Although Lloyd is almost two, in many ways I consider this his first summer. The days of him sitting fixed in a sandbox and sticking foreign objects in his mouth are gone; he’s a full-fledged explorer now. Before and in spite of my eyes, our baby son has transformed into a little boy. He is fascinated by trucks (equally of the digging, emergency and hauling varieties), bugs, balls and roughhousing. But he also loves to cook, to vacuum clean, to play guitar and harmonica, to draw, to dance and sing, to read, to walk or just focus on some distant object for minutes at a time.

And now he loves bikes.

Bike-in-a-box

Bike-out-of-a-box

Bike ready for action

This month Lloyd tried out his new Laufrad (run bike) in our backyard. Inspired by the Flintstones, a Laufrad has no pedals and is instead propelled by pushing your feet directly off the ground. Once Lloyd hopped on it, he never looked back…or ahead…or in whatever direction he happened to be heading. Which is why we added this bell:

Ding-ding…or else!

The more American of you might recognize this mounted alarm device as a “baseball”. I found it at a local shop which displayed a rack of bicycle bells on the sidewalk. Tennis balls, soccer balls, golf balls, basketballs, bowling balls etc. I went into the store and asked for the baseball. The man behind the counter, in his late thirties perhaps, walked out to the rack to get the bell while I waited inside. A minute later he returned with the ball. A golf ball. I looked at the golf ball. “That’s a golf ball,” I said. He looked closely at the golf ball. “It is a golf ball,” he said. He continued looking at the golf ball for a few seconds, then said “Which one is the baseball?”

This brings me to the second reason I got him this particular bell: the bike we bought for Lloyd has to be the most common model on the German market. Three out of every five toddlers seem to be scooting themselves down the street on the very same bike of the same make, size and color. Such a thing can quickly disappear at the playground. To help those of you at home understand this better, imagine trying to find your SUV at a Wal*Mart parking lot or locate your khaki trousers again after coming out of the gym shower. Take your pick. How do you distinguish yourself in Germany amid a sea of uniformity? Easy: slap a baseball somewhere on you. Voilà! Instant sore thumb.

Godspeed, boy. I’m trying to keep up with you.

Lloyd on the loose

Last Saturday we’d just settled Lloyd down to a long afternoon nap when, what to my wondering ears should appear but a whole lot of noise and a street full of queers. Unbeknownst to me, it was Christopher Street Day, aka Gay Pride Day, in Germany. We live in by far the most liberal part of town, the Neustadt, and so it was no surprise to see people of every age, creed and sexual orientation (Germany’s lacking a little in the color department) strolling down the middle of my street among floats carrying mammoth sound systems that made my skeleton hurt. Katrin and I stood on our front-row balcony to review the pageantry as it passed below us. The lively atmosphere was contagious, and we were soon bouncing in time to the beat - as much because the throbbing bass made it physically impossible not to as because we were caught up in the spirit of openness and celebration. Miraculously, Lloyd slept like a baby.

Friday morning after dropping Lloyd off at the childcare center, I made my usual visit to the bakery to get an Apfeltasche (apple turnover). I was informed by the young lady behind the counter that I could get three Apfeltaschen for the price of two as well as an Amerikaner for free. What is an Amerikaner? I now present to you…

Sweet and round - just like us.

It’s a soft, iced cookie that leaves a chemical aftertaste. I stopped buying them soon after I first came to Germany, when the novelty of ordering an “American” wore off. But here I stood in the bakery now, not only being offered one for free, but a discount on three apple turnovers to boot. Such deals rarely exist in Germany; if a German wants to buy only one of something, they usually want to buy only one of something. I wanted to buy only one apple turnover, but if I bought three of them, I’d only pay for two and get another pastry I don’t even like absolutely free. The decision was a no-brainer, i.e. a decision that can be made only by someone with no brain. The young lady packed everything up and sent me on my way with a full bag of empty satisfaction.

Barack Obama was in Dresden last Thursday and Friday for 16 hours on an unofficial visit. “Unofficial” means barricading the entire Old Town for two days at an overall cost of around €40 million. His stop here was more of a layover between two important visits to Cairo and Paris. Nevertheless, the president’s visit has been media-buzz fodder in these parts since it was announced earlier this spring. Katrin and I lived in Berlin and then Mainz when Bush visited those cities. Both times severe restrictions of movement and at times violent protests of tens of thousands of angry Europeans made the experience annoying. On this, the first visit of any American president to Dresden, the security was just as tight, but the atmosphere was one of excitement.

