Numinous

12 years ago I was about to turn 12. September 11th had happened a few months prior. I was in the 6th grade, started to wear contacts, and was hopelessly battling puberty. 

12 years ago I first saw my mother paint. 

She was working towards her Masters in Art in Education and her culminating thesis was an art show depicting the wheat and grain heartland in which we lived. She painted four massive paintings following the progress of the maturation of a stalk of wheat. She drew numerous colored pencil drawings of the beautiful grain. She wrote her thesis essay, a paper so long it could have been bound as a book. 

In the weeks leading to Christmas, she was painting.

I would spend my day at school, writing stories and thoughts to tell her on scraps of paper I would shove into my pockets. School would end, and my sisters and I would ride the bumpy bus ride home. Once home we would grab a few Oreos, my sisters would head to the TV, and I went to the basement. In the back room, a damp place with molding work desks and cluttered with boxes of taxes from 1993 and dad's old aviation books, my mother had set up her easel. Here she could fling her paintbrush and not worry where drops landed. She could blast music (from Creed and 3 Doors Down, to Trans-Siberian Orchestra and N*Sync Christmas) and be warmed by the diesel furnace that sat about twenty feet away.

I would settle myself on the old green couch, the upholstery a sticky plastic substance (the stickiness most likely developing from years of small children spilling koolaid) and watch my mother paint, while telling her about the contents of the notes buried in my pockets. She would listen, sometimes giving advice, other times sighing in a way that led me to believe I should be joining my sisters in front of the TV.

After the art show my mother's paintings sold, and I have always wondered where they currently hang.

Sometime this past spring, in the throws of a looming depression brought on by the boredom found after college and low income, I wandered into a nearby craft store. Before I knew it, I had drained my meager bank account on a beginners set of acrylic paints, a few small canvases, paint brushes, and a plastic storage container to hold it all.

I hadn't painted since high school, although I had always felt the need to. Setting up in front of reality TV, I got to work, and developed a new coping skill. When I am anxious, restless, and depressed enough to be unable to see bright colors, I sit and paint. When I am bored, when there are no new Dateline episodes online, when I want to give an unique gift, or amp up my online dating profile, I paint.

And recently, in the weeks leading up to Christmas, I have been painting. And of course, listening to Christmas music.

The only Christmas music I listen to is a few select songs from the Love Actually Soundtrack, and all music by Trans-Siberian Orchestra.

Those who know me know I am not a religious person. Going to Catholic Mass for me is more of a family tradition than it is worship. During this Christmas season, as the first away from my family, living in a house sparsely decorated, and in a city that has yet seen snow, the ritual of painting with the background of Trans-Siberian has brought me back to Christmas at the Mills'. With each potted plant draped in lights and bulbs, one (or two) trees decorated to the nines. Garlands and candles on the mantles, and Santa figurines on every surface. Outside there is always a few inches of snow, inside Dad makes a fire, mom works on needlepoint while Dad watches football. We are all covered in blankets with a dog or cat in our laps. There are stuffed moose wearing stocking hats in the bathroom, wreaths in each picture window, and lights edging the brick house. Religion is the tradition of a family.

When I paint, I remember that. And remember the person who makes it all possible, the person who first placed a paint brush in my hand (or a pen for that matter), who takes an entire Saturday to decorate the house, and an entire week to convince her husband its time to put the lights up and get the tree. She cooks the dinner, places the sugar cookie dough in the fridge to cool, and embroiders door hangers for each our bedroom doors.

I recently saw the pictures from  Lisa's wedding, where I wore a black dress and my hair pulled up into a tight knot. I was struck at how much I looked like my mother. Today, after breakfast (at noon, obviously, as its a weekend), I threw on jeans, a yellow t-shirt I work out in, and a denim button up. I wrapped my frizzy hair into a bun and stuck a head band on. I glanced at my self in the mirror, and again was struck at how much I looked like my mother.

I got to painting, and within the blues and greens and fumes, I began to have issues. I struggled with getting the strokes and colors just right. I looked away from the canvas and then back, and found the issue. As I tend to work on small canvases, most only 2 inches by 2 inches, I often hold the canvas close to my eyes to get the paint exactly where I want it. And I often have to look away and then back, holding the canvas at an arm's length to see the bigger picture.

And sometimes it takes traveling to a new home on the other side of the world, and tearing up whenever you talk about your mom, to see the bigger picture.

Other than my green eyes from the Mills, I am turning into my mother, and I couldn't have a better Christmas present.

Numinous: adjective, Latin: appealing to the higher emotions or the aesthetic sense. 

Culture

The term "culture" is a modern one. It derives from the roman "cultura animi" which translates to "cultivation of the soul". The term originally was used to describe education, and not whole bodies of people.

One of my au pair neighbors was recently talking about her experience in Germany, she arrived three months before I did. She stated that she was loving it here, and loved "learning a new culture." Although I understood her statement, it struck me as odd. This neighbor is European, and her hometown has more similarities with Marl than mine does. However, with each day that passes, I find less differences between the German culture and my own, small town American one.

This became apparent on Friday night when I was invited to a rock concert for a local musician who had won Germany Idol a few years back. His type of music is similar to that of Creed, but I was excited to go and get out of the house.

The music was very good, including the opening act that was a reggae German singer, who I just loved. The venue was an old, small warehouse with a stage at one end and a bar at another. Right outside the door there was a Curry Wurst and Pommes Frites stand. The air inside was foggy from lighting effects, and the floor sticky with spilled beer. There were few tables and chairs, and so we stood for the entire three hours. The musician was a small town boy at heart, and every year on December 6th (St. Nikolaus day in Germany), he returned home and held a concert, choosing a local musician to open for him. The crowd was filled with his old friends from school, adults who had seen him grow, and teenagers who idolized his achievement of "making it big".

