International Women's Night

Last night I was invited to go to the International Women’s Night on one of the NATO bases by Anna and Tanna (another expat lady, whose home town is in the Puget Sound area of Washington State). The club is attended by women from all the NATO nations and who are stationed in the area. As a result, there are French, German, British, Canadian, Turkish, Italian, Norwegian, US...well, there are more nations than I will name here.

The women meet once a month, and each night is hosted by one of the nations. Door prizes are offered, representative food is served, a brief speech on the history and culture of each country is given, and a game is played. Last night was Norwegian night. We were informed that in times past, not only did Viking men fight for the woman they wanted, but so did the women. As a result, an arm wrestling contest was started and--yay!--the U.S. representative (Anna of Kalitsu’s Considerations) was the warrior woman who won the contest.

The door prizes were marvelous...I have to especially show this lovely pair of hand-knitted Norwegian mittens, knitted by one of the Norwegian ladies:

Lovely, yes? I wanted to win these, but did not, alas. But at least I have the picture, and hopefully can make a pair in that pattern myself some day (yeah, I wish!).

The House in Susterseel - and a Secret Garden

Ugh. It’s been a while since I’ve posted here. It’s been a whirlwind of activity...mostly! I’ve had to do the taxes, which is more complicated than usual this time, as we have to account for John’s work in Germany last year, and have to interact with some tax specialists who are expert at foreign work situations. But, I expect to get that done this week.

Last time I mentioned that AnnaMK and Toni had a house for us to see--it turned out that we had two. One was nice with an amazing park-like back yard, and a large side garden that could accommodate vegetables. The front yard clearly had roses, which I love. However, it was quite a ways away from John’s workplace, and while it had web access, there was only one bathroom, and that had only a shower, no bathtub. The kitchen was was also miniscule. And yet, there was that gorgeous back yard, and a lovely traditional German fireplace. The current renters were there while we looked over the house, as well as the wife’s mother, who looked somewhat like an elderly and wary Bette Davis, leisurely smoking a cigarette as she watched us tour the house.

The owner’s brother helped show us around, and he was very gracious in that he invited us to have some coffee. In addition, he drove us back to Susterseel, where we had parked our rental car.

Then we saw the other house; this one is in Susterseel, the same town in which Anna H. of Kalitsu’s Compendium blog lives.

Well.

It’s large, and let’s just say it has character. We learned from Toni that it used to be an old farmhouse. As Toni opened the old-fashioned decorated gates, we entered the large courtyard--yes, it has a courtyard, as you can see by the pictures, it seemed grandly old-fashioned to me, and I could almost imagine turn-of-the-century folks bringing in their horses under the lean-to shelter that may have held a trough of hay. When we went through the uncharacteristically large garage doors we could see the hayloft was still there. The vast majority of German houses only have a one-car garage, and you’d be hard put to squeeze in something like a Toyota Corolla through one of them without fear of denting the side-view mirrors; I’d only feel safe parking a Mini Cooper in one of them. However, the owner had renovated the interior of the house, and put in automatic garage door openers, but the doors were large enough to let in a couple of monster trucks and store them, too.

As we opened the French doors to the entryway, the marble staircase that curved upstairs, framed by the dark green Art Deco-style rails, caught my eye, and the room seemed very full of light. I liked the airy look of that staircase, unlike the ones I’d seen in other houses. The living room was painted white, of course, and a pastel yellow glaze had been textured over it. Even though I’m not really a fan of yellow, I rather liked the look of it; it had a cheerful feel about it; indeed, the sun decided to come out as we entered, and the entryway and the whole of the ground floor lit up with lovely natural light. The stairs as well were bright, and the warm wood of the upstairs floors seemed to glow when we opened the shades to let in the sun.

As we went through the house, Toni told us of the history, as he usually does. The owner--a master builder/mason--had lived in it himself with his family. He had renovated it, as I had mentioned, from an old farmhouse, and had renovated it with the era in mind, which looked to me to be somewhere between Art Nouveau and Art Deco. After a while, he built another house into which his growing family had moved, and then rented out this house.

