Capitals European

We had a French breakfast this morning, hot chocolate with croissants to dunk, and even had a mini Eiffel tower to put on the table. We had bought the trinket at the newsagent at Charles de Gaulle airport last night while we waited for our flight, which had been delayed by a huge thunderstorm. It was a scary storm with lightning on both sides of the car on the freeway, and we were afraid the hailstones were going to damage the rental car as Alfred gunned it into the parking garage of the 1974 aérogare whose diagonal moving walkways feature in so many contemporary films.

We had seen the beginning of the thunderstorm that drenched us as we ran to the car from the IKEA restaurant, which, like all things French, defies logic in their opening hours: no meatballs after 3 pm. We had of course, arrived an hour too late, after a two hour drive straight through the center of Paris. We had had the choice when leaving our friend Natasha's house near Evry of navigating the maze of freeways that ring Paris, or of simply bisecting the city, enjoying the glimpses of monuments from our car window.

When we left Natasha's medieval digs--during the baby's nap-- it was still over 20 degrees (Celsius!), as it had been throughout our visit. That morning, when we walked through the lovely Waldorf school nestled against the green forest of Verrières-le-Buisson, had been positively cool, and we had slept soundly in our oddly suburban B&B up the road.

We had arrived fairly late, and tired from the long drive from Colmar. We did break up the drive, navigated by our Irish GPS and freebie map from Avis, with a stop at the ever-lovely Notre-Dame-du-Haut at Ronchamp. The last time we were here was shortly before we were wed; we are both showing signs of deferred maintenance, but the essence remains vital.

We had driven south from Colmar, where we visited another Waldorf school there and had spent a warm two hours enjoying the peace and idealistic talk with the fellow who received us. We had woken early to get there on time, but had taken a wrong turn from our host's home in picture-postcard Rosenwiller and arrived later than promised. Graciously, no mention was made of our tardiness.

We rose early for that appointment after a night punctuated by rooster and church bells, one of the hazards of Alsatian country living. The night had been warm enough to sleep with the windows open (still a bit early for mosquitoes, thought the tomatoes were already set out), but the rooster had woken us at 2 a.m. the night before, so we had learned our lesson.

The Colmar Waldorf school was a refreshing contrast to Strasbourg, which we had visited the afternoon before: Colmar was a newer, more open facility with an older, more stable staff; Strasbourg was an older, more urban school (the suburbs had grown to meet it and nearly engulf it), with a much younger teacher's college.

We had taken Monday morning to laze around and enjoy the peaceful surroundings and our big bag of French cheese and bread and pastry as well as our hosts' mini billiard table. We did have to go out to replenish our supply of pain au chocolat, since our boys, with the able assistance of our godson's siblings, had managed to make a clam shell worthy of Costco of 20 pasties disappear during the previous 24 hours.

The pastries had sat on the sideboard of the breakfast room in Freiburg, Black Forest city of our studies and early married life, and it was a fun trip down memory lane to walk around the lake with our old friends and show the kids the student housing where we had lived, as well as ride the trams to the train station to watch high-speed trains and lick ice cream cones (it was warm, right?).

The flaky pastries and smelly cheeses came from our stop at the first supermarket we found after we picked up our rented diesel Mercedes A class; we filled our sacks with all sorts of French provender, along with a few goodies for friends soon to be seen again. The fire station that we passed on the way there was a great place to sit in the sun and munch on them while chatting with sapeurs-pompiers that serve Dreieckland.

We had chuckled at the funny immigration system in the border aiport at Basel-Mulhouse: after deplaning, you had to not only choose which passport line to stand in, but for which country, France or Switzerland, even though both lines re-emerged into the same baggage claim hall.

As our plane swept over tidy green fields dotted with red tile roofs, we were only just recovering from our mad dash for our plane, which was of course at the farthest gate from security on the day the lines were the longest and slowest we’ve ever experienced. And of course, we were late getting to the checkpoint because Mr Murphy himself saw to it that we not only drew the farthest spot (Area Z) in the long-term parking, but missed the shuttle to the terminal by seconds. We would have been earlier, but we had just learned that it is more difficult to move a 14-year old than an 8-year old at four in the morning.

Which is how we come to have a little Eiffel tower on the table, along with a mountain of laundry and email to sort through.

Look, a Zeppelin!

During one of our many visits to Alfred’s home town, we were out on the sunny terrace of a typical Swabian restaurant, enjoying our respective plates of Käsespätzle. Alfred had finished gobbling his up, and was coveting Danny’s plate. Ever the opportunist, he glanced skyward and shouted, “Look, a Zeppelin!” Kid erstwhile distracted, he managed to score a few forkfuls before he ever knew what hit him.

Now, the reason this nefarious plot works is that there really was a Zeppelin overhead. You see, said dirigibles are still made in Friedrichshafen, just a couple dozen kilometers away, on Lake Constance. It’s actually a relatively common experience to see one floating overhead. What’s more, there is an entire museum devoted to the subject right on the waterfront, across the street from the train station.