It was a rock concert. Simple as that. Even though the lyrics were in German, and I could barely understand anything with the heavy bass, the music was fun, people were dancing, there was beer, and for a split second I thought I saw an old acquaintance from Whitworth. My mind quickly exclaimed as I took a double take, "No, can't be. Not here in this small German city." But a part of me thought, why not? I could see this particular acquaintance liking this music and coming for a beer and Friday night fun.

With the pounding of music in my ears, and my eyes blinking from the bright lights on the stage, I realized that where I was, was really no different than where I could be this Friday night in America. Other than the obvious language difference, and the amazing beer, nothing was different.

And yet, I often get asked, "How do you like the German culture?" A culture I tend to define by its overeating of bread and paving everything with stone and brick. The language is different, but if you listen you hear the same roots English has. The train schedules are hideous, but I have never lived in New York, London, or Rome.

And some may say its this modern era, everything has been westernized, changed to reflect the giant that is the United States. Blue jeans,  coca cola, Herbal Essences, all these are American imports. In this modern era, is there still true culture?

And I wonder, was there ever? Or was it humans living within their means, using what was available, but in essence not living any differently than their counterparts across the world. Love, hate, grief, comfort, those are all the same. No German questions my love of sleep, of cheese, or of fresh air.

I begin to believe that this is not a different culture I am living in, nor a different life. It is simply a house, across the street from a church, with a family who loves their young son, and planning to build a jungle gym in the backyard for him. They bought stones from the local hardware store to pave the walkway. They trim the shrubs, move the welcome mat when it gets soaked with rain, and hang Christmas lights. They sing songs to the child, closely video tape when he begins to walk, and let him play with the pots and pans.

Eliano's childhood is not much different than my own. He will grow to speak a different language. But his culture, with the cobblestoned streets and increased intake of bread, is that what defines him as different than me. Or is he more similar than an outsider would realize. We are all born with the same emotions, all babble in baby talk, all learn to walk with the same shaky steps. And other than a slight change in material values and appearances, I have yet to see a difference.

For I believe the modern term "culture" is overused. Perhaps it is just the cultivation of a soul, the education of one, about one's world.

Like a Balloon

Its Christmas season. The air smells like cinnamon and waffles in the towns where there are Christmas markets. In Marl it smells like cinnamon and gasoline from the quick stop next door.

I have hung blue and silver Christmas bulbs from sparkling blue twine, these are shown off in my windows and wrapped around the plants. I tried my hand at making an Adventkranz, a Christmas wreath with four candles, one for each Sunday leading up to Christmas. Tomorrow is the official start of the Christmas season, December 1st. All Christmas markets will be open by now, and local theaters are playing the Nutcracker and children's holiday stories. No snow yet, and I am not complaining.

Instead I am incredibly homesick. Even with the house decorated for the holiday it doesn't help. I miss my mother stringing lights around every potted plant. Her 20 + santas crowding tables, the glass nativity scene that we each move around as we walk past (maybe Mary will pet the sheep now, and the camel will be looking at baby Jesus). I miss Dad making fires in the family room, cuddling with the cat and listening to football while watching Mom cross stitch new holiday door hangers.

I do not miss the snow.

Yesterday was the wedding of Laura's sister, Lisa. Lisa is a lot like me, prefers converse and t-shirts, always has her blond hair wrapped up in a bun, and doesn't really care what people think. This wedding was just their legal wedding, the real shebang will be in the summer. Even so, this was an occasion. Lisa wore a vintage lace, knee length dress with a  jacket, and mint green pumps. All 30 of us family and friends piled into the courtroom where there were quick vows and signing of papers. Then we went to a pub, drank forever, and headed to a restaurant for a private dinner. At the dinner, Lisa's father made a speech. When he started talking, I glanced to the seven index cards in his hands, full of scribbled writing. I was exhausted, and wanted to get home to listen to the Cougar game over the Internet.

Dadt (Lisa's dad) started speaking. I understood the words, yet soon drifted off.  A round of laughter brought me back, and I focused on Dadt once again. He spoke about how he could not have planned for a better youngest child (Lisa) how he was so proud, and happy for her and Philip. He thanked everyone for coming and seeing this proud moment of his. Lisa and her mother started to cry. I started to cry. I may have been in a different country, hearing the speech in a different language, but I understood the feeling. Dadt finished his speech, and we were all handed more sparkling wine.

releasing balloons after the ceremony

Later I reflected on the speech, amazed that I could understand that much German already. And yet, not. For even if the speech was in Gaelic or Klingon, I am sure I would have still started to cry. The emotion was there, the love for his family was there. And I realized exactly what I had gotten myself into. I had entered into another family, a family with trials and quirks, who loved each other deeply. Dadt and his wife Heili have been incredibly welcoming, they barely speak English, yet we laugh at bad drivers and Dadt now loves huckleberry jam. Laura and Marco have also been very welcoming. I have my own internet connection and password, a bedroom that is the size of my sisters apartment (complete with balcony), and access to anything else I need in the house. They buy my favorite foods, and let me sleep in on weekends. They are clear in what they expect of me, and easy to work for.

Then there is Eliano. This morning I was there when he woke up, I dressed, cleaned, and fed him. We played hide and seek, with pots and pans, and read books until I was off duty at 11:30am. During that time he gave me four kisses, squealed with delight when I found him hiding behind the arm chair, and often grabbed my legs looking for comfort. 


I am dedicated to him now, more so than I thought I would be. He is more than just a little human I watch and make sure he doesn't eat a paperclip (or his favorite, leaves). I am dedicated to his development, teaching him and helping him speak and walk, playing, and making him laugh. I sing his favorite songs (all about birds) to calm him down when he's screaming or needs to sleep. I know his favorite foods (potatoes, bananas, and leaves) and have planned to buy him more books for Christmas, as I have his current five memorized.

Although the start of this Christmas season has been difficult, I am sure it will get better. In 23 days my sister will be here, we will celebrate German Christmas, then celebrate my birthday (with steak and gelato), we will fly to London, see the rest of the Mills clan, then travel to Berlin and Frankfurt. I will then go on to Leipzig and see the church where Martin Luther nailed his "Why I Dislike the Catholics" list. I am so excited.