To, unfortunately and unbeknownst to him, Dutch drug dealers, who were eventually evicted by the police.

Toni seemed rather apologetic as he showed us parts of it; the basement had some water damage along the walls; this was where the drug dealers had grown their crops and had liberally sprayed the floors with water; this would be fixed, he said, and the owner would ensure that there would be no mold growth here. Some holes had been drilled through the walls, damaging one of the lighting fixtures. The walls had been only somewhat decoratively painted; upstairs, it seemed that someone had haphazardly decorated one room with children’s wallpaper; children had lived here, along with the drug dealers. Though the kitchen was lovely, the refrigerator was a wreck; that would replaced, we were assured. I could see some childish crayon scrawls on one of the walls. The very small postage-stamp-sized yard was neglected, and trash had been thrown there. Toni said that he didn’t know whether much could be grown in it, as it gets very warm during the summer.

It made me sad to see it, and hear of its history. Such care had been given to the renovation, and to keep with the character of the Art Deco era; I could see this in the lighting fixtures and the stair railing, as well as in the tile design in the very large and lovely bathroom on the 2nd floor. The drug dealers had apparently taken out the fireplace and covered the hole with a picture of Audrey Hepburn. While I love Audrey Hepburn, I cringed thinking of how the renovation had been ruined that way as well.

All of a sudden I felt like I wanted to take care of this house, and help it be the way it was supposed to be, the way I felt it wanted to be. I smiled as Toni had told me that the tiny walled garden was possibly too warm to grow much. I’m from the Pacific Northwest, USA. We know gardens, that’s for sure, large or small. I knew what I could grow there. Roses love warmth, and so do lilies--well most plants do. I could do a lot with that garden, I was sure. Suddenly, I saw in my mind’s eye an espaliered rose bush grown along one of the brick walls, and I almost laughed at myself. It was the picture from Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden, one of my favorite childhood books--still is a favorite, for that matter.

You can’t see or get to this small plot from the outside--it’s all walled up. You’d have to go into a neighbor’s yard, climb up their wall, and look over, the same way Old Ben used to climb up his ladder and get over to tend the garden before Mary found the key to the Secret Garden. The only way in is through this badly-treated but determinedly cheerful house.

I could do this, I thought. A garden that small--absolutely. I’d always wanted to try growing an espaliered rose bush, and certainly there’s enough info on the internet that I could use. Perhaps I could put in a tiny fountain as well. If there aren’t electrical outlets there, then I could find a battery-operated one. Granted, Mary’s garden didn’t have a fountain, but this would be my garden, and I think a fountain would be nice.

(Side note: I just now Wiki’d the book for a link to the picture I was thinking about, and instead of the illustration I was used to--a later edition’s illustration--the original 1911 book cover came up...which is Art Nouveau in design, and which is about hold old this house is. Coincidence...? Hmm....)

So, of course we decided on this house. There’s not much else out there, as not that many people here in Germany own their own houses, plus we live in a region where the population is rather transient (three NATO bases in close proximity, with attendant military and civilian families). We are at the limit of our 45 days in a hotel that John’s company allows, so we have to decide soon.

We’ll be moving in in a few weeks. :-)

Another house and eine kleine fisch

AnnaMK called this afternoon and said Toni has found another house, and we can see it on Saturday afternoon. We were going to look at Ikea furniture with Laurie B (one of John’s coworkers), and since that’s in the morning, we can do both. We were going to buy furniture for the wood house in Schondorf, but since that fell through, we are only going to get things like towels of a neutral color that will go with whatever house we end up renting. Also, we’re going to get another set of the same Ikea flatware we have at home in Auburn, which we will bring back when we leave here in a few days. That way, we’ll have a good amount of flatware for get-togethers.

I am increasing my knowledge of the German language, although it’s mostly nouns and verbs and very little grammar. I expect I’ll take some German lessons, as I don’t really feel right just fumbling around for my whole time here. At the very least I should learn some simple sentences and be able to converse at a basic level with people here.

i thought I’d be very inhibited about trying to converse with people, very inhibited about using what German I’ve picked up, because I’m normally a shy person. So I am surprised that I have absolutely no fear about going into a store and figuring out what certain items are, or trying to get help and using my few words of German and many gestures. The German people I have blurt out words to and gestured to so far have been pretty tolerant of my attempts, and if they aren’t, I am blessedly oblivious of it.

