the numbers in my head, and feel overwhelmed.

One of these days I'll get over it.  Luckily, I have no trouble when I write it down, it's just the doing it in my head part.  I swear, there is nothing that makes me feel more stupid than being asked to do arithmetic in my head, without paper or pencil.  Give me a paper and pencil/pen, and I'm fine, though.  Maybe one of these days I'll get over it.

Meanwhile...there are other things I have to get done around here.  I've given away/sold, packed away more yarn than I want to admit to, ditto wool, silk, alpaca fiber.  It still looks like a mess around here.  (Sigh)

Booksigning at The Unraveled Yarn, Federal Way, WA, February 2nd

This is to benefit Haitian Aid via World Vision. And this is how this booksigning came about:

As I mentioned before, I'm moving to Germany, which means I have had to go through my humongous yarn stash and decide what to get rid of (sob!) and what I'm going to store, and what I'm going to take with me. I have a lot of very nice-quality yarn, and would prefer to give it to someone who would appreciate it. I'd already given my decent quality yarn (a huge 3' x 2' x 2' box) to a women's shelter up in Seattle (Church of Mary Magdalene) that has a knitting and crocheting circle for homeless women, but I had more, and this was the high-quality, hand-wash or dry-clean kind.

I immediately thought of The Unraveled Yarn in Federal Way, WA. I'd been to more than a few of their Knit Nights and had a blast; I also knew that they took in left-over yarn and made things for charities. So I thought, maybe they'd like my yarn, and certainly, they'd appreciate the quality. I just liked the owners, and they seemed like such happy and helpful people, even if it's smaller than some other stores. There is a real sense of fun and joy in that store.

So I brought in my yarn, and the two owner-sisters Annie and Karen were glad to take it. I told them to do whatever they wanted with it--sell it, give it away, use it themselves--because I sure didn't have the time to deal with it. I brought perhaps two more boxes and bags full of yarn and wool, which they could also use in their felting classes.

The last time I dropped off the wool and yarn, the gals told me they wanted to have a book signing for me in their store. I protested that my latest story in Chalice of Roses doesn't have any knitting in it, but they said that since I was a Knit Nighter, as far as they were concerned, I was one of them, and I needed a good send-off before I went to Germany. Besides, there were plenty of women in the group who read romance.
Well, the whole thing kind of snowballed, and now I'm going to have a book signing, and the gals notified the local newspapers, and it's actually going to benefit World Vision's aid to Haiti (World Vision's a local charity). So we're asking for donations, and I'm selling my latest plus backlist from my basement storage (thereby getting rid of more stuff before we leave for Germany--yay!) with the proceeds to go to World Vision, and people are invited to bring their knitting and crocheting, and have me sign books (I'm bringing my knitting, too--I've got to knit on Knit Night!).

The end result is a win-win for everyone involved. All because I knew The Unraveled Yarn knit things for charity. What goes around comes around, it seems. Is this fun or what? Definitely fun! And definitely a Pollyanna-ish event.

If anyone's in the area, the signing is on February 2nd, from 4 pm to 8 pm. Bring your knitting or crocheting, sit and stitch awhile! More details here:

http://www.unraveledshop.com/

I know it's going to be a blast. I always end up laughing my head off at Knit Nights, and leaving with a smile on my face. Come over and have some fun!

Shine

I love this Anna Nalick song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GgiZz-aqheU&FORM=VIRE6

These are dark days; we have a difficult economy, and so many are out of jobs. But even those people can count themselves fortunate not to be in the situation that the people in Haiti are in right now. The Haitian people have even lost those who were there to help them. I know of two United Methodist Global Ministries administrators who have died in the earthquake's wreckage after a meeting about how to get more health care into Haiti, and I know for sure there are many others who were there from various relief aid organizations trying to help the people of Haiti, who are also dead and gone missing. Many of the people who would normally be "first responders" to the crisis are dead or injured themselves.

It is very easy to feel frustrated, despondent, and helpless in times like these.

I will not ask that more relief aid be given; I'm sure you all are doing that already, and many are on-going givers of funds. It's all over the news--you know where you can give aid, so it's not necessary to post it here.