Best thing to happen to this town since the “Dime a brat” night of ‘83

Walking home from the bakery, I saw a tram heading toward me. A sticker reading “Welcome Mr. President” spanned its windshield.

Punctual and hospitable

Odd, I thought, considering Obama’s not only not going to see the stickers, but probably not even any trams during his sojourn. But the locals weren’t going to let a little detail like the absence of the guest ruin their party in his honor. Beginning the day of his arrival and running long after he’d departed, the welcome festivities were more for the hosts anyway, a consolation for not getting to see the American president in person. Activities included such catoonishly “American” pastimes as cheerleading, mechanical bull riding and, what else, Elvis impersonators. I can’t imagine a festival at home without them.

All of the press and some of the public were busy chasing reports of Obama sightings here or there like children on a celebrity snipe hunt. One local paper featured a so-called online “Obama-Ticker,” which wasn’t a ticker at all but merely a pop-up window that provided the latest rumors on the prez’s whereabouts when you refreshed it. Meanwhile, the politicians were busy politicing. From Chancellor Merkel all the way down to local bottom-feeders like Saxony’s Minister President and Dresden’s mayor, everyone positioned and posed in this election year to be seen next to the man of the (16) hour(s). Even the pizza guy got in on it:

Free Bring with Buy of €20 or more!

After Obama’s cavalcade moved on, and his bed sheets either were submitted to the city’s museum or auctioned off on eBay, after the mechanical bulls, Elvises, cheerleaders and other American stereotypes were sent back to the Zirkus, after the last Denglish-riddled advertisement disappeared and the barricades were taken down, allowing the city to breathe again, it was up to the papers to make sense of what just happened. Always a bad idea.

Bigtalk about nothing

Most papers large and small, smoking a cigarette in post-presidential bliss, reflected that the “eyes of the world” were upon their city and thus, by logical extension, on them. The mayor, ready for her jump to Broadway from the high school auditorium stage, declared that global politics itself was coming to her jurisdiction, no doubt for a what-would-you-do-Helma tête-à-tête.

The Sächsische Zeitung, Saxony’s largest populist rag, made a rare break from its policy of featuring spring flowers, seasonal vegetables or children enjoying ice cream on its front page to dedicate four full pages to Obama’s sixteen-hour visit. Considering roughly eight of those were spent sleeping in a five-star hotel - and I assume local photographers weren’t permitted pajama exclusives - that frees up one page for every two hours of his stay, not even counting the refresh-clicking “Online-Ticker” coverage. And what came from the long-winded, incisive analysis of Saxony’s crack journalists? Nothing that faithful subscribers didn’t already know: Obama was here; the public didn’t see him. The headline of one article even teased the president about his pronunciation of Merkel as “Mörkel.” Ha ha. The irony in this is that the name Barack contains the phonetic bane of every German: the American “r.” Since the beginning of Obama’s presidential campaign, German radio and television media types have been flexing and arching their tongues like yoga pros to say “Barack” like Barack says “Barack.” Inevitably, the results either miss the mark entirely or are exaggerated like Ed Sullivan saying “really good show” in slow motion. Ha ha.

Ultimately, what the press and politicians seemed to miss but the citizens mostly understood was that nothing happened. A world figure came to admire their beautiful city; people used the occasion to enjoy themselves; then it was over. Maybe this or that political party will get a few more votes, maybe Dresden will see a boost in tourism. But in trying to make something bigger out of what this visit really was, you’re only going to get a full bag of empty satisfaction for €40 million.

And an Amerikaner for free.

March, April and May in Germany seem to offer an endless stream of public holidays. No sooner is Good Friday over than we take a big Easter Break. And before you’ve even made a dent in your Easter basket, the ironically named Labor Day gives us yet another well deserved breather. Clearly never having heard the phrase “too much of a good thing,” the Germans rise once again to the occasion with Ascension Thursday. And just when you’re beginning seriously to wonder if even the kitchen sink gets it’s own holiday in this country, there comes Pentecost Sunday, which, despite its name and for the sake of keeping spring entirely work-free, is also celebrated on a Monday.