It’s clear that I’m obviously mispronouncing some words, and get some words completely wrong. (I am also sure I am misspelling German as well as any other non-English words in this blog, but hey, everyone who learns a language gets it wrong at first.) For instance I had a hankering after anchovy pizza the other day, and we went to Leonardo’s here in Geilenkirchen for some Italian food. Leonardo is from Napoli, and has been in Germany for decades and decades, so of course speaks German fluently, as well as his native Italian. The first time John and I were there (last week), we managed to converse with a mix of broken English (from Mr. Leonardo) and broken German and Italian (John and me), and I managed to get across that in the U.S. we don’t have tuna fish (thunfische) on our pizzas, we have anchovies, and also quatro formagio pizzas. Mr. Leonardo’s face lit up--“ah, ah yes, achovi, quattro formaggio! Can make for you, next time, ja?”

So of course the next time we came to eat there, I asked the waiter to put anchovies on my pizza. I said it the American way: “anchovies.” I think in Italian (I don’t have internet connected at the moment, so I’m not going to look it up right now--it costs by the hour here at the hotel) it’s pronounced “achovy.” The waiter--not Mr. Leonardo--looked puzzled. I tried to explain in what little German I could muster: “eine kleine fisch.” (I remembered eine kleine means “a little” because I remembered Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachmusik means “a little night music.”)

He asked me, “sardine?”

“Nein, nein,” I said. “Anchovies.”

He still looked puzzled, then left. I shrugged. Oh, well, if he just brought me a cheese pizza with fresh basil leaves that was fine--I wasn’t going to be picky. However, in just a few minutes, he brought a small dish of anchovies! “Ja, ja, pizza mit anchovies,” I said.

He grinned. “Ein Deutsch, sardine. Ein Italienische, achovi.”

So now I know Germans call anchovies “sardine” and Italians call them “achovi.” Fun!

The next time I go to the grocery store and want to get a bottle of anchovies, I’ll make sure to look for “sardines” instead of anchovies.

Verklempt--not!

Well, we are not getting the wood house in Schondorf. And oddly, for all my moaning and groaning and wanting it when I first saw it, I’m not very disappointed.

Why? Aside from the fact that I am no doubt fickle and that the Schondorf house called to my deep sense of homesickness, there is no broadband internet access there. There is perhaps dial-up, but dial-up will not do. As soon as I heard that there was no broadband, the house lost all luster for me. I don’t care how lovely a house is, if there is little or no internet access, it’s not for me. In addition, John needs it for his job, as he has to check in from time to time at the Boeing Seattle office.

So, that is that. Toni will have to find us another house; I’m a little worried about that, as houses for rent are thin on the ground right now, and there is a limited amount of time in which a foreign national must register with a town if he or she is working in Germany. I really don’t want to live in that white house that is a duplex, as it had a dead feeling to me.

Well, we will have to see how it all turns out. I have faith that it will.

Windy!

The wind is very blustery today--well, it’s stormy, actually. It batters at the windows as if demanding to come in, and whips around the bare branches of the trees just outside of our hotel. We have heard more than a few ambulance sirens in the distance as well as going past the hotel on the street below, causing John to comment that the emergency services certainly seem to be getting a workout today.

We went nevertheless to church, invited by Dave and Tanna D (husband and wife); Dave also works at Boeing, and comes from the Puget Sound area of Washington as we do. They are a lovely couple, so friendly.

The church was an Anglican service on base, lead by a 30-something English Anglican chaplain. John and I experienced all the discomfort of newcomers to a church with an unfamiliar service and hymns, but we know that it will soon pass as we become used to it. We will no doubt return.

