Let's Slow Things Down A Little

The Germans are known, worldwide, for being extremely ordered and anal. I can say that along with the stereotype that many Americans know frighteningly little about world geography, this preconception about Germans tends to be true. I'm not by any stretch the most laid-back person I know, in fact it's highly likely that I'm not even in the top 100 of the most laid-back people I know. And yet I find myself, sometimes on more than one occasion per day, wanting to scream "Hey, German man/woman/boy/girl/dog, CHILL the f&*k out." And yes mom, the profanity is necessary.

One thing I have come to learn, though, is that while Germans do love order, rules and more rules, they are really very selective about what kinds of rules they follow. There are many rules that they simply ignore, and some others that are followed literally to the letter under probable punishment of death. For example, please feel free to hang around outside the grocery store (also conveniently located about 40 paces to the police station) in groups of about 10, becoming drunker and drunker all day long while smashing bottles, yelling, wearing black to express your angst, and frightening customers. At home we would call this 'Loitering', 'Public Drunkenness' and 'Drunk and Disorderly.' Here, it's pretty standard. Or if you feel the need to urinate say, while you are in public, PLEASE don't hesitate to do so! Outside the hockey game or in an alley in the shopping area, all sorts of walls and/or shrubbery are waiting for your urine to rain down upon them...in broad daylight if the mood strikes! At home this might get you on the Sexual Offender registry.

However, if you are driving in Germany please be aware that the blue sign with a scene of children, cars, trees and a road indicates that you must drive either a) the speed of walking or b) 7 kilometers per hour (4.5 miles per hour). I suppose it just depends on whether you can walk faster than 7, and I hope you can. I learned this lesson the hard way today, when I was pulled over at a check stop going 30km/h (17m/h). I was then informed (auf Deutsch, of course) that even though there is no speed limit sign with an actual number on it (we wouldn't want to make it too easy and/or clear), the previously mentioned sign with an elaborate scene drawn upon it is meant to indicate the numeral '7'. Of course. Not 5, not 10, but 7. A sign with a number (regardless of how silly that number might seem) was just too obvious I suppose.

I wasn't actually that upset by any of this, unlike the way I normally feel when Germany gets me down. The policewoman, who was trying so hard to figure out what the hell to do with a criminal who neither spoke English nor has a German driver's license, actually had me feeling sorry for her. She was clearly new to this crime fighting squad and wasn't all that quick on the up-take. Maybe I was too busy enjoying the irony of that fact that not only do I not have a German driver's license, but I actually was not carrying ANY driver's license at all...but this was not a problem. When the policewoman asked her superior what to do, he told her to take down my info on the back of a piece of paper so they could mail me my ticket. Seriously.

Hope Dangles

I don't want to jump the gun, but I'm feeling so bold as to say that things are getting hopeful around here. Hopeful that winter won't last forever, hopeful that buds and mud are here to stay and that snow and frost have seen their last hurrah. This may seem an especially cruel thing to say considering that my loved ones in Michigan and Manitoba have had some painfully cold, icy, snowy and treacherous weather of late. But even though the mercury may not ever sink as low here, and we've had to do very little if any snow removal, it's been a long winter for us. We're finally seeing signs of the relent. Warmer temperatures mean longer walks with the Real Boy and fewer frostbitten toes at Dave's games. There's only so much that layering can do when it's -10 and your love has you bound to spend 3 hours of night sitting outside watching hockey. In six weeks it will undoubtedly still be winter in Chicago, but when our plane lands and we collect the Real Boy from the over-sized baggage area, summer has officially begun.

I don't want to count our proverbial chickens before they theoretically hatch, but I'm hopeful that this season isn't over quite yet. Hopeful that all those who predicted this team would start and finish the season in last place are paying attention now, hopeful that the grinding and creeping that brings this team what success it has had can continue. In the Bundesliga of German hockey, it goes like this: teams who end up in places 1-8 go to play-offs, 9-10 finish their season after the last regular game, and 11-14 play in the torturous play-downs to determine which teams stay in this league which is forced to begin next season a level below. As of this morning we are perched precariously in 9th position, waiting and hoping on good results from a crucial match in Munich tomorrow. And all my hope is gathering, becoming a tornado of crossed fingers and knocked wood. Naysayers continue to say nay, and fans continue to be fair-weather. But players continue to believe in the best, partners continue to cook favorite foods and indulge superstitious rituals. Who am I kidding? I make my own rituals, since it seems to be the only thing I have control over. Is it a coincidence that we generally WIN when I wear my grandmas green ring and forget my glasses at home, rendering me unable to read jersey numbers? I think not.

