On My Own

I often feel that most of my people who are in my age bracket are pretty far ahead of me on the grown-up scale. Like, kids and houses and making consequential-type decisions. I'm a late bloomer. But move over all of you, because Heidi's got her own place!

I can't officially move in yet due to red tape, blah, blah, blah, official move-in date, etc. which is too boring to write down. But I do have the keys and the former tentant has vacated.

So I visited yesterday and danced around and walked through all of the rooms (all two of them, plus a bathroom and foyer and closet of a kitchen). It's not big or luxurious, but it's just for me. And the thing is, as soon as I walked in, I wanted to protect it. I wanted to get out a bucket of soapy water and clean everything, washing away its past to make room for my future. Sappy, I know. But exciting.

Food for Thought: Comforts of Germany

We all have specific foods we eat when we want to be comforted, feel cozy and secure. Well, maybe you don't. I, however, do. If you know me, you already know what my one addiction is. It involves comfort liquid and tastes like Christmas.

At home, spaghetti is my best friend. It loves me, and I love it. We cultivate a harmonious relationship with each other. Now that I am in Germany, other foods have joined in the relationship and have become treasures to my palate.

Reibekuchen. Basically an insanely delicious potato pancake. Fat and greasy with crispy crunch on the outside and warm, grated potato on the inside. Most Germans eat them with apple sauce, but I'm a firm believer in the kraeutersosse (herb sauce). I get a fix sometimes at the Tuesday market in the town square. While I realized 2 is a limit you should stick to at one sitting, you cannot fail with hot, deep fried potatoes.

Feldsalat. I love vegetables. It worked nicely with a vegetarian diet. There are so many delicious lettuces to find at the market here, but my favorite is the feldsalat. Little, tender leaves that actually look like they were plucked from a field. I can combine anything with them (cranberries, nuts, tofu, tomatoes, mozzarella, beans, cauliflower, anything that is left in my fridge) and have a blissful time.

Maultaschen. I can't make these myself, but oh how I love Aldi for offering a cheap and delicious version. They are pockets of pasta with a mixture of pork and green-type veggies inside. Catholics used to eat them during lent because they felt the meat was concealed in the 'pocket'. I don't know if they managed to trick God, but I'm darn glad they tried.

Istanbul Cafe Day

Our last day in Istanbul was a cafe day, hopping from tea cup to coffee cup to tea cup, sitting under shady umbrellas and people watching. We mixed some Turkish bazaars in between.

We made our way by ferry to the Asian side of Istanbul to catch our night train to Ankara and on to Cappadocia. We had a few hours to use up and went in search of dinner. The last three days of Istanbul have finally driven home the lesson of looking both ways before crossing the street. Cars, buses, taxis, any moving vehicle has the right to mow down a pedestrian. We gear ourselves up to cross the street and ask each other "Okay, are you ready?!"

We made our way through Istanbul traffic to a fantastic street market with all kinds of fish and animal parts, vegetables and berries. It felt like we were finally in Turkey. No one could understand us, it was hand gestures only from there on out, and there were very few tourists around. I was heavily meat-ed out and more than happy to enjoy Turkish lentil soup that I only by sheer luck managed to get the waiter to understand what I wanted.

The best find of the evening was by far the corn snack cart we passed on the way back to the train station, though. Corn. Fresh, wholesome corn. Off the cob. The corn guy threw in a little butter, a little Parmesan cheese, did a little corn dance, piled it into a cup, handed me a little spoon. I paid him 2 Turkish Lira, and off we went. It was the best snack ever. Another snack cart we kept seeing was cucumbers. No joke. The man peels it right in front of you, hands it over, and you munch away. We also saw watermelon, bread, roasted chestnuts, and tea carts. Why haven't these snacks caught on in the States? We could do it at movie theaters. I, for one, would happily eat a cup of corn instead of deep fried processed chicken tenders. But maybe I'm in the minority on that one.

Turkey: The Night of 'I Never's

Istanbul, I am in love with you tonight. We flew from Duesseldorf to Istanbul today and had arranged for a hotel car to pick us up. This was a stroke of sheer intelligence on our part, as it was utterly and wonderfully practical to come out of the baggage claim and see a man holding a sign with my name on it.

As we wound our way along the coast of the Sea of Marmara and the driver maneuvered through traffic chaos, we silently absorbed the sights flying by. And my wonder got stronger with each mile. I have never, ever seen so many people outside, simply enjoying the weather and each other's company. Hundreds and hundreds of little clusters of people lounging, laughing, playing were everywhere to be seen along the boardwalk. And somewhere within each little group of people was a billow of smoke from their barbecue grill. And, oh heavenly day, it wafted into our car and smelled
amazing.