What’s that you say, an interesting museum? A train ride? Sounds like a way to get out of town for the day in an agreeable sort of way. “Papa,” says Marcus, “doesn’t your friend Wolfgang work at the fire station at the Friedrichshafen airport? And doesn’t the train go right past?” “Train?” perks up Danny, “did someone say train?”

And so it was that we found ourselves once more on the 9:07 to Friedrichshafen, with a quick connection to the harbor spur. It was bitterly cold, and the detrius of new year’s celebrations, confetti and champagne bottles and exploded fireworks, floated in the harbor.

But the museum, we can report, is Very Cool. There is old stuff from the Graf von Zeppelin himself, together with nerdy explanations of aerodynamics, or why the big thing flies. But the best bit is a 33-meter reconstruction of a section of the Hindenburg itself suspended on the ceiling, so you have to climb up the passenger ladder to get in and you can look down out the windows. We spent plenty of time meandering, and the boys had a good time.

Next up was the 13:01 train to the airport, where we met up with Alfred’s childhood buddy (Alfred Sr. still keeps some of his hives on Wolfgang’s father’s farm), for a tour of the new fire station, part of the expansion for this still comfortably small airport. The last time we were here, Marcus must have been about five years old, and we got to the non-passenger area by ducking through the baggage hatch behind the lone check in counter. There are now three counters, and we had to pass through a couple of coded doors to get to the new Panther fire rig.

I’m hoping Marcus understood more than we did; I can only tell you that the rigs are big and red. The coolest thing in my mind is the quick start button on the side: you press it, the truck starts (with blue lights blinking but no siren), and the garage door opens. I admit that could be useful on mornings when I’m late to drive carpool. Especially the lights.

And remember, if you ever hear one of us shout, “Look, a Zeppelin!” you’d better cover your plate.

St. Sylvester

If anybody ever comes up with software that can handle family logistics (a developer father friend said it couldn’t be done), the author will probably be German. For example, take the holiday food shopping:

Wednesday: Christmas eve, so stores close at 1 p.m.; Thursday and Friday, Christmas and St Stephen's day, stores closed; Saturday, market day, but stores close at 1 p.m.; Sunday, closed; Monday & Tuesday, stores open all day, closing at 6 p.m.; Wednesday, closing at 1; Thursday (New Years), closed; Friday, open; Saturday, closing at 1; Sunday, closed; Monday, open; Tuesday (Epiphany), closed…

If you can follow that, you're halfway there. First up, figure out which days are open, and how many days of food you need to get, first figuring out how many people will be in the house, and what they eat (Anke, cheese, no meat; Papa, no meal without meat) so you can sketch out a menu. Then make a list, realize you can't get to three stores in the time allotted, remake the menu and make the list again. Gather ever shopping bag known to man, make sure you have cash (no one takes debit cards here), and try to find a parking place.

We go into town, and fill the car to the brim, and get everything back to the homestead. My mother-in-law has a usually empty fridge in the basement for just these occasions, and we fill it to the brim. Except for the fireworks, which go next to the fridge. I am particularly attracted to a German-made box of "Tischbomben" - table bombs! Sounds like just the thing to follow raclette and chocolate fondue.

The 31st is the day we have all chosen to descend on the family home (our apartment is spoken for over the new year changeover), and it dawns cold and rimey. The frost is spiky, coating everything, and we cant resist a walk on the farm before we schlep everything over. The boys do their best to break the ice on the frozen duck pond, but their rocks just bounce and slide on the surface.

Aunties arrive, boxes of even more food are squeezed into whatever corner allows. We pull a mattress out of the attic for Danny, eliminating any leftover floor space that might have been used for playing, until we realize we can stack the mattresses during the day.

After supper and dessert (items lost in the fondue cost the loser a verse of an Irish song), one auntie goes out for some fresh air (and I suspect a cigarette and peace and quiet). She reports that there is a mixture of rain and snow falling, and it's only an hour until the new year. By the time we have watched most of a video of this summer's 50th wedding anniversary, it is time to bundle up to go outside with fireworks and champagne.

There is snow falling, and plenty on the ground--finally! Empty champagne bottles are useful for holding roman candles, and the fluffy flakes make for a perfect background for the country-wide street party. No one wants to go in, which explains why our kids are sledding down Federburg Straße at one in the morning. We finally call everyone in, and fall into bed. By the time we are awake in the morning, we tune in to Space Needle fireworks ringing in the new year back home.

The day will be full of snow-filled activities: shoveling snow, sledding, snowball fights. But no shopping.

Happy new year!

A new cast

Update on the broken arm:

With his arm freshly cast, I was to get a certificate from the pediatric outpatient clinic to allow Marcus to fly to Germany for Christmas. A quick call to the clinic, and I could come by and pick one up the afternoon before our departure. Ah, but you and I know that things cannot go as planned. That would be Too Easy.

When the phone rang, I picked up, and my favorite bone-setter, Conor, told me we would have to split the cast to be able to fly. Could we come in and do that the self-same afternoon? Of course we could. Thirty minutes' drive for thirty seconds with a cast saw and the deed was done.