Public Nudity

It's not exactly a new or novel idea to have a sauna at the gym, but using a sauna as part of your health and fitness regime is definitely more common here in Europe. The Finns are known for their saunas, but the Germans and the Dutch take them pretty seriously, too. Last year my favorite part of my workout (besides hanging out with you, Sherry!) was taking a nice long sauna afterwards. I felt like I was glowing (beat red) and tingling (overdid it in Spinning) and I was primed for a nap.

Since I didn't set foot in our 'local' gym (a long, winding, boring drive into another village) until last month I had been sauna-deprived for far too long. I needed to get naked in a room full of naked strangers and sweat profusely. Immediately if not sooner.

Naked, you North Americans say? Naked. Nude. Birthday suit. What's the big deal you say? We're all just ladies flopping around with our fun-bags and the region under Terry Town Bridge! No, we're not all just ladies, not in Europe. Some of us are men, shimmying through the sauna with our man-bits and our hairy backs. Dave and I went to a public sauna of this sort earlier in the season, and we purposely hit it during the low-traffic hours, because let's be honest...it's weird to be standing naked in a room with your husband and a smattering of other naked people. Sweating. The sweating somehow makes it much, much stranger.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all about nudity. I grew up in a nude house with hippie parents and a sister whose favorite outfit was cowboy boots and a tiara (and maybe that still is her favorite outfit, I'll have to check on that one). I'm not offended or icked out by the nudity of others, and I'm not all that shy of my own nudity. Dave is constantly yelling 'Shut the blinds! The neighbors can see you nude in our living room!' or 'Should you really vacuum/bake/do yoga nude?' Yes David, I should. I'll be bold and tell you the truth: I look BETTER nude. Clothes cut me off all wrong and make me feel constricted. Sometimes we walk in the house after a long day out and about, and I gear down right away. It's freeing.

Anyway, despite my semi-liberal stance on co-ed group nudity, I was glad to see that the gym has a "Frauen" sauna day, meaning only fun-bags and no man-bits. I felt I could be more relaxed and get more out of my day in the sauna in this kind of environment. I sweated and cooled down alternately for an hour, enjoying the nature sounds music being piped into the sauna area. I read (ie: purused the pictures) a German magazine while sitting in the lounge chairs outside the sauna itself, while elderly nude Germans made small talk. I even noticed a small menu card on the table beside me, and a white phone where you can make orders for drinks! How grand!

And while the elderly Germans laid nude and willy nilly on their lounge chairs, I wrapped myself casually in a towel, it's not a peep show for goodness sake. And I was a bit shocked when the 'waiter' who brought the drinks was really the male, 20-something manager of the gym. HELLO!? Is this not Ladies' Day? Can the ladies working in the gym not bring the drinks you little creep? The elderly Germans didn't seem to mind, because no one made a move to cover up and small talk was in fact made with said man. My inner social worker couldn't help tsk-tsking though...what if I had chosen to come to Ladies' Day because of a previous traumatic incident with men? Zen it out Lane, this is place of relaxation.

I hit the showers and went home.

Flashback: Paris and Juno Beach

We were lucky enough to have time to take a quick couple days in Prague during this year's All-Star Break, but last year at this time we were spending a luxuriously long (as far as hockey season goes) 4 days in France. From our home in the Netherlands it was only a 4 hour drive to Paris and since Dave was becoming the expert Euro-driver that he now is and I am the best navigator known to man, we went. We went exactly 3 blocks within the Peripherique road of Paris and it was like we entered a zone of constant honking, no regard for lines on the road and suicidal motorcyclists. We made it into the hotel parking structure alive. Barely.

Paris was amazing. There were iconic sights, unexpected side trips, interesting people and the standard smell of sewer that you must whiff at least once in every European city visited. We walked and walked farther than we ever thought was possible. We got blisters in places when we'd never seen before. We crashed into our hotel bed each night with visions of Monet (blurry), hearing the sounds of Francais (blee bloo bla la lee lo kwa), feeling the effects of the delicious wine (dizzy).

Don't go to Paris if you are on a diet. It's pointless and annoying. Eat crossaints. Eat pain au chocolat. Eat anything that smells good and is sold behind a glass case. Have cheese that smells like feet and tastes like heaven, and put it on bread that is fresh and warm with crust that makes use of molars. And if at ALL possible, eat all and any of this while sitting outside watching Paris go by.


