3rd Time - Berlin, Deutschland

I don't believe there is anything in the whole earth that you can't learn in Berlin except the German language. 

- Mark Twain's Notebook




Berlin has long been one of my favorite cities. Why, is hard to explain. The city infrastructure can often been seen as dirty, gritty, grimy with graffiti and bits of fireworks. It can been seen as oppressive from its history, unwelcoming by the people, and where you can't find a decent American hot dog. 

I love Berlin. I love the history, how its steeped into each corner. Some buildings have charred brick, others bullet holes, some are modern and new, and a few older than the original American Colonies. A yellow brick line snakes through the better part of the city, showing were the wall once stood. Pieces of the wall still stand; the thick concrete and barbed wire barrier crumbling in front of the church, or the small artistically graffiti pieces standing tall in Potsdamer Platz, underneath the shopping mall. 

favorite part of the Berlin wall, taken on my first trip to Germany in 2009

I love Berlin. The food is unique to the city, the curry wurst is a must. The peppered sausage from the street vendors, the doner (a turkish food that is fantastic, lamb and salad wrapped in a pita like bread), the Berliner, a jelly filled doughnut. 

(Fun fact, when JFK gave his famous speech at the base of the Berlin wall, he stated, "Ich bin ein Berliner," he meant to say, "I am a Berliner (citizen)", what he actually said, was "I am a Berliner (as in the jelly doughnut)". The correct way would of been, "Ich bin Berliner." dropping the article all together.)

Brandenburger Tor (Brandenburger Gate) Iconic landmark of Berlin, built in 1791, the site of JFKs speech, and the symbol of the "door" to East or West Berlin

I love how the American embassy sits a block away from the Parliament building, across the street from the Tiergarden (Berlin's Central Park equivalent), and just steps away from where Tom Cruise tried to film a poignant scene for Valkyrie, but was shot down as Germany doesn't recognize Scientology as a religion and thought it would be bad PR to have a cult member on one of the cities major historical sites. (The historical site in question is the courtyard where members of the "20th of July Plot" were executed. The plot was one of the failed attempts to assassinate Hitler.)

Berliner Dom, (Berlin Cathedral) Built in 1454, first as a Catholic church, now it is Protestant. During WWII, a bomb fell right through the glass dome, through the church, and into the crypt damaging many coffins of German and Prussian royalty. 

I love Berlin. I love the history the city has for its country, for itself, for the world, and for me. This is a foreign city I have now visited three times (all during the winter actually). I have spent new years (called "Silvester") twice in Berlin. I have fallen in love, realized I was in love, and have learned a few words of Russian, all while in Berlin. 

Despite the grit and grime, the graffiti and thick accent, I love Berlin. It is one of the few foreign places I have felt at home. I get it. Or I think I do. But what I do know for sure, is that Berlin gets me. 

A Lock of Love on a bridge in front of the Berlin Cathedral. Very common in Europe to place locks on bridges to symbolize love. 

to see more photos of my time in Berlin, check out my photo blog: http://wanderersanonymous.tumblr.com

London Called, It Would Like Its Accent Back

And that's the wonderful thing about family travel:  it provides you with experiences that will remain locked forever in the scar tissue of your mind.  

~Dave Barry

My father is often right. Ask him to detail Lewis and Clark's exhibition, and he will almost nail it. Hand him a list of trigonometry problems, and he will gleefully not use a calculator. Ask him how to change a tire, and he will just do it for you. 

Just never ask him to speak in a British accent. 

So, really, never let him watch an episode of Julia Child, or take him to London. 

But, as most of you already know, we went to London. 

The famous Big Ben

London did not rain (until we left and Amanda and I were caught in a monsoon like deal as we sprinted from the taxi to the airport door). London was full of tourists. London was expensive. London had lots of shopping, lots of pubs, lots of places to eat fish and chips with peas, and from what I saw, no royalty. 

I mean, I realize its the holiday and they are out in the countryside hunting with fox hounds or whatever it is they do, but there was a reason we stayed only blocks away from William and Kate's current residence (or as dad called them, "Bill and Katie"). 

Kensington Palace, current resident of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, and as well as a bunch of the Queen's cousins. Former residence of Lady Diana, and first residence of Queen Victoria (she grew up here). Picture taken from Kensington Gardens

Other than the numerous books I have read on British Monarchs, and the few tidbits my dear friend Isabel has mentioned, I really didn't know anything about England, or London. From the books, I pictured palaces and town houses housing royalty and ladies in waiting at every corner. From Isabel I pictured lovely looking men. 

What I found was this:

1. People get confused when you ask for ranch with fries (I didn't ask, a sister did)

2. Walking Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park in the morning. A bit chilly, but absolutely lovely and you will meet more locals, and more local pugs. 

3. Stumbling across Peter Pan was quite magical. 

4. Seeing Platform 9 3/4 was not. 

5. You can find first edition, British edition, Harry Potter books for super cheap if you don't mind a small rip in the corner. 

6. Lovely food. 

7. Quite nice taxi drivers. 

8. Small hotels with cramped rooms have the best service. 

9. Traffic. 

10. I can't believe anyone ever actually lived in the Tower of London. Talk about fifty million winding staircases and super short entry ways. 

London was wonderful, and so was seeing the family. I was handed more chocolate and DVDs and books for presents, and it was like I was home. Mom got to shop on Notting Hill, Amanda got her bloody picture next to the Harry Potter landmark in Kings Cross, Anna took some wonderful shots with her fancy camera, Dad hit his head on many a stone that King Henry VIII probably was too short to reach, and I found a city that seemed magical, foreign, historical, and spoke ENGLISH. 

 London Tower Bridge, Thames River, Ship, Buildings

 Tower of London 

London Eye

Amanda and I then flew off to Berlin, one of my favorite cities in the world. 

to see more photos of our time in London, check out my photo blog: http://wanderersanonymous.tumblr.com 

Photos: Where to Find Them

So I suddenly realized that those people who don't use Facebook (such as my parents) may not be able to see all my photos. So, in stealing the idea from Julia and Max, friends who just back packed around Europe for a few months, I have set up a Tumblr photo blog. For those of you who don't know what Tumblr is, thats ok, you don't need too. On the photo blog, I will post pictures of all the neat things I see. And then you can live vicariously through my fabulous life. 

Photo Blog: http://wanderersanonymous.tumblr.com

Also I have Instagram: lila_in_blue 

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.