We found a restaurant where we could sit outside and relax away the rest of the evening watching people walk by. I was worried the food would be sub-par in such a touristed area, but oh I was wrong. Yummy lamb and Turkish spices and hummus and rice pudding. I shared with the cats. Because, not even Greece's stray cat population can match that of what we've seen in Istanbul tonight. I have to remind myself not to pet them. Ring worm and rabies could put a damper on the vacation. But I tossed them random bits of food to see what they would eat. Everything.

I can't wait to explore tomorrow and go in all of the outrageously colorful shops.

Breaking and Entering

Please. We've all been a suspect of breaking and entering at some point in our lives. I mean, really, who hasn't? The other night I was, too. And I can only blame myself and my inattentiveness to the house alarm. It turns out leaving the window open after you go out to take the dog for a walk and have locked the front door trips the alarm and alerts the authorities.

And thankfully, like good guests, they call before sending over a team to break down your door. The phone was ringing and ringing and I finally answered:

Me: Hellöööchen?

Alarm Guy: This is Herr Something German. Who is this am Apparat??

Me: Uhhh. (I realized later that my hesitation only served to support his suspicions of me. But, really, who calls and demands to know whom their speaking to? I clearly remember the record my parents used to play about strangers.)Iiiiich. Biiiin... Heidi. (As if dragging out my words was going to help something?)

Alarm Guy: The house alarm has been going off at our station for a quarter of an hour. No where do I have your name registered to that house. What are you doing there?

Me:(This is where I stop eating the chips I had just opened and start to take things seriously.) I'm...living here right now. With Mocha. The dog. I'm watching the dog.

Alarm Guy: I've had 40 years of experience in this business. I need more explanation than that. How do I know I'm not talking to the woman who just broke into this home?! I'm about to send the police by.

Me: (Well, now, that would be embarrassing for everyone involved. Mostly me. But, what could I do?) Listen, Alarm Guy, you can send the police by if you want to. I'm staying here for 3 weeks dog sitting. I don't know why the alarm is going off! The owner is in the United States.

Alarm Guy: She needs to call me immediately and prove you're telling the truth or not. What time is it in America? After midnight?

Me: What? No. (Breaking and entering is his thing, not time zones, after all.) It's only 5pm there.

Alarm Guy: What were you doing 15 minutes ago?!

Me: (That's not really his business, but okay.) I put my pajamas on, and went onto skype. I was, you know, chatting on the computer and eating some chips.

Alarm Guy: I mean, what did you do to set the alarm off?

Me: (Slightly embarrassed now as he didn't really want to know that other stuff. But this is where we started to clear things up, as I remembered the opened window. I explained the whole scenario to him and he started to calm down.)

Alarm Guy: All right, I've identified you as a positive. (Apparently the term for those who are not breaking and entering.)

Me: I'm really pleased about that. And sorry about this. I'm only here for another 3 days, I don't think we'll have to talk again.

The greatest part about my convo with Alarm Guy was that I convinced him I was a positive in German. I'd say my feeling of satisfaction in that was pretty much worth being suspected of home invasion.

Intrique at the Town Square

Germans pay some hefty taxes to make sure their countrymen are cared for with health insurance, unemployment money, and maternity leaves. Yet, some people don't bother taking advantage of these assistances. Of course, they most likely aren't contributing any taxes anyway. Their main enjoyment seems to come from drinking a lot of alcohol. Although I shan't generalize, as this is certainly not always true.

They snub most of society's rules and have, what may or may not be, an aversion to the typical comforts in life - a bed, proper cups and such. I am fascinated by these society shunners and I can't help but watch them when I'm in their vicinity.

The Marktplatz is the best spot to observe. And not just because there is a Starbucks there. But who are we kidding, it's because there's a Starbucks there.

And as I walk towards my house of addiction to feed my chai latte needs, one of my favorite homeless people is sitting in front of the grocery market, Kaiser's, next door. That happens to be the place to hang out if you're street livin'. He squats by the wall with his beer bottles and heavily tattooed hands and face and chats inebreiatedly with the shoppers. I find it interesting and sobering (ironically?) that he's three sheets to the wind at 3 in the afternoon. Maybe four or 5 sheets, though. I also appreciate that the Aacheners aren't apprehensive of these Penner. They stop and say hello, make conversation. When I had Mocha, (you remember my favorite geriatric puppy?) he was enamored of her and complimented her shiny coat. At least, I'm pretty sure that's what he was talking about. Drunk German is one I'm not all that good at.