And so exhausted of being homesick. Really, if I had just brought the cat.

A Little Help from Mark Twain and Harry Potter

Today Eliano, who just turned 11 months, made fun of my English. How? Well, he sneezed and I innately replied, "bless you." The little guy stared, then burst into laughter. I repeated the words "bless you" as I wrangled him into his cobalt hipster sweater, complete with wooden buttons. He despises getting dressed and this time he spent the minutes laughing as I repeated the words.

After a while I wondered if he was making fun of me.

Or did he really just like the sound of "bless you"?

Because, in comparison to the traditional German equivalent, "Gesundheit", I don't find it that funny.

But as he is 11 months, and his mother was away for the day, I was just about ready to do anything to make him happy. And so we spent the morning drooling on my iPhone, playing "monster" (where I chase him and he hides behind furniture, only to squeal when he sees me again), and napping while I pushed his pram up and down the cobblestone streets.

And while he was napping, I was reflecting on my use of the German language. Which compared to the last time I discussed it, has increased from saying only greetings to also saying goodbyes.

People tell me not to be too hard on myself, I understand a lot. I went to a neighbors house last night. She is around my age and studied in the States. Her friends all know varying levels of English, and speak slang German. I was surprised I could understand about 80% of what they were saying, down from 90% of people who speak formal German. Although I barely uttered a German word, it was a nice evening. My neighbor and her friends understood my nervousness with the language, saying it is very hard to learn, however I should not be nervous in speaking and simply just start.

I have seen a difference in my understanding of the language. I now do not translate everything into English in my head. I believe the first step to learning a foreign language is realizing that it is its own entity. There are more words, and letters, in German than there are in English. Therefor not everything in German translates to English, and words in English have more than one translation in German. And then there is the basic sentence structure, reversed from the two languages. German lays the verb at the end, while English (usually) has it near the beginning. When reading my Harry Potter und Der Stein Der Weisen, I often don't know what the hell Harry is up to until I get to the end of the sentence. Yes, he is with Ron, and at Hogwarts, and has glasses ….. and ah, there it is, they are simply walking to class. 

Never knew before what eternity was made for. It is to give some of us a chance to learn German.

- Mark Twain -1878

Mr. Clemens was right. And I give him props for trying to learn German before the language was forced to under go a renovation when the Americans set up camp after WWII, and realized that even though English is derived from Germanic roots, the two written alphabets look nothing alike. Now the German written language closely resembles English. 

And Mr. Clemens is even more right. I may not have eternity (nine months) but I do have an 11 month old who plays well by himself, who naps, and who makes fun of my English. 

So maybe I should just jump in, jump in with the only German citizen who won't care (or notice really) if I use the wrong form of "gehen" (but really, as my grammar is fantastic I would never use the wrong form; gehen, ging, bin gegangen).

Ron Weasley und Harry Potter sind zu die Klasse gegangen.

Before the Bells

"There are days that will be easy, and days that are difficult. And some days that are just plain shit."

I have no one to attribute that statement too, although I am sure my mother has said it sometime in her life.

Needless to say, today was not a good day. Well this evening wasn't. The day was filled with play, and shopping, and a really messy diaper that included an entire wardrobe change, but all was fine.

The evening was not. The German class I am taking is a bit over my head, a "bit" being an understatement as I can only understand about 50% of what goes on, unless it has to do with grammar. To which I have a feeling my German Professor from Whitworth would be very pleased. I may not be able to explain what part of Marl I live in, but I can tell you what tense to use, and what ending that article in would have.

However, no matter how many past tense verbs I remember, I still can barely get by in everyday conversation. If the person talks slow, I get the gist of their meaning and nod rapidly while slowly forming German sentences in my brain. I'm terrified of talking incorrectly and making a fool of myself, although part of me feels I already have.

Move to another country, be young and vibrant, live your life, YOLO, blah blah blah.
Apparently I didn't realize how difficult this would be.

Culture shock has given way to comfort, which is, well, comforting. I am now comfortable with squeegeeing the shower floor when done, eating cold cuts for breakfast, and tripping over cobblestones that very well could be older than my parents' house. I have a German phone number, and have figured out how to buy train tickets. I can tell time in "military time" (and get excited when such times as 22:22 flashes on my iPhone) and can understand what 2 degrees Celsius means in Fahrenheit. And I am comfortable in the house. I can run the dishwasher, work the TV and playstation, and know the day to day schedule.

However, despite that all that, I am improving my British accent from my new Downton Abbey addiction more than actually improving my knowledge to the language of the country I currently live in.

And so I look to the little things. This week I learned the word for goose (die Gans), diaper (die Windel), and finally figured out the translations for "kribbel" and "krabbel"which when put together and sung by Paul the Frog mean something like the tickling feeling bugs feet give you ("kribbel" means "tingle" and "krabbel" is "crawl").

I no longer am sore from riding the bike, am so far not killing the orchids that reside in my room, and haven't forgotten to use the Euro coins as there are 1 Euro, and 2 Euro coins.

And tonight after crying and blowing my nose on my comfortable bed for fifteen minutes, while talking to a dear friend, I stood up. I worked hard to get here. I knew this would be difficult (my knowing showing its signs in my denial before my departure, practicing German when there are Dateline reruns on? Never.) I knew this would be nerve wracking, which is why I packed comfort things, my sisters lotion, my favorite books (narrowed down to three) and my stuffed animals (yes, I am 24 and am accompanied every night by a baby giraffe, fuzzy elephant, and green bear).

I stood up and started dressing for bed, throwing on a favorite Whitworth t-shirt, while envying Dr. Karin Heller (Whitworth Theology Professor) and wondering how on earth she obtained three doctorates in three different languages (I know she's catholic and celibate, but really, who has time for that? Even before youtube there was, I don't know, things to be distracted by), I mean I can't even master two?