On doctor's orders, our first task on landing in Germany was to get Marcus to an outpatient clinic to get a new cast, as we had had to split his fresh cast for flying. It turns out that cutting it open was an excellent idea, as his arm did swell during the flight, and we did end up loosening it, and rewrapping it--in the parking garage at the supermarket.

My mother-in-law had called ahead to the 14 Nothelfer clinic, which means 14 emergency helpers, which we think is a funny name for a clinic, but what do we know? At any rate, we found our way to the outpatient clinic, where we were told to come back in an hour as the doctor was in surgery. We headed into town, and bummed around the Christmas market, and then headed back.

The doctor, a fast-talking young woman ( you know you're getting older when the doctors are younger than you), asked if we had the doctor's report form Dublin: we did, and I handed the CD to her. She laughed and handed it back to me--we have no computers here, she says. She then looks at the cast, and shakes her head--we don’t make these anymore, they're old-fashioned. She orders up an x-ray, which turns out to be a real x-ray machine, not fluouroscopy (digital, no computer). As we wait for the x-ray technician, we hear a noise. Yup, she's typing up a form on an IBM Selectric. If you don’t know what that is, you're probably too young to be reading this.

The film we walked back down the hall to the doc had an uncanny resemblance to the first picture of his broken arm. She said essentially the same thing as the Irish doctor, but with less Latin, and then looked at the cast again. No, she says, this is plenty stable, she doesn't recommend doing anything more to it. Come back in a week, says she.

We scratched our heads, not sure what to make of it all. I am reminded of my freshman Western Civ prof, spouting, "what is modernity?" Since it was a long weekend, we couldn't do anything about it (or anything else) so we just sat tight. We briefly considered heading to the hardware store and buying a few strips of fiberglass and doing the deed ourselves (watching Alfred try to talk me out of it had a certain entertainment quality). But by Monday, Marcus was hurting mush less, and a call to the old family doctor put our worries to rest.

We can't wait to see what the Irish doctor says when we return with the same cast as last year...

Tagesausflugsmehrzugfahrt

After a week of grandparents and new Christmas toys, the kids were understandably bored. Poor Omama and Opapa are so used to a quiet retiree's house that our two boys wear her out, not to mention the mayhem we bring to their sense of order. It is at this point in every visit that we must fabricate a way to get out of each other's way.

So what do we do for fun around here?

A few years back, Ravensburger Spieleland opened up: the people who bring us those great jigsaw puzzles decided to try the whole Disneyland model applied to the blue-corner brand. The result is a German version of fun park, with a commensurately high ticket price. The first time we were here after its opening, Danny was still in diapers, and the maiden aunts wanted to take our kids there. We said no, earning the title Biggest Party Poopers Ever. But our toddler had been eaten alive by mosquitoes the night before, and it was hot and muggy: an asphalt crush of people was not going to help him stay cool and not scratch. We decided instead to head to the local swimming hole with friends. It had terrific shady spots and muddy banks. We got him wet, covered him in delicious itch-stopping mud, and then sent the men folk to the closest supermarket to get ice cream, which we slurped down greedily because it was melting so quickly.

Two years ago, we hit pay dirt: there was snow on the ground every day for three weeks. We sledded in blizzards, we sledded down the longest hill known to man, the maiden aunts and soon-to-be-uncle-with-the-big-dog took the kids sledding. We built snowmen, and then we sledded some more and had a snowball fight or two. It was perfect fun, and nearly always followed by hot chocolate. No one called us party poopers.

Danny picked up a German train schedule, and said, let's look in here. From the mouths of babes: What could be more fun than spending a cold day riding around trains? We looked at the schedules and saw we could go to Switzerland around Lake Constance (via Austria), or over the lake itself (ferry boat), or both! We figured out the schedule: Sunday morning, departing at 9:07. We had a plan.After breaking our fast to a bright orange sunrise, we arrived at the train station in time to purchase our tickets, only to have the ticket dispenser tell us to buy our ticket at the counter--which didn't open until 9:30. Hmm. And we didn't have a plan B. Alfred knocked on the door of the Fahrdienstleiter (the closest thing to traffic control in the train station), who told us to get on board the 9:07, jump off in Friedrichshafen and grab a regional day ticket (€53 less than the price we found online), then jump back on--we had seven minutes between the time the train would arrive and depart. Once we got there, we found out he had called ahead, so the ticket was ready and waiting for us. We managed with 2 minutes to spare. Our trip ended up taking us via Lindau and Bregenz (talked to some Americans from Dubai who came to escape the warm weather) to St. Gallen, where we bummed around (the library is a UNESCO heritage site and the city is still wearing its Christmas finery) and have a nice lunch (lovely risotto, and a garlic soup I will have to try to replicate), then back via Romanshorn, ferry to Friedrichshafen (we have promised ourselves another trip there for the Zeppelin museum), and returning to Ravensburg in time for supper.

We came back all a bit tired, a bit hungry (sausages and fried potatoes took care of that quickly enough), but tired in a happy way. Supper and jammies, and fall into bed. Not bad for party poopers.