Normally on such three-day weekends, families pack up the Skoda or Audi and head for remote (in cozy Europe any destination beyond 20 km) destinations: lakes, forests, grandparents etc. The forecast called for rain from Friday through Monday, however, dousing our own Pentecostal plans of grilling and chilling at the grandfolks, so we had to come up with ways to keep Lloyd entertained.

On Saturday we went to the Dresden Airport:

Off to the airport!

First we took the train.

We weren’t the only parents with this idea.

Our plan’s working!

I’d like this size, please.

Today, Sunday, we took our first trip to the Dresden Zoo.

Giraffe and zebras

Are you sure we’re safe?

Father and son

Zooming through the zoo

Let’s call it a morning.

How can we top that tomorrow?

***Update*** Thanks to Ann in the comments section for confirming that I was never cut out for the Catholic business. Whit Monday is an honest-to-goodness holiday. This only leads me to the question: Is there an inverse correlation between the religiosity of a country and the number of religious bank holidays? And if so, isn’t that a form of freeloading?

Peruse the front pages of your local newspaper from the month of April in any year, and I’ll wager at least one issue was sacrificed for that evergreen ritual of informing readers that after roughly three months of winter, spring is now here, as if the editors themselves had discovered it or at least were instrumental in negotiating its release. The word ‘finally’ is usually stuck in there for good measure, suggesting the annual season’s fortuitous arrival was no sure thing this time round, and we should be thankful. And just in case you’d forgotten what spring looks like, or how one is expected to behave during its roughly three-month reign, the article is accompanied by a picture of people eating ice cream, pale employees in short-sleeve shirts taking their lunch breaks near a fountain, or a young, athletic man throwing a frisbee to his dog. Seven times out of ten the picture’s subject will be framed by a foreground of colorful blossoms shooting out of the ground. This is headline news. Its purveyors are called journalists.

But what these intrepid story-breakers don’t want you to know is that spring has a dark side. After Katrin and I had read in the paper a few weeks ago that spring was finally here, we unboarded the windows and ventured into the out-of-doors to learn for ourselves just what all the fuss was about. With Lloyd in the stroller we headed for a neighborhood park in search of spring. And, in fact, along our route we saw indisputable evidence of a seasonal shift. There was a long line at the ice cream shop. People were taking their lunch breaks near fountains. Off in the distance, a young man was playing frisbee with his dog. So, it was true. And just when I was starting to think the papers were on to something, we got to the park and saw this:

This would be a lot more attractive…

…if flowers were in the foreground.

Apparently we weren’t the only ones who’d read the headline. Not only were we not the only ones to have got the news, the news was by now so old that people were already on to something else. The only sign that this park was recently teeming with humans was that it was now teeming with enough of their paper waste to start your own daily rag - so you could print the second half of this story. Such complete lack of consideration for others is hardly limited to the Neustadt, the neighborhood where we live, but it is far more widespread and one of the reasons our springs here are numbered. From April until September local public recreation areas will regularly be trashed, spoiling the fun for those who don’t want their toddlers picking up sticky paper plates or walking through broken beer bottles. Is it so hard to find a garbage can? Is it that tempting to smash your bottle against a tree trunk? Is it too challenging to remember others want to relax outside as well?

Is it autumn yet?

As poor a raconteur as I’ve been on this site, I feel obliged to provide those of you who still visit The Typing Chimps from time to time - and she knows who she is - with some hint of how I’ve been spending this winter. There is a short summary and a long summary of this. I’ll begin with the short:

Wiping Lloyd’s nose.

Fountain of youth

Still curious? Here’s the long version.

After finishing the six-week translation project in mid-November, I was happy to begin focusing on the teaching job I’d recently got at a local college. Working as a freelancer the last eight years had suited my disliking of nine-to-five jobs quite well. Ironically I often work longer hours for less pay, but the illusion of autonomy has always seemed a fair exchange. Even during Lloyd’s first year, when I was perhaps too eager to accept any paying reason to get me out of diaper duty, and our son’s highest demand was to have something colorful rattled above him, I never considered seeking - and here I have to suppress a shudder - permanent employment.