I climbed into bed, and started writing this post.
And now I am off to sleep, telling myself that it will be fine. In a few months (or fifty years) I will speak better German, I will look back and remember how far I have come from this short crying jag.

And now I will tell myself to stop talking like the amazing Maggie Smith and get myself to bed.

At least I get to fall asleep to church bells.



Hoch auf des Turmes Glockenstube  
Da wird es von uns zeugen laut.  
Noch dauern wird's in späten Tagen  
Und rühren vieler Menschen Ohr  
Und wird mit dem Betrübten klagen  
Und stimmen zu der Andacht Chor.  
Was unten tief dem Erdensohne  
Das wechselnde Verhängnis bringt,  
Das schlägt an die metallne Krone,  
Die es erbaulich weiterklingt.

In the towers bell floor high up  
Loudly will proclaim of us.  
Endure it will in later days  
And touch many a human ear  
And with the grieving will lament  
And join its voice to the service's choir.  
What down below for Earth's son  
The changing destinies will bring,  
That beats on the metallic crown,  
Which edifyingly passes it on.

Das Leid von der Glocke - The Song of the Bell
Friedrich von Schiller - 1798

And Again, Homework

One of the main reasons I chose Germany to travel and live in was because I have a background in the language. I studied (online, as there was no German teacher anywhere near Oakesdale) for two years in high school, recording children's songs and emailing them to my teacher in Chicago. I minored in German Language and Culture in college, a nail biting three years where the only reason I did my homework was to assure I wouldn't be yelled at in German. After finishing the minor, I spoke little, wrote decently, and could understand 90% of what was spoken and written.

Now, three years after finishing the minor, three years that included my time consuming senior thesis, graduation, the looming demon that is adulthood, a job with a cubicle, and other memory wiping experiences; I speak even less German, write like a five year old, and understand about 70% of the spoken word, however more so of written.

And so in coming to Germany,  I was hoping to not only polish my language skills, but entirely rebuild them.

Laura and I looked at two different German classes for me to enroll. One, in the near by city of Recklinghausen, was on Monday nights, in a cool building named after Marie Curie (and I actually visited the building on her birthday, which was neat). Recklinghausen has more things to do than Marl, looks cooler, and is a 20 minute bus ride away.

The other class was in Marl, in the shopping mall, and was Monday and Wednesday nights. Knowing that I would rather have the class in the cooler city, I opted for the twice a week class, it was more practical, and I was feeling more and more disabled from my lack of language ability.

Laura called and found out the time and room number for the class, and on Monday I saddled up the bike and headed off.

Those who know me well know I don't ride bikes. In fact, haven't for many years. The mall could be reached by bus (that included figuring out bus schedules, and paying money), by foot (a forty minute walk), or by bike. Eager to fit in, save time and money, and build a little muscle in the process, I lowered the seat on Laura's bike (insert short person joke here), and wobbled away. I took a practice run around the block, realized that bike seats hurt like hell, and that it wasn't so hard to keep balance. Unless I took my hand off the handlebar to adjust my scarf, and then I would veer out of the bike lane, off the curb, and into traffic.

I rode the fifteen minutes to the mall. Stopping at intersections and waiting for the light to change, nice stops as it saved my butt from screaming the entire way. I cruised along, realizing how out of shape I was, and that even though it was winter, riding a bike makes one sweat. I arrived early, as I had planned, locked up the bike, and headed into the mall.

To get to the class one must use Harry Potter skills and wander near empty corridors. After entering the mall and taking the escalator to the second level, I found the door next to the information desk, and wandered through a mismatched book store, past a small games store, bathrooms, and a library to a door marked for the language school. Laura had given me the number of the classroom, and I patiently waited outside the door, slurping down water to quench my thirst from my tiresome bike ride.

The class was to start at 4:30pm, and I was early. I wandered the halls a bit, and when I came back the door to the classroom was ajar and people were sitting at the long tables. I walked in, introduced myself, said I was there for the German class. Everyone stared at me in silence. The class was made up of mostly middle aged folk, immigrants learning the language of their new home. One woman told me in German more broken than mine that the teacher would be back. On the chalk board there were German words for, "house, car, mother tongue" and I wondered if I would be moved up a class.

The teacher came in, and I introduced myself, and that I was hoping to join the class if there was an opening. She told me she had not heard of me coming, that my German was too good, and I could not stay. I explained again that I had called, and been told about this class, in this room. She said I was wrong, that I was very tardy for the class (that had started an hour and a half earlier) and that I knew to much German for her to teach me. Politely, she showed me the door and told me to contact the office. I walked out, in near tears from frustration, my nails chewed down to the cuticle, and still sweaty.

I stood in the hall to catch my bearings, as others passed by for different classes. Then I heard it, the sweet, homesick sound of two Americans speaking English. Quickly I moved towards the voices, and came upon a man about my age, and a middle aged woman. They were talking about people they might both know in Florida. The woman was leaving a German class, and the man was entering one. They saw me standing near by, looking lost and probably creepy as I joyfully listened to their perfect English. They asked if I spoke, and I introduced myself as an American au pair, looking for a German class, 2B. Keaton, the guy, told me I was in the right place, he was in 2B, was also an au pair, and was glad to meet another American.

Faith restored I entered the classroom and spoke to the teacher. She was an older woman with white hair and glasses, spoke very clear, but not slow German, and was happy to have me. I told her I spoke little, but understood a lot, and she told me to stay for the class. I sat by Keaton, and he introduced another au pair, a girl from The Netherlands who spoke fluent English. The rest of the class was made up of people around my age, girls from Brazil and Uruguay, and an older man, who switched between three pairs of glasses while reading from the Czech Republic. Keaton assured me the class was laid back and easy to understand, and he was half correct. I was able to understand the teacher's German well, but the others with their heavy accents from their home countries was more difficult. Even so, I was impressed these young people had traveled so far, and were working so diligently to become citizens fluent in the national language. Everyone was friendly, and the class was light hearted.