I was lucky enough to have my old friend Anna (she picked me up in a bar in Ann Arbor a few years back, we've been kindred ever since) living in Paris and she used her language skills and social network to show us some more authentic culture. We went to this crazy little club and watched crazy, chain smoking Parisians dance to Brazillian music. We kept the party alive at the apartment of her friends and discussed...well I don't really remember but I'm sure it was incredibly intellectual. Wine makes me more interesting.

One day of our holiday was spent taking a breather from the hustle and bustle of city streets to drive to the calmer, quieter and more quaint Courseulles-sur-Mer in Normandy. Dave's Grandpa Jim was part of the Canadian force that stormed Juno Beach on D-Day. This part of our trip was certainly more somber than the rest, but it was a really important part of our journey and an extremely proud moment for an already proud David to see the beach itself and the amazing museum that has been built to honor the Canadian troops.

We had a wonderful, exhausting, informative, overwhelming, gorgeous French experience. We drove home with only minor navagational issues (Dave got overly excited at a sign indicating the Battle of the Somme, war history is a bit of an obsession for him) and with a trunkful of baked goods and pockets full of sand from the seashore.

The Other Man

Everyone who knows anything about me knows that behind Dave, the Real Boy is my main passion in life. Falcor is not just a dog, he's not just a companion, not just a family pet. This dog is freakishly human and incredibly needy. The Real Boy communicates emotions and transmits messages...technically he hasn't yet spoken but I do receive telepathic messages regarding his love of carrots, his need for his tummy to be rubbed just so, his preference for Euro style pillows, and his concern over ever finding a replacement for that orange nubby ball. These conversations can, depending on subject matter, last for hours.

Whenever I leave the house without Falcor (which isn't all that often considering how lax the Germans are on dog accompaniment) my heart is heavy. But nothing can compare to the guilt that I feel when my outings involve involvement with another Boy. Yes, it's true. There's another Boy who snuggles me, loves me and telecommunicates with me (although he speaks Czech and we really have nothing in common) on the regular. He is NOTHING, nothing, in comparison to my Real Boy, but he tugs at my heart strings and I know Falcor is seething when I come home with the scent of Oliver on me.

It happened once, ok twice, but I swear it meant nothing.

Cupid Comes to Crimmy

I know that among both the singles and the couples alike there are some who have a distaste for Valentine's Day. Allegedly it's a Hallmark holiday made up to make people feel badly or spend money on flowers and cheap Made in China teddy bears. I'm here to neither confirm nor deny such allegations, but I will be honest and say that Dave and I do celebrate, nay, observe Valentine's Day every year. We're not into gifts or extravagance, just sentiment and special time set aside to dote on each other and bat eyelashes. Plus, it always seems like a great excuse to gorge on chocolate.

In defense of spontaneous romance, in honor of contrived Valentines and in the name of bragging, I present you now with the beautiful flowers that my husband brought to me...LAST week. I believe it was a Tuesday. Nothing particularly special about that day, just that he thought to swing by the florist on the way home practice and write me a lovely card before I came in from the gym. He never buys pre-made bouquets, but instead picks out the flowers himself, bless his colorblind little heart. I'm a lucky girl.

As far as our actual Valentine's Day festivities, we celebrated our love by napping all afternoon, walking our dog, grocery shopping, then having a date in the neighboring town for drinks and Italian food. Although we spend every dinner together (breakfast and lunch, too) we were giddy last night. Maybe it was the fact that we left the boundaries of Crimmy, maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the fact that we wore actual clothes (as opposed to pajamas or workout gear)...whatever the reason it was great to get some fresh air and be seen in public (and by 'seen' I mean stared at while speaking English in our indoor voices).

The Valentine's Day specials...I chose the heart-shaped raviolis!

Dave reads the HOMEMADE card I gave him! Somehow it made me cry!

My lovely Caprese salad.

It only took 1 hour and 15 minutes for our entrees to arrive!

Prague: Restoring Faith in Humanity

Ok, ok, that title might be a bit much. But the truth is that when you live in east Germany, your team is on an endless roller coaster of wins and losses and you haven't had a weekend off since November...just about anywhere else seems like paradise. True enough, Prague has all the pitfalls of a big city: occasional whiffs of sewage, beggars laying prone on the sidewalk, swindlers trying to sell you their wares, and aggressive prostitutes. So maybe paradise is the wrong word, but it was a refreshing get-away nonetheless.