Amid all the baby-related advice I’ve received, I don’t recall anyone ever telling me that Lloyd would become a sentient being as early as his first birthday. Up until then I’d begun to feel my role as father largely consisted of operating the toys: shaking, sliding, swinging, pushing, pulling, spinning, tossing and rolling them. This sounds easy enough, but the challenge comes in finding the precise combination of these actions to elicit maximum smileage. And there are risks: one false move in the sequence can send an infant into a screaming-fit tailspin. But something happened around his 365th day that made him suddenly seem more … human - the way he looked at us, the way he acted, reacted and interacted. It’s difficult to explain, but these pictures might help illustrate:

Lloyd at 11 months 2 days: So lifelike.	Lloyd at just over 1 year - and fully sentient!

Now, playing with Lloyd means playing with Lloyd. When I show him things, I see he is interested. He’s developing distinct habits. And he tests us - oh, how he tests us! He is learning and changing faster than we can perceive - and I don’t want to miss too much.

When I started teaching English at the college this fall, I secretly hoped it would lead to full-time employment afterward, giving me the family time I’m looking for. I hate hope. Hope is the flirt at the bar that gets you to buy her another drink even when your brain is wildly waving the ‘No Chance’ flag. Hope is the good cop who’s just softening you up for the bad cop. If hope ever comes knocking at your door, turn off the porch light and draw the shades; maybe it’ll go away. Just before the Christmas break I got an e-mail from the head of the language department informing me that since the woman I wasn’t aware I had been replacing during her maternity leave was returning, they had no classes for me to teach in the spring. Thank you. You see? There’s Hope with me in the interrogation room, offering me cigarettes and coffee while his bruiser partner, Harsh Reality, is behind the two-way mirror, prepping the water board. So my search for stability and predictability continue.

I wasn’t going to let this misfortune sour my Christmas mood; that’s what in-laws are for. But I jest. Christmas with Katrin’s parents is the highlight of my year. Gabi, my mother-in-law, is the hardest working woman in Christmasland. Not only does she manage to prepare enough food to feed 9 people over 3 days, keep the house clean and still grace us with her presence, but you don’t even know she’s doing it. There are some people out there - me, for example - who perform a task and then make sure the world knows of their accomplishment:

Me: [Heavy sigh.]

Katrin: [Nothing].

Me: [Even heavier sigh.]

Katrin: [eyes rolling] Okay, what is it, Chris?

Me: Hm? Oh, nothing. Just…

Katrin: Yes?

Me: Well, it’s no big deal, really. But I just took out the trash, that’s all.

Katrin: Okay.

Me: Yeah, and it’s cold out. And raining, too.

Katrin: Yes, I can see that.

Me: And you didn’t even ask me to do it. And look! I’ve even put in a new garbage bag.

Katrin: Wow, all by yourself.

Me: [blushing] Aw, shucks. T’weren’t nothin’.

The big excitement this Christmas was Lloyd’s first haircut:

Hippie Lloyd	Bright-future Lloyd

Opa (grandpa) performed the ceremony in his basement workshop with clippers and a comb. To everyone’s surprise, he didn’t protest a bit - Lloyd, not Opa; nevertheless, he still made things difficult for Opa by trying to follow the movement of the comb. When the last locks had fallen to the floor, we were surprised by the change; he looked older, more mature. Then the air filled with a telltale stench: someone needed a new diaper - again, Lloyd.

After a break last year, I resumed my role as Santa:

Eat, Santa. Eat!

I want to like playing Santa in Germany, but I don’t. Aside from lacking the required, uh, corpulence, my cultural understanding of the traditional German Weihnachtsmann is sorely wanting. I don’t know the translation for ho-ho-ho, or the right way to ask a child if he or she’s been good. The Weihnachtsmann doesn’t have elves or reindeer to make small talk about, and he doesn’t come down chimneys (most people don’t even live in houses). I’m not even sure if there’s a Mrs. Weihnachtsmann or if Santa’s just living with his girlfriend, as is more common over here in ol’ librul Europe.

And, like too many other things in this country, Christmas in Germany is undergoing an antic transformation heavily influenced by American pop culture, misconceptions and stereotypes. Not even the Weihnachtsmann could escape this context-free ‘modernization’. Now he too appears more frequently as the fat, red-clad St. Nick (and if I hear one more native try to lecture me on Santa’s Coke origins, I’m gonna…) while the traditional German version disappears to Squaresville. Fortunately for me, Lloyd was the only toddler to witness my butchery of this holiday custom, and not even he looked too amused:

Just put the present down and back away slowly, weirdo.