The class met again on Wednesday, and started some grammar exercises. I was overjoyed when my grammar instincts came roaring back, all those years of memorizing article tables and hammering Der Die and Das into my brain had actually helped. I still spoke little German, but found myself to be understanding the grammar more than others in the class.

The class is taught in full German, as the teacher can't switch between Portuguese, Spanish, and English to help us all learn. I have found I like this teaching style better, as I am forced to be immersed in the language.

Another wobbly bike ride home, yet this time I was relieved. Relieved that I handled myself through getting kicked out of one class, found another, made friends, and feel that I will learn this language. Relieved that I didn't have to ride this uncomfortable bike for another two days.

However, I had homework. A lot of it.

Paul the Heathen Frog

 Baby classes are a newer trend in America, where infants and toddlers go to music, gymnastics, or social hour with others their age and work on "development". Baby classes are common in Germany, as most mothers get a year of maternity leave they have the time (and need the socialization of other tired mothers) to sign up their kiddo. Eliano started with three classes, but one has ended (he grew out of it) and now he is just down to two, music and one other, with the possibility of a gymnastics course starting soon.

The psychology student in me finds baby classes as a great idea. The regular person thinks its a bit overrated.

And on Monday I attended my first one.

Musical baby class was held at a protestant church around the corner (ask what type of protestant church it is and you will be met with confusion. In Germany there appears to be protestant, catholic, and that's all). We rushed in a bit late (Eliano hates his winter coat) and after removing winter apparel and shoes, seated ourselves around the circle and said hello to the other babies. The room was a normal protestant church roomed used for non churchy things. Chairs and tables were stacked along one wall, another was full of mirrors. Play wooden kitchen sets sat snug in a dark corner surrounded by blue and red plastic tubs full of mismatched doll clothes and legos.

I was introduced to the babies, first was Dustin, a blond haired blue eyed, skinny fellow with a kerchief tied around his neck to catch drool. Next to him was the clear leader of the group Fredrick, fred-er-eek, ("clear leader" as he was the biggest and could walk the longest without toppling over). Eliano and Lewis rounded out the rest of the young men. Daria and Carlotta both seemed to like Eliano, wheres Charlotte just patted his head. There were other babies, who's names escape me now, most dressed as cute babies and acting like they needed a nap. The class started with our leader, a unmarried middle aged woman who worked for the church, holding up the real teacher, Paul the Frog. Paul the Frog led us in a welcome song, where we danced in a circle, holding the babies who couldn't walk or didn't want to, and then played on the rug. Other songs came after, Paul would dance and the mothers would forcibly try to get their kids to imitate the frog. Lewis was preoccupied with staring at himself in the mirror, Eliano wanted to play with all the shoes, and Daria just cried the whole time.

Then the highlight of the 45 minute class came. Where each baby got his or her turn at playing the bells as Paul the Frog exampled, or really just waving the drum sticks around. Lewis was first for the turn. And he loved it, as babies love to make music. He did not love that Daria and Eliano were loving it as well and wanted their turn immediately. Lewis's mother politely shoved the other kids away, and Carlotta had her turn next. As the bells moved around the circle, each baby followed. When it was Eliano's turn, I had a plan. I seated him between my legs, and circled them around him, to create a barrier. In time to the music I bounced my legs up and down to make the wall even harder for Frederick and his baby muscles to climb. Eliano did wonderfully. He even hit the bells twice and my face only once.

After the last baby had played, Paul the Frog led us in the goodbye song. The babies acted if they had just had to listen to a stuffed frog sing for 45 minutes in a cold protestant church room. Even I needed a nap and a sippy cup full of milk. It was then a mad rush to shoes and scarfs, baby jackets and prams. Despite the money the mothers were putting into this class, I was surprised at how quickly everyone left. Outside there was casual chatter about the next class and if the babies should all enroll in the same gymnastics course. Lewis took off first, riding a trike that was attached to a handle his mom pushed. Everyone was jealous. Eliano stared at the girls and fell asleep on the 8 minute walk back.

This Thursday is another class, the subject of which has yet to be disclosed. Thankfully it is at a catholic church where the room will probably be colder, but there would be wine in the vicinity. And Paul the Frog? Only heathens use that stuff.

Ich bin heir.

And now we get to the real reason I even have this blog.

I arrived in Germany on Wednesday, October 30th at noon. I left Spokane at about noon on October 29th.

Before leaving I assumed my anxiety would be out of control. Instead it was the opposite, I was able to sleep, I didn't get my usual pre-flight dry heaves, and dad and I had a nice conversation about "no til farming" on our way to the airport.

At the airport, I was checked in before dad even parked the car. Bags were checked through to Germany (very nice as I would not have to pick them up and recheck the bags before customs). And then after taking some family photos, my personal Alaska/Horizon escort arrived.

To which I say everyone should have a friend who works for an airline. Justin strapped on his employee badge, and led me to the gate (this being the Spokane airport it was about fifty feet from where my parents stood). Justin sneaked me snacks from his flight attendant jump seat one two rows behind me, bought me a lovely seafood lunch at the Seattle airport, and directed me to my next terminal. Flying from Spokane to Seattle has never been easier. (Although he could not tell me what mountains/volcanoes we were flying over, he will have to take a geography lesson from Amanda). 

There was a small snaffu at the international terminal in Seattle where the gate attendant told me I might not get through customs in Germany and might have to buy a ticket back. He was short and looked like Lenoard from Big Bang Theory but with the greasy hair of car salesman. I wanted to punch him. But he was so small, I figured seriously hurting him would endanger my chances of actually being allowed on the flight. 

Flight to Reykjavik, Iceland was long. I had a window seat and the airplane Gods were shining down on me and kept the seat next to me open. Landing in Iceland was a bit unnerving, the airport is similar to San Francisco and Sydney, that it is practically on water. As we are flying in there is turbulence, a blizzard, and the seat monitor only shows blue as we descend. I was worried,  then realizing that Icelandic people must fly in and out of their country all the time, during all seasons of the year. And we actually landed quite smoothly, but with only 40 minutes for me to catch my next flight. 

