My first Christmas in Germany, and every Christmas here since, was spent at Katrin’s parents’ house in a suburb of Dresden. Although her mom and dad went to great lengths to make me feel at home, Christmas 2000 will remain branded in my head not because of the delicious home cooking and rare snow-covered trees, but instead for the extreme awkwardness I felt as a foreigner. I struggled, for example, through a game of Trivial Pursuit. Not only were the questions read to me in German, a language I could hardly understand, they also revolved around the German culture. As the game progressed, I felt I was being treated like a pitcher standing at the plate with bases loaded and two down: an easy out.

Then Katrin’s recent ex-boyfriend of four years made a surprise drop-in just as I was starting to feel a bit comfortable talking to the family. He acted like he forgot he’d been dumped, standing just a little too close to MY girlfriend. “Does he speak any German?” he asked as if I were the family dog that might bite. I might have, too. The worst part was no one could give him a straight answer.

And then the romantic walk through the snowy forest on Christmas day, which rapidly deteriorated into a four-hour frantic search through the darkness for the way out. Trying to keep things light, I made a casual reference to The Blair Witch Project. Katrin began to cry.

Beginnings are always tough, however, and with each passing Christmas, my status in the family rises a couple of notches. This year I have reached a milestone, a coming-of-age. I was asked by my mother-in-law herself to play Santa Claus for my two-year-old nephew. I would be the Weihnachtsmann. “Gabi, I’m honored,” I gushed. “Of course I’ll be Santa. But don’t you think Vinzent will recognize me?” At this my mother-in-law paused for a moment in thought. “Well, taking off your glasses might help, but your broken German will probably give you away.”

Yes, I’m one of the family now.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.