My second favorite town-societal-rule-shunner to watch is the Talker. He's a 30- or 40-something who wears a ponytail and a leather jacket. He likes to ask for money, which isn't all that surprising. I am intriqued by him simply because he talks so much. Most often it's with people I can't seem to see. But he gets on really well with them and is always jovial.

Now that spring is abounding in Aachen, they all have new puppies. Beautiful furry little things that run around the square with their leashes dragging behind them. We rule followers stand on the sidelines looking at the puppies playing and their owners swinging their beer bottles happily in the air. But our lunch break is over and we don't join in.

Responsibility

New experiences are just amazing, aren't they? I really enjoy them. Just as I enjoy learning about dog care.

Mocha started eating grass during one of our walks on Saturday. Clearly, that was a foreboding sign. Our cats always ate grass before they threw-up unpleasantly on the living room carpet. By Monday her grass eating stopped and she was ready to start a wretchin' it on up.

As I was walking towards the Marktet Square to have a Starbucks (go figure) with einer Freundin, Mocha discreetly moved to the side of a building and let go of all the water and foamy saliva in her stomach. The grass pieces floated neatly between the cobblestones of the street and as I stared at it, let's face it, I felt mildly conspicuous.

Later that evening Mocha was not better and during the night we made several trips into the Hof, or the backyard. Now, I take my responsibility to keep this dog alive while her owner is gone quite seriously. That's why I found myself barefoot in the backyard at 2 in the morning following the poor girl around. I'm pretty sure she didn't appreciate my rapt attention to her activities.

The morning only got more chaotic after I woke to two grassy, urp-puddles on the carpet and Mocha panting around the house, desperatly wanting outside again. I left the door open and went to get dressed. When I came back outside to check on my girl, there was no dog in the backyard. I thought "Dear God, I've lost a 13 year old dog in an enclosed backyard." as I madly dashed back through the house, calling after her, dashed back outside, back inside, back outside, and finally crashed through a cluster of trees and bushes to the neighbor's yard where I discovered her digging in the dirt with her nose, seemingly trying to make her discomfort go away. I hugged the old girl and hoisted her back over to our side of the 2-foot wooden fence.

That was the end of it for me. We were off to the Tierartzt to get this dog right again. The dog doctor gave her some shots and said come back in the morning. She should be feeling better in no time.

And I've checked off 'Visit a German Vet' from my Life List.

Dog Days of Aachen

I always wanted a dog in Europe. Ever since I lived in Austria. I'm an animal girl, through and through. I would watch these cute, prancing puppies walking along with their owners and I consoled myself by going home and taking in stray cats and then leaving them with my parents (thanks Mom and Dad).

But now, I'm finally getting the chance to try out my wish. We should all get to try out wishes before we fully commit. That whole "be careful what you wish for" warning wouldn't be nearly as potent.

What I'm discovering is that dog ownership has its charms, for sure. They give you so much warmth and happiness. But I already knew that part. Now I'm getting a chance to face a bit of reality - dog ownership can have some crappy cons. There's a pun intended in there.

On my first walk with Mocha, I proudly led her around the neighborhood, trotting along, la la la. Until she stopped in front of a pretty house, sniffed around the lawn and proceeded to poop in the middle of it. And there I was, cool, temporary dog owner, without any poop bags. I looked about frantically, considering my options. I could only see one way out. Run. But thirteen-year old dogs really don't run. They trot a little, which looks much faster than it actually is. So, in truth, we shuffled back to the house, with me trying hard to look innocent.

One of the definite charms of a dog in Germany is they can go everywhere. She comes with me into Starbucks, into the bank, into the H&M, and no one blinks an eye.

And one thing I must say - get a good looking dog and you'll make friends. People on the street approach me to ask about her or tell me that she has two different colored eyes (maybe I wasn't aware of this?), or ask about her breed. A beautiful dog is a definite conversation piece.

One thing that really smarts, though - and I never thought twice about this before - are the dog owners that don't leash their dogs. More than once has a running-wild-and-free dog charged up to Mocha and started a barking scuffle. And more than once, the owner simply looked at us. This morning, Mocha and I stopped 40 feet away from a man and his dog, waiting patiently for him to leash his beast. As we walked by, the dog barked and growled and strained at his lead. And Mr. Dog Owner said to me accusingly "Wenn er frei waere, wuerd er das nicht machen." Well, let's not find out, shall we?