And so I bolted through the early morning dark of the airport. The Ikea like wood floors allowed for great running. I hurried through passport verification, and onto my gate, where the flight was boarding. This time, airplane Gods smiled again, and I had a whole row to myself. Which was lovely as know one saw me freak out that my bags hadn't made the short connection. 

Three and a half hours to Germany, and I was wide eyed awake the entire time. Flying over The Netherlands and Germany was very pretty, it was a clear bright day. Upon landing in Frankfurt, we were treated with a true Frankfurt taxi. It took us no less than about 30 minutes to get within sight of the   gate. Frankfurt's airport is one of the busiest in the world, and it is quite a sight to see. There are not enough gates to accommodate all the planes, so there  are parking lots lined with 747s, where passengers are bussed to planes to board. There are roads and stop signs for the buses, food trucks, security vehicles, and the planes. So many planes. Delta, United, British Airways, Malaysian Air, Japan Air, KML, SAS, Brussels Air, Czech Air, Swiss, Air France, Concord, Air India, Dubai, Quanta (which I thought was a bit far from its homeland of Australia), there were small prop planes, double decker planes, charter planes, and many, many Lufthansa. 

Our flight exited into a nearly empty terminal, we wandered down stairs to a completely empty baggage claim, and waited. And I was terrified. I had packed more than enough clothes in my carry on to accommodate for losing my luggage, but still. That was my Aveeno lotion, my new jeans, my favorite dresses, my favorite books. 

The luggage started rolling and clunking its way down the belt, and I noticed that everyone else was retrieving theirs. If their stuff made it, then mine should of too. While biting my fingernails down to the cuticles in worry, I spotted my bags, one right after another on the belt (when does that ever happen?). I gathered all the strength I had left from 15 hours of flying plus about 5 more without sleep and took a big breath and heaved my bags off. Next stop, customs. 

I have been through German customs before, and never had any issues, I confidently plodded along through the doors marked green for nothing to declare, followed the empty winding hallways, to a sliding glass door. The door opened, and I looked around for the customs agent. Instead I saw a cafe, and people hugging. I had just exited the terminal. While realizing that my passport verification in Iceland must have been my customs for this trip I wandered blindly into the waiting area not really sure what I was looking for. I noticed some movement off to my right, and a thirty something year old man stepped right in front of me. My first thought was that it was a bit much, I had a huge backpack and two suitcases with me, he could at least let me pass, but I looked up and recognized Marco. Laura came rushing behind him and gave me a big hug before I could even let go of my luggage. They were beaming, and I was here. They each took a bag, I said "danke" and they laughed. Oh God, I thought, I said the simplest word and they laughed. My German is crap. 

We headed out to the car where I immediately saw their bumper sticker, the bright red tongue of the Rolling Stones. This was gonna be fine. I was gonna be fine. 

In the car I was handed some water (with gas, or bubbles, carbonated water), and my favorite German meal, which is just bread rolls with cheese. (I will explain the bread in another post, as its impossible to find in America.) And we were off, 3 hours on the Autobahn to the small city of Marl, between Dusseldorf and Essen. The drive was pretty, green and fall colors, rivers and picturesque towns with white stucco and red roofs. I even saw a castle. We pulled up to the house in a bit of rain, and it looked just like the pictures they had sent me (thank God). 

In the house I met Laura's mother and father, both who speak very little English (although they speak better than they realize), and Laura's sister Lisa who speaks fluently. All gave me a big hug. And in Oma's arms was the little boy. Curled hair from his bath, and chubby cheeks. He looked at me with big brown eyes, and gurgled. He was not that impressed. Food was cooking and he was preoccupied. Marco took my bags to my room, and I took a hot bath. 

Dinner was traditional German, a kind of pot roast wrapped around pickled veggies with, of course, potatoes. After dinner I fell into bed.

I really wish we could perfect teleporation. That would cut down on a lot of annoying things, bad passport photos, jet lag, that weird airplane smell you get on your clothes, like old socks. 

And instead of Scotty, we would have Justin! 

Soren and Sleep

Those who know me know I deal with anxiety issues. Those who know me well know how I calm myself down, a tall glass of cold milk, cooking shows, solitaire, my mother, or sleep. I'm a huge believer on sleeping things off, whether they be anxiety attacks, hangovers, or seasonal colds. I believe sleeping on major issues, and that you do your best thinking in bed. Which is all hunky dory if you can sleep. Which I currently cannot. And so when my anxiety brings it's best friend insomnia over, I turn to the best invention to occupying your brain for hours with useless data, the internet. 

And while perusing the great web tonight, I searched a favorite site of mine that collects humorous, insightful, and thought provoking quotes from books. Those of you who know me really, really well know that I not only have a deep passion for random facts, I also genuinely love a good quote. By copy and pasting i collect pages of quotes in word documents. When I am feeling like I hate school, I look up quotes. Love your sisters but can't stand to be in the same room at times, look up a quote. Can't figure out how to start that greeting card, look at quotes. And tonight I googled "quotes on anxiety" and discovered a pure gem, “To venture causes anxiety, but not to venture is to lose one's self.... And to venture in the highest is precisely to be conscious of one's self.” ( Søren Kierkegaard)

I felt that through the wide web, through my iPhones screen, through my bleary eyed insomnia, Soren was pointing at me. Basically saying,"so what you are anxious about leaving. It's part of the package. To climb aboard a massive jet to be propelled across oceans thousands of feet in the air, to land on foreign soil that has had government for longer than your country has had cave drawings, to meet and live with near strangers and to be the caregiver of a small child who is learning to speak a different language, to live in a country that doesn't have moose, believes roosters say "chicker ree chee" and where the beer is way better. This is stressful. This should cause anxiety." 