I confess I had quite a time not being distracted by the chaplain’s (he’s called a “padre” here) English accent. It’s not that I couldn’t understand what he was saying--he had a very educated BBC English accent--but it was the novelty of being preached to in a different accent, hearing the tones of British English, that took me off guard. I found myself listening to how the words sounded, rather than what he was saying, until I caught myself at it and made myself listen to the sermon itself again.

it was about faith, about faith in God. I was struck by the padre’s comment about how it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven, not because God has anything against rich people, but because richer people tend to be more invested in their material goods, have more faith in “having” than those who have very little.

I know this is true, having been one of the working poor. I remember working whatever job I could get, finally landing a permanent job, with good benefits at minimum wage (keep in mind minimum wage was $3.90 per hour back then). I could barely afford the rent I had in Capitol Hill at the time, rent that was affordable at first, but kept increasing by 25% then 50% every few months. I remember when my rent check bounced, because I dared buy myself food that wasn’t oatmeal or Top Ramen, and when the grocery store refused my check because the last one bounced--because I had just paid rent. There were times when I wondered whether I should pay for food, rent, or my student loans.

I learned that material goods were ephemeral at best, and could not be depended on. My health insurance was meaningless to me, especially because the insurance company kept sending flyers out about eating healthy foods when healthy foods were beyond my means, and I had not warm enough clothes to keep out the winter chill. All I had was hope that I would not be evicted from my apartment, and that there might be some way I could find a better paying job, and counted myself blessed that I did not--that week--have to live on the streets despite the fact that I was one of the lucky ones who had a job. It was then I became aware of the hypoglycemia (I didn’t know what it was then), which eventually turned into type II diabetes I have now. Certainly it was made worse by the cheap food I ate back then.

In that time--even though I didn’t go to church then--I had faith that I’d make it somehow. Perhaps it was youthful ignorance or young optimism. But what I often thought about was this: Didn’t my parents go through the Great Depression and war time Japan and survive? They knew hunger every day back then. If they could make it, I could too, one way or another; there were people who didn’t have jobs at all, and in that way I was one of the lucky ones.

It’s odd...back then, nobody I knew of talked of not having health insurance. We talked about not having jobs, or a place to live. It makes me think that those who do talk about needing health insurance are the ones who do have jobs, which puts them in a privileged place indeed in these difficult economic times, compared to so many people who don’t have jobs at all.

So that makes me wonder...with so many people insisting on universal health care, even as we supposedly are in the worst recession since the 1930’s, which is true: we have not lost very many jobs at all and we aren’t really in a recession where people have lost their homes and their livelihoods, or people are in good enough economic shape where we can come up with the taxes to pay for universal health care instead of using that money to create jobs?

It seems to me that the good Padre was right: we who are wealthy enough to have jobs, good jobs that give us a roof over our heads and food on the table nevertheless tend to think of what we lack materially, rather than what we are lucky enough to have.

Me, I’ve got asthma, have type II diabetes (low end, though), and though I can do better on the diabetes, I do need some expensive meds for the asthma. But I’m willing to scale back on my health care so that someone without a job can get one. Because it seems to me that people will be a lot healthier if they had the means to get food and shelter than if they didn’t. I have a lot of faith in that idea. :-D

Child of the Wood

I had lunch with the expat ladies today, at one of the local restaurants. The food was delicious as usual, and nicely presented, as all our dinners and lunches out have been. I still felt conflicted and homesick and slightly guilty for wanting the house we had seen earlier. The first house--the white house, was what I call it--was perfectly serviceable for our needs, and had two extra rooms we could use as a guest room and a place for an office.

But I had already furnished the wood house--I kept thinking of it as the wood house--in my mind, and saw my spinning wheel in that small sitting room area with the traditional German fireplace, and thought of hanging tapestries on one of the walls, and an oriental carpet on the rich cedar-colored tiled floors.

I told the ladies of the house, and how it was very big and very beautiful, and they all agreed we should take it. AnnaMK repeated Toni’s concern: there were very few houses for rent now, and there was no guarantee at all that there would be any for more than a few months--April, May--if we didn’t take one of the two left.