But it's when we come back and Mocha is dried off from the rain and sleeping lazily near my feet, that I'm once again reminded of the charms of dog ownership.

Thanks to Heather and Mocha for the new experiences.

Beware: New Driver

I'm dog sitting for an American friend of mine who has gone back to the States for a couple of weeks. That also means I'm living in her house. And driving her car. Mocha, an ultra sweet 13-year old, Australian Shepherd and woolly mammoth mix, and I tool around the city German style. German style is German rules, one-way's, and stick shifts. The stereotypical German punctuality even seems to apply to how fast you can take off when the light turns green. I have yet to get this right without a moment of fright. Some of you may recall my panic-inducing experiences driving stick in the mountains of Spain. Really not something I want to repeat. Or recall, for that matter.

But this time around, it's not been so bad. Aside from the parking garage fiasco of 2010 and maybe a slightly burned-out clutch. I'm getting lots better!

The Bell Tolls

Yesterday, as it darkened to evening, the bells of the cathedral were tolling the hour with slow and deep clangs. Walking over the cobblestone street, I passed a church and a statue of the crucifix with a sliver of blood flowing over Jesus' ribs. I pulled my coat tighter against the February wind and noticed one of the town pubs was already lit with candle lanterns. As I hurried through the market square, the massive, stone Rathhaus looming next to me, a flower peddler was trying to make one, last sale for the night. And I thought,

"When did I enter a Charles Dickens novel?."

I was suddenly walking along in the 1800's. I was dressed all wrong for it. But it was pretty fantastic.

Austrian Tribute

I was in Vienna last weekend. Austria. Ahh. It's like a hot cup of tea.

The city, and the people have a certain charm and lively color that make me enjoy being there. It was years ago when I flew into Vienna for the first time, far away from home, scared, gripping my Langenscheidt English to German dictionary. Little did I know, there is no classroom German in Austria. My dictionary was never going to help me. If it had, it would have had translations for dialect phrases like i a ned, des is a woahnsinn, oida voda heast, and brauch ma no wos.

Slowly, very slowly, those strange phrases and vowel twistings became familiar to me. Going back to Vienna after living in Germany for several months was like hearing a friendly song.

And here's a famous one from Rainhard Fendrich:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KMSa_xb2h5U

The Doors

Note: Anyone who may be looking for a post about the musicians should go elsewhere. I don't even know what they sing.

Since I set foot in Germany - and this goes for you, too, Austria - I have lost the ability to open doors properly. In the States, I find this daily activity requires no thinking. I walk into buildings quite easily. But here? Oh, you doors. How you aim to fool me.

When you walk into, let's say, a bank in the States, how do you open the door?

You pull.

This means when leaving the bank, you push. This is the way it is. My brain has been trained to open doors this way. And it's logical to me. Let's say, however, it's the other way around and there's a stampede inside your Chase or TCF or whatever financial institution you use. Before the first stampeder can pull the door open, the other stampeders have already flung him against it, trapping everyone inside. Not pretty. And I don't get it.

The thing that adds to my perplexity is that the doors aren't always opposite from ours. When you walk up to the entrance of a building, it's a guessing game. I can't rely on door consistency. Is it a pusher or a puller? Why do I even have to question this? But really, I have a 50-50 chance with every door, how hard can this be? No matter, they still manage to make a fool of me.

And then there is the unsettling locking issue. It's completely understandable that doors lock from the outside. When you come back, you take out your key and open the door. But here, doors lock from the inside. Now, think about that while picturing the door to the room your in slowly closing. I'm pretty sure that's in some horror movie somewhere and a creepy, little girl in a white dress whispers "The doors lock... from the inside."

If someone is not currently having office hours at work, the door gets locked. If you're visiting them, they have to get their key to let you out. WHAT IF THERE'S A FIRE?! I don't know about you, but my keys are not in a fire-ly accessible kind of place. They are swimming around in a purse pocket and if our office door is locked from the inside, my office mate and I have a better chance of survival by jumping out of our 6th story window before I find my key.

So first I'm the ignoramus who can't open the door. And then I'm the weirdo who doesn't want the door to close. I'm certainly not making good impressions for Americans with all this door tomfoolery.

January

Dear January blog,

I am in February now. I neglegted you and I'm sorry. Perhaps next year we can try again.

Warm regards,
Heidi