I feel my family and friends would be more worried if I packed up and left with out a few nonsensical impulse purchases, without a few sleepless nights, and without a few random texts from me at one am asking what the hell am I doing. 

What the hell I am doing is "venturing" is using my freedom and cultivating the dizzying anxiety that comes with it into very organized packing, high calcium intake, and the desire to be conscious of myself, to know I don't know all, to learn, to love, to grow. 

And hoping I eventually fall asleep. 

I Hate Anxiety, But it Loves Me

After I finished working, I threw myself into my next project, cleaning my room. Which provided many surprises, my aunt's old Spanish text book, boxes of Little Amelia baby clothes, and the realization my sister had more things stashed and stored in my closet than I did. I organized, dusted, vacuumed, and sorted through clothes for donation items to goodwill, summer clothes for storage, and things I actually want to stay and see daylight.

And now that I am done cleaning, I have a few errands to run. Errands comprising of picking up my new mac book and then speaking sternly at the bank people for once again messing up the ordering of my new card. I have a dentist appointment, a physical, and an eye doctor appointment scheduled. I will be babysitting for a cousin, and seeing a friend's play.

In a nutshell, I am bored. Which leads to worry, which leads large amounts of anxiety, which shows it self in insomnia and stress eating.

However, there are people who have my back. In regards to the stress eating, my mother has stocked the cupboards with food and let me buy fancy cheese. My grandparents, unknowing of how I was feeling, planned a trip to a buffet, where I had more than two desserts, in true Mills fashion. For the insomnia, the cat is very willing to stay up late keeping me company as I channel surf during the commercials of Dateline reruns.

My mother said to me tonight, after I overreacted when realizing an error my bank made, "You are bound to have anxiety, masses of it. You are making a huge life decision."

Which is entirely true. I am simply not going on a "trip", I am moving. I am leaving everything I am comfortable with, my bed, my car, my native tongue, to live in a country that speaks a much older language with stricter grammar rules. A country that relies heavily on public transport, that has had socialized health care for decades, a country where twice as much electricity runs through their outlets. A country that has buildings older than America, where history is right around the corner, and football is hard to find.

In realizing what the hell I am doing, I am also realizing those who are there for me. You met in a previous post, my friend Colten, who's response to my declaration of wanderlust summed up all my friends'. Along with Colten, Dana, Caitlin, Justin, Andrea, Isabel, Reid, Kristina, Julia, and others didn't blink an eye at my purchase of a one way ticket to a foreign land. Instead, they helped in every unique way they could. Whether it is with a glass of wine, a sushi dinner, or reassuring me that I am not crazy (well, not all crazy), my friends have believed that I am doing the right thing. Or they are just really good at hiding it. As my fly date comes closer and closer, I am realizing I will miss them more than just about anything. Thank god for social media and the Internet. And that fact that they are all wander bugs and might visit, or at least will write from their own travel destinations.

And then there is my family. My father (who may be more worried than I am, he really should of never watched the movie Taken) was a huge influence on me falling in love with travel. He would hand me the globe during TV commercials and ask to find Managascar, the city closest to the mouth of the Nile, or would run his own farm worn fingers down the trail the Nez Perce fled. And now I feel I am ready to see what that globe has to offer. Dad lived for a year in Switzerland. A year, that from his stories, I believe was full of fondue, skiing the Alps, and traveling to France to play basketball. My father is being supportive in his own way, making sure all my finances are in order, placing vitamin bottles within reach, and telling me that although he is very proud of me, that I better not talk to strangers.

My sisters are doing what they do best. Being sisters. I get the feeling both are slightly jealous, going to miss me, and at the same time can't wait till I leave so they can go through the clothes I leave and reclaim anything that I might of possibly taken from them.....such as when one let me live in her apartment for a month.

My mother, is being my mother. Anyone who knows her, knows her to be a rock. She is helping by oohing and ahhing over the purchase of my new, chic, European looking winter clothes (thank god for H&M), handing me bags of chocolate, and above all else, understanding how anxious and stressful it can be to start a new adventure in your life.

As I lay awake at night thinking what pair of gloves to pack, reminding myself to call the bank for the fifth time, and spend hours silencing my brain with playing Sims, I know the anxiety won't leave.

I barely speak German. I am terrified of airplanes. I have never been away from Eastern Washington for more than three weeks. I may not be afraid of snakes, spiders, birds, or failing. But I may be afraid of this.

I will have wifi. I will be able to text other iphone users anytime. I will be able to see my friends in Germany. My mother does know how to work her email and her smart phone. Caitlin will cheer me up with stories of Sims and dogs, text me every waking moment, and tell me that I am awesome. And if all else fails, I will beg Justin to fly and rescue me. And if I know my best friend, he would fly across the ocean to get me. Then would stand me up, dust me off, take me shopping, and tell me I am crazy. Its an adventure. Its supposed to be anxious. Even Indiana Jones is afraid of snakes. Now lets have some coffee, find European lovers, and get on with life.

Boredom + Childhood Dreams = Late Night Expedia Browsing

When told I am moving to Germany for nine months most people nod, smile, then ask the confused, "so, why?"

And I respond how my parents raised me, politely, I explain about finding a job as an au pair, discuss my German language skills (or lack thereof), and brush over the process that made me realize I am young and should go for it. I do not answer how I would like to.

"Why not?"

After I finished harvest in 2012, I moved back to the house in Spokane I was renting with 5 other 20 some year olds, and started working at the first place that offered me a job. The job was part time, included many hours staring at Excel and answering phones, and required me to buy skirts that went past my knees. I worked five hours a day, would ride the bus home, change into sweats, and sit in front of the TV and discuss dinner options with my roommates (Taco Bell or should we splurge for Applebees? Take out of course). I would climb into bed at around 10, and spend the next few hours surfing the net, window shopping on dating sites, designing my own Parisian apartment, or playing Oregon Trail. I was bored. Bored out of my mind. I had a college degree, yet the thought of grad school gave me hives. I had a comfortable savings account, thanks to a drawn out harvest. I had a car that I didn't drive and and a student bus pass I had lied to get.  Student loans hadn't kicked in yet. My roommates were either working full time or in school and rarely home. Cold weather set in, as did my yearly Seasonal Affective Disorder (with the very accurate acronym of SAD). I realized my weight gain from the stress of my senior thesis hadn't left, and if any thing had been added to  by the bowls of candy at the office, one of the few acceptable reasons for me to leave my desk and wander the office.