Prague is a medieval fortress, Renaissance village and modern city. You can wander for hours (trust me, we did it) down the winding lanes that line the river. You can hike up to the castle (stopping in a pub along the way to eat a piece of fried cheese the size of your head, of course) and meander down slowly taking in views of the Old and New Town (you'd like to go faster, but aforementioned cheese is bogging you down) letting gravity help your descent. If you're smart, you'll save on hotel by staying in a chic hostel and use the saved Czech Crowns to buy a sweet set of nesting dolls. You'll probably meet an Australian and an Austrian in your hostel and end up watching a match from the Africa Cup in an Irish Pub. It's pretty standard, really.

Below are just a few snap shots of our journey. We took the train, wandered by foot and by Metro, and enjoyed the 48 hours of freedom. Feast your eyes.

The Astronomical Clock was my favorite sight. Sure, it just looks like a fancy clock, but this thing tells you the position of the sun, sign of the zodiac, time and what you should have for lunch. I can barely manage long division, and somehow someone in the 1400's figured this out. Figures.

Good King Wenceslas!

A view from the castle.

The National Cathedral.

David and the Charles Bridge.

Blast From the Past

Now that Dave and I live somewhat like over-packed nomads, we've learned to become each other's best friend. And while we do have a wonderful marriage, I don't necessarily mean that in the Hallmark kind of way. I mean that we live in a new location every August, and the pals we left behind the previous Spring are now relegated to online relationships. When we're lucky, we run into our friends from previous seasons again, and when we're really lucky we get the pleasure of playing together in a new place. But generally, goodbye isn't 'see you later', it's more like 'stay in touch if you can, you made this season what it was, it was nice knowing you.'

Another side effect of our lifestyle and the fact that we grew up a nation apart, is that we don't always know the friends from each other's past. We tell our stories and draw pictures of our younger selves, but nothing is really as telling as meeting a character from the tales of your spouse's younger days.

This weekend Dave played in the All-Star Game, along with a friend of his from his Junior hockey days in Thunder Bay, Ontario. Mike plays in Münich and is a title character in many of the chapters of Dave's younger life. Mike was a friend of Dave's during his first year away from home, the first year he flexed the muscles of his independence and realize his tolerance for alcohol was not what his over-inflated 17-year old ego thought it would be. They rode the bus for hours together across middle America, sharing a seat and goodness knows what else.

Mike and Dave have both come many miles (the figurative and literal kind) in the past 8 years. But being with Mike, hearing his versions of the same stories Dave tells and listening to the continued cry of "I just can't believe Dave's MARRIED!" was like looking back through time. I can see why he was friends with Mike, that kid is a constant gag reel, and I can imagine the trouble those two could get up to without a wife's watchful eye. Although, I'm not sure I was the best chaperone seeing as I led the charge for our night to last until 7a.m.

Here's to Mike, and all the Mikes of our past, that helped make us who we are and can rejoin us along the journey without missing a beat.

Ping Pong Gone Wrong

In an attempt to foster some kind of team bonding or maybe just to foster more competition and division by nationality (depending on if you catch me in a optimist post-chocolate mood, or a pessimistic Cola Light craving state) Dave's team spent part of yesterday in an elaborate Ping Pong tournament. Although Dave had no idea how elaborate until he arrived there, poorly equipt and sorely untrained.

In defense of Dave's ignorance, the usual tone of a non-hockey related get together with a team has more to do with a bit of masculine banter, perhaps a friendly wager and at least a couple alcoholic beverages. In North American terms, Ping Pong is in a category somewhere with bowling, darts, pool, and shuffleboard. In other words, these games are generally classed more as 'activities' than 'sports'. These activities are, except at the elite levels, more of a means for socialization rather than a sweat-inducing battle. But, as is both wonderfully and painfully obvious, we aren't in North America anymore.

Firstly, this tournament was no casual get together, it was a highly organized bracket system with professional grade equipment. Secondly, all the participants were dressed in athletic gear. Gym shorts, running shoes and possibly sweat bands with water bottles to ward off dehydration. Many even had their own paddle, shined up and brought of it's special case just for this event. According to Dave, the Canadian and American imports were more obvious than usual, what with their jeans and t-shirts, without monogrammed paddles. And it was then that they learned that Germans not only take Ping Pong seriously, but indeed learn to play in school. They are literally training to kick Ping Pong ass while Canadian students are passing notes playing Red Rover.

And although I'm sure he gave his all, Dave, usually a fairly athletic and able competitor, didn't even win a game, let alone a match. Egal!

Source.