What I want you to do now is to take an inventory of your gifts and your talents. Understand what they are, and how you can use them. Make a list. Don't be afraid of making a long list (the longer, the better), and if you have trouble, ask a good friend or family member. Include everything from, "I'm good at cleaning toilets" to "I care a lot about people," to "I'm a whiz at math." Do not use the words "don't, can't, won't, or not." Phrase everything in positive language.

Got your list? Good. Now, look at it and pretend you're looking at someone else's list. Or, if you're doing this list-making with a friend, trade lists.

Take out another piece of paper and make another list: Brainstorm ways in which that person (you) can use those gifts and talents to improve his or her own life and others' lives on the job, in school, in your house of worship, in your community, and beyond. Write them down. Again, phrase it in positive language.

Now, look down this second list, and think about each thing you've written. Which one gets you the most excited? Which one makes you feel happy? Are there more than one? Are there a lot? If so, pick three.

Write down those three things (or one or two things) or in a small notebook that is easily carried in a purse or a pocket. Then, go out and do those things or that one thing. When you are done, go back to the list, and do the next one. If you find more things that you can get excited about, add it to the list. It doesn't matter if you have one or more things on the list, it doesn't matter if what you do seems very small or very large, as long as you do them and add to the list when you're done. No item is insignificant, no item is too large. All that matters is that you do it, and are happy to do it.

This is how each one of us shines: by recognizing our gifts and talents, however large or small, and using them with joy, wherever we happen to be.

If we do this, how can the world not grow lighter with the joy we bring to the work we do?

Going to Germany

It's official. The hubby and I are going to Germany--and I mean, relocating, not just visiting. It'll probably be for over a year, but beyond that, we don't know. The Alien Child will be housesitting for us, but this does not make me less nervous, as he has so far shown a singular disinterest in learning what must be done to run a household. With luck, this will change.

I'm a bit scared, certainly excited, and most definitely overwhelmed at the amount of work we have to do to get ready. We can do it in a month's time, but...whew, that's not a lot of time!  I don't even know where we'll be living--that is, I know generally where we will, but have no idea of the town or city, if we'll be living in a house or an apartment. No. Clue. At. All. Probably a house, John says, but...small? Large? Mid-sized?
I do know that we'll be staying at a hotel for about the first 45 days. Hopefully one with a kitchenette, because as much as I like eating out, that would become very dull after a while.

So we'll be traveling light, but I don't know what all we'll have shipped. Definitely my computer, definitely my knitting and spinning stuff. I was wondering how I would go about getting knitting supplies, but found this nifty web site:
http://planetpurl.com/planetpurl/static/showpage.htm?showpage=travel_guide

There are "cheat sheets" for finding your way in a foreign yarn shop, so I will most definitely download the German one. This comforts me a great deal. It seems the love of knitting is truly international. Which supports my contention that if everyone learned how to knit or crochet, we would have World Peace.  I mean really. Think about it. What if world leaders, as they began to argue and fuss and become angry, stopped and took group knitting breaks? What if they traded patterns and yarn instead of angry words and weapons? It would calm everyone down, I'm sure. :-D

All right, that is very much pie-in-the-sky. But it can't hurt to introduce myself to someone by looking at their beautiful knitting (and I am sure there are knitters who knit beautifully in Germany) and saying, "Das ist schön!"

See, I am learning already.

All in all, however, it will most definitely be an adventure.  Wish me luck--in the packing, moving, and the settling into Germany!

Mama Passarelli's Restaurant

I have to tell you about a remarkable woman I just met tonight.  Her name is Ginger Passarelli, and she's the owner of Mama Passarelli's restaurant out in Black Diamond, Washington.

The hubby and I decided on the spur of the moment (well, I was coming home from critique group, and the whole chicken I had taken out of the freezer was not yet defrosted, so...) to go out to eat this evening, and he suggested a little restaurant he had noticed out in Black Diamond.  He's bicycled past this place many a time, and it wasn't open when he had gone by, but we found that it's open only on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.  We hadn't tried this place, and since we are definitely fans of Italian food (who isn't?) we went.