In a nutshell, I was entering a depression, and based on my numerous past experiences, I was greatly annoyed and pissed. And so one October night, accompanied by a roll of toilet paper to dry my eyes (cheaper than Kleenex), a bottle of gas station Riesling, and a bag of M&Ms, I asked myself three questions. What do you want to do? What would make you happy? What would it take to do those things?

These were the answers:
What do you want to do? The same thing I have always wanted to do since I was a young child, travel, write, and learn. 
What would make you happy? A pet giraffe, I'm sure. That or Joseph Gordon Levitt as my boyfriend. But more seriously, to travel, to write, to laugh daily, and to maybe get paid for it. 
What would it take to do those things? Well, a exotic animal breeder permit for the giraffe maybe. To travel I need some extra cash, to write I need motivation and paper, and to laugh and be happy? 

That night, while working my way through the bottle of wine, I devised a plan. I would find a way to travel, I would make myself write, I would see a giraffe in the wild (and then one in a zoo so I could pet it), I would not worry about having a boyfriend, I would get in shape, I would combat my mental illness and depression with my best weapon, myself. I would feel content.

I immediately started looking at flights to Germany, other Americans' experiences with moving to Germany, absolutely adorable lofts in Berlin. I choose Germany because I had friends there, I had minored in the language, I had been there before, and Europe was so small, I could see many countries on a budget and in a short period of time.

Sometime that night, I stumbled out into the living room where various roommates and friends were gathered watching TV and eating junk food, ignoring homework. I tearfully stated that I was moving to Germany. The one reaction I remember the clearest was my friend Colten, who simply stated, "Of course you are." He did not mean it in a condescending way, more as a blunt statement. "Of course you are." Of course Amelia would move to another country. Of course she would not go the traditional route of grad school, marriage, kids, 9 to 5 job. Of course. My tears quickly dried, and with Colten's voice ringing in my head, I went back to the drawing board. Of course this was meant to happen. Hadn't I been telling people since I was six years old that I would travel the world? Hadn't I minored in a foreign language for a reason? Hadn't I taken the mundane office job because I knew I would want to leave it after a few months? My lease was up in May, I had harvest cash stashed, and a valid passport. Of course.

Over the next few months I meticulously planned my adventure. I spent hours on google reading blogs of American travelers through Europe, I contacted friends and acquaintances who had lived abroad, and I saved money. With an idea of what monthly rent, travel expenses, and a visa would cost, I set to work. I started couponing (way easier if you get the app), I found odd jobs as a dog and house sitter, and as luck would have it, I was promoted to full time work at the office. Student loans kicked in and I cut back on movie tickets and taco bell. Through many trials and tasteless dishes, I learned to cook.

As spring approached, my parents started having their doubts. A job in Germany was not yet secured, and governmental and immigration agencies were telling me "its near impossible" through unanswered emails and voice mails to find one before I moved. From a recommendation from a college classmate, I looked at au pair sites that matched nannies to families. I set my top location at Germany, and wrote an online profile, eerily similar to one I had on a dating site. I spoke to a few families, and was offered one position, when I came across a chubby cheeked, black haired infant. I instantly fell in love, and messaged the parents. Six weeks later, contracts were being drafted and signed, and I was now actively tracking flight prices as a farmer does the weather.

This was in spring of 2013. I had lost some weight, gained some muscle, been through a small but harrowing car accident, and had worked hard in "business casual" skirts and flats. Late May I put in my notice at work, although I wasn't leaving until July. In late July I left the office life, with the realization cubicle life would of killed me if it hadn't been for my amazing coworkers who supplied me with endless amounts of gobstoppers, laughs, and the understanding that they had once been 23, idealistic, and unable to get out of bed in the morning.

Harvest came and went, quicker than I would have liked for overtime dollars would fund my adventure. I bought a flight, a brand new suitcase, backpack, camera, computer, cellphone. One warm Sunday afternoon in early September I puttered around in dad's '92 Chevy Extended Bed Pickup, killing it twice as I lumbered through the fields learning to drive a stick shift for the first time.

I was ready to go. Anxious and out of my mind terrified, but ready and excited. As I stuck around after harvest helping with paperwork and filing I was met with the same question I had heard almost a year ago. "So, why?" My answer had not changed much, "I'm just not ready for grad school. I minored in German. I love kids."

However, inwardly I answered the question, "Because I can. Because I have wanted to since I was six. Because I am young and idealistic and bored for adventure. Because, why not?"

It is now early October, almost a year has passed since I have made my decision to make my own adventure. I am now not working, and will use the next few weeks to pack and get ready (and yes, clean my room, Mom). As those closest to me will attest, I am anxious, and scared, and excited, and more confident than I have ever been in my life.

I am doing what I want to do. I am traveling. I am writing (kind of). I am going to see the world, or at least, a part of it I have not yet seen. I have worked extremely hard to get to this point, and I am hella proud of myself.

And welcome to my travel blog, where I will detail my adventure, my childhood dream, and how your twenties are made to not give a shit.

"Your twenties are your 'selfish' years. It's a decade to immerse yourself in every single thing possible. Be selfish with your time, and all the aspects of you. Tinker with shit, travel, explore, love a lot, love a little, and never touch the ground." (Kyoto Escamilla)

Now, raise your Riesling, and lets toast to being 23, being selfish, travel, and thanking our Good Lord that I didn't set my sights on a pet giraffe.