To add to her already impressive résumé of atmosphere-enhancing skills, Gabi also entertained us with several Christmas carols on the piano:

I’m convinced she has a couple of body doubles cooking the goose, making coffee, telling stories, washing dishes, playing with grandkids and replacing candle stubs; otherwise, I’d have offered to help her out on occasion.

Next up was New Year’s Eve. With the exception of an unforgettable trip to Sweden for the new millennium, Katrin and I normally find ourselves in more subdued party environments on December 31^st, sometimes even intentionally. This year we rented an apartment with friends and friends of friends in nearby Bad Schandau on the Czech border.

Not bad, Schandau.

The final count was 12 adults and six children - a mere two-to-one ratio. We were hardly any match against our puerile adversaries, who had us fetching their toys, reading them books, singing them songs, dancing for them, spoon feeding them and wiping their asses at their beck and call. It’s not easy celebrating New Year’s Eve with children, but Katrin and I shared the burden:

He’s not heavy …	… He’s our son!

While Lloyd sat back and enjoyed the ride.

After a long-fought battle on the evening of December 31^st, the children retreated to their rooms and sought cover in their warm beds. Many of the parents were worn from the day’s skirmishes, barely able to stay up until midnight. Some didn’t make it at all. But Katrin, I and a few other hearty souls danced into the New Year, though things looked dubious at first; our self-appointed DJ never developed his musical taste past his second year in college and so subjected us to one &%$!@*# reggae tune after another. If there’s one thing I hate more than hope, it’s reggae; both crush your spirit with their relentless monotony until you either submit and stop thinking or resist and dig up that mix CD you stuffed in the diaper bag at the last minute.

Saved.

I hope wish you all a prosperous, peaceful, reggae-free New Year.

Altmarktgalerie shopping mall, Dresden, mid-December at 9:15 am. I’ve arrived too early to return a telephone on my way to work, so I order a coffee at a nearby Segafredo. A security guard switches on the escalators. Most shops are still closed; still, people wander up and down the length of the mall, loitering before display windows like stray cats hoping for a bowl of milk, hoping to be let in. Finally the doors open, and the growing stream of early shoppers now breaks off into the stores in dozens of eddies, relieving pressure from the main current. A tinny female voice interrupts the piped-in Christmas music - mostly American holiday classics. The voice wishes everyone an exciting shopping experience and reminds the shoppers to visit the basement level to satisfy the growing hunger they are told they have. An old man balanced on a cane walks with care through the crush. Two young men behind him grow impatient. They pass him on the right with an epithet, upsetting his delicate poise. Teenagers in teenager uniform gather in secure numbers before shop windows to study the latest fashions on this Tuesday morning - a school day. Music from inside the stores competes with the mall’s P.A. offering. The stores choose to play modern Christmas music, which is the same American classics, only harassed into a generic R&B format, dripping with requisite sleigh- and church-bell sound effects. A couple sitting next to me at the mall café order slices of Rosinenstollen - a traditional Christmas bread with raisins. After several minutes the waitress returns and asks if they might not want their bread with almonds instead, giving no further explanation. “Don’t you have Rosinenstollen?” asks the man. “Of course,” - the waitress - “but it’s new and I’d have to cut into it for only a couple of slices.” “Well then we’ll just have to take the almonds,” the woman says. “Not me,” says the man. “I’ll pass.” The waitress brings them their Stollen then takes my empty coffee cup. She is wearing a droopy Santa Claus hat and looks bored. I pay, put on my coat and hat and slip into line.

This past weekend, the fourth weekend in a row in which Katrin, Lloyd and I did not spend Saturday night in our own bed/crib, we traveled half an hour north to the small, small town of Großthiemig in Brandenburg near the Saxon border. ‘Groß‘ (or gross) is German for ‘big’. There are many examples in this country of neighboring villages sharing a root name, but discerning themselves by the size-matters prefix Groß- or Klein- (= little). I assume the prefixes are decided based on population. If so, Kleinthiemig, on the Saxon side of the same border, must