It's a small, homey place, decorated in 1950's kitsch, and as soon as you go in, you get the feeling of home and welcome.  There was a big cardboard cut-out of Elvis near the entrance, and as you go in, you see lots of Frank Sinatra pictures, some signed autographs of 1950's musicians, actors, and actresses--well, the walls are pretty well covered with anything 1950's, up to 1960.  There are some easy chairs around a coffee table and a chess set for anyone who might have to wait for a table.  Just past the easy chairs is a wall covered with very old pictures and statuettes of the Virgin Mary and various New Testament prints, brown around the edges with age.

The menu is plain, hearty, Italian American fare, and if you are a fan of garlic, you will be a fan of this food.  John and I are garlic hounds--well, John, more than me, but let's just say I make a mean aioli sauce--so this was in no way a hindrance to gustatory delight.  If you look at their menu, here, you will only see a partial list of their food--I don't think their specials are listed.  I had a very tender breast of chicken in creamy prosciutto sauce over angel hair pasta, with a side of caesar salad.  I've never had a prosciutto sauce, but it was nice, a sort of alfredo sauce, but with little bits of ham.  I confess, I don't remember what John had, except that it contained steak, with sauteed red onions on top.  I was a bit too preoccupied by my own dish.  The caesar salad was more reminiscent of aioli sauce, and though John and I prefer a stronger anchovy taste, it was nevertheless very good indeed, with a strong garlic bite.  As I mentioned, garlic is not a problem for us. 

What I loved, however, was that Ginger herself came by and asked us how we liked our dinner.  In fact, she pulled up a chair and chatted with us for a while, for all the world as if we were family.  She's a motherly woman with merry eyes and a genuine smile, the kind, I suspect, that makes you smile back no matter what your mood.   The image was only enhanced by the green checked apron she wore around her generous form.  "I like to get to know my guests," she said.

I could see it.  Black Diamond is a small town, with not much more than 4000 residents, and the atmosphere was the essence of all the feel of home and comfort you might imagine in a small town.  The town used to be a coal mining center (hence, "Black Diamond") with more than a few Italian immigrants who worked the mines in the early part of the 20th century.  In fact, at one time, Ginger said, the basement of the restaurant served as a speakeasy during the Great Depression and Prohibition times.

Ginger knows her patrons well, and her wait staff know exactly what they'll order as soon as they see them.  If you think of the old TV show "The Andy Griffith Show" that's the sort of feel you get when a guest comes in and Ginger hails them by name.  She greeted us, then turned to call out to two men who had come in:  "Hey, there are the Brownie boys!"  She grinned.  "They always get the brownie sundae dessert," she said.  "So, you're new--where do you come from?"

We told her, and she smiled wide.  "That's a long way!  I'm honored you came out all the way to eat here."  John told her he he'd come by every once in a while on his bike rides, and had wondered what the restaurant was like, and that we thought we'd try it tonight.

A sound of static made her pause before a reply, and she pulled out what looked like a small walkie-talkie.  "Excuse me, it's the deputy," she said, and bustled off with the words "first responder" and "emergency" fading in the space she just vacated.

John and I looked at each other.  The local police have a direct line to the restaurant?   But the waitress came by not long after that and served our food, and we dug in.  When the waitress asked if we wanted some dessert, we decided to share a tiramisu.  But I kept thinking of that walkie talkie.  There had to be a story there, I thought.

Ginger came by again as we were halfway through our dessert.  "Oh, I see you got the tiramisu," she said.  "I made that myself."  Her eyes twinkled naughtily.  "We don't serve that to anyone under 21."  Indeed, there was most definitely a taste of Kahlua as well as other liqueurs in it.

"The police have a direct line to you?" I asked.

She laughed.  "Oh, I was just responding to an emergency," she said. "I'm one of the Soup Ladies." She nodded at the empty bowl of Italian Tomato Bisque that John had eaten.  "I get soup like that--and other things on our menu here--out to first responders in the area."  I could hear the pride in her voice.  "We serve them the same as what we serve the people who come to our restaurant."

"First responders?" I asked.