I felt a little weepy after that, but the ladies also brought home one fact: I would be the one who would be in the house the most, and I would need to be comfortable in it more than John. I thought of the adequate white house, and how it seemed cold to me. I knew I wanted the wood house, even though it was farther out than we had wanted, and more than we needed. I gritted my teeth, thinking of the possible objections John might have. Well, if it were up to me, I would take this house. I would, I would, I would!

I have taken pictures of both houses; you will know what I mean when I say one is the white house and the other is the wood house.

As I looked at both again, as I thought about all the houses we had seen, the villages we had gone through, the landscapes we had driven through, I realized that much of what I had experienced here in Germany so far reflected something of my very rootless childhood, but that the common denominator of that childhood had been the comforting enclosure of wood, of trees, and of the mountains I could see surrounding me at all times, like hands cupped around a chick. The drab and functional military housing I had seen as I visited the base was home to me as a child, and I accepted it as a child would: knowing it was home because my parents were there, but that it was no more than that, and that it would change, sooner than later. But the constant was mountains and trees, and the one time it wasn’t--California--there were still mountains in the distance, where I felt safely held by the earth.

I don’t think I mentioned that Germany is flat, very flat around the western border where we are, and there are almost no forests. There are what I call stands of trees, or small woods, and these seem so very neat and tidy compared to our very wild Northwest forests that will go on for thousands of acres. Our trees are tall, taller than the hotel I’m staying in right now, and very close together, so close that there are parts where a normal sized person can’t go between the trees that are so thick in trunk and undergrowth. Old growth forests. Eastern Washington is flatter, but even there you see mountains in the distance, or at the very least, the land is made of rolling hills and high plateaus.

When I lived in the Keyport Bangor base in Washington, there were trees in back of our house and trees in front, and there was rarely a day when I didn’t run off, literally run, into the woods and play, or just run along the deer paths just for the sheer joy of running and discovering secrets that the forest would reveal if I looked carefully enough. I knew there were bear, and there were cougars, but there were also the squirrels and the deer if I walked quietly enough. I had learned from some children’s book or other that Indians often walked toe first so that their steps would not disturb the animals, so I did this too when I saw squirrel or deer, so that I could get close enough to them.

I don’t run through the woods any more; plump middle-aged women tend not to. :-D But our homes in Washington are made of wood, rather than the masonry here in and around Geilenkirchen, and there is still something in me that understands wood or at least the mountains mean home. I can’t see mountains from here. But a home with wood in it...that is home.

I realized also that my conflicting concern--it was too big, it was too grand for little ol’ me--would not have been a concern back home. Had John and I decided to build such a home on our own property, I would not have thought twice about it, although i might have been wowed at how fortunate we were to be able to build one like that.

But on the way to the NATO base, all the strictures of Navy life came back to me; unconscious strictures of hierarchy, where enlisted personnel did not fraternize with officers, and this extended down to families and children. I remember once the Chaplain’s son walked over to the enlisted quarters--chaplains were the exception--and I was so alarmed that I yelled at him to go home, that he was not allowed in our neighborhood. I even remember throwing things at him to make him go away. It was that ingrained. I looked at the drab, ragged enlisted housing surrounding the base, and remembered I used to live in housing like that.

I had thought it was all in the past; I’m a woman grown now, and have not lived on base since I was in high school, decades ago. I am, most definitely, a civilian. But John made a comment about how the wood house was one in which a colonel might live, and something inside me stepped back from the notion of living in that house and that something said, “you are enlisted personnel; this is not for you.”

That evening, after John and I had dinner, we walked back to the hotel, and he asked, “well, have you decided which house you want?”

I thought of the objections, the practical considerations, the potential objections he might have. I gritted my teeth and said, “I’m sorry if it messes with your plans to bicycle to work, but I want the wood house, the house in Schöndorf. I’ll be the one spending most of the time there, and I think I’ll be happier there than the white house closer in.”

John nodded and grinned. “All right then, I’ll call AnnaMK and let her know.”

I blinked. That’s it? No objection?

“As you say, you’re the one who will be spending more time in it than I will, and I think it’ll be a great place for you to write. I’ll see if there are any shortcuts and bike paths to work, and it’s not like I can’t just ride around every day just for fun.”

I have a really nice husband. :-)

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.