First responders are police, emergency and search and rescue crews, firefighters, swat teams, etc., who go out to investigate and rescue in emergency situations:  anything from stranded hikers to finding murder victims to being in a stake-out.  Her eyes grew sad.  "The murder of the family up in Carnation?" she said.  "It took a long time for the swat team and then the police to go over the murder scene.  Days.  No breaks.  Then there was the four police officers who got killed down in Lakewood.  We got some food up to those guys working on those scenes--good home cooking--because they've got to eat, you know?  And..."  I could see tears well up, and she pressed her lips together for a moment.  "Home cooking--it's something normal for them, after all...all that.  It's like a bit of Mom and home going to them when they can't go to their own homes themselves."

I nodded.  I could see that, for sure.  

There weren't many people in the restaurant; the recession had made business kind of thin, so they could only open from Thursday to Sunday, and were closed the rest of the week.  I felt bad for her about that, but in this moment, I was selfishly glad that she could sit down a spell and talk to us, because I wanted to hear more.  "Wow," I said.  "I never thought about the fact that they'd be out there for days--and of course, they'd want something to eat."

"Right," she said.  "And it's just wrong that they have to run out and grab some junk food.   It's bad for them, and where's the comfort in that?  And when it's cold and wet, it's better to have a good hot meal."  She shook her head.  "Sometimes, we can't get enough food out to them, so I'm lucky in that we have a network of restaurant owners I can call on.  You know Stortinis?"

"Mama Stortini's up in Kent Station?" I said.  It's what I'd call a "casual upscale" restaurant; my mom and I went there once; it's a new place in the Kent area, and the food is...hmm..."Pacific Northwest Italian," if that makes any sense.  Emphasis on local Northwest seafood and goods.  Quite delicious.

"That's the one.  Joe Stortini owned that restaurant.  He now owns Joeseppi's in Tacoma.  I called up Joeseppi's for the Lakewood incident and they came out with more food that quick."  She snapped her fingers.  "So we get some good food out the door to our first responders, really good food."  She grinned.  "Sometimes, in the all-volunteer search and rescue groups, all we need to do is tell them Mama is providing the food, and we get a lot more volunteers, even when it's bad weather out there."

"People in a situation like that, they need a Mom," I said.  I understood this, down to my bones, being a Mom and a foodie.  To me, there is no better expression of sheer abundant love than laboring in a kitchen and bringing a feast out to your loved ones.  "It's a hell of a lot of stress and trauma on them.  At least they know someone cares, and cares enough to bring them something good and filling."

She nodded and smiled a little.  "Exactly."  She paused for a moment.  "You know, it's funny.  The last time I brought over some food, one of the guys said, 'Mama'--they all call me Mama--'no offense, Mama, but I hate it whenever I see you, because I know what's going down on the scene is going to be bad."  Her smile grew watery.  "And then he said, 'but I'm glad you're here, because I could sure use a hug.'"  She cleared her throat.  "That's something, you know?  The police don't let people hug them, because they can't usually do that--because of guns and all.  But he asked a hug from me." She said it as if the officer had offered her a pot of gold.

"I can see why," I said, and I couldn't help a little lump in my own throat.  "God bless you," John and I said at the same time, and we all looked at each other and laughed.

Ginger "Mama" Passarelli got up as another customer came in, and she called out a greeting to them by name.  "Well, I've gotta get the dessert over to the Brownie boys."  She grinned at us again.  "It's a pleasure seeing new people here.  Thanks for coming by."

"Absolutely," John said.  "It was our pleasure."

"We'll be back for sure," I said.  It was a promise.

Today, our Pastor Jon talked about the gifts and talents each of us are given, gifts of the Holy Spirit.  These gifts aren't to be left unopened--they have to be opened, recognized, and then "regifted" out to others, to the community, in the Spirit of love and abundance.  As John and I drove home, I said, "that's what Pastor Jon was talking about.  Mama Passarelli's a living, breathing example of it."

So if you're ever in the Black Diamond area and want a bit of small-town comfort, chat, and good solid food, give Mama Passarelli a visit.  If it's not too busy, look for a comfortable grey-haired woman in a pretty, practical apron.  That's Ginger Passarelli, doing what she does best--giving you her gift of the Spirit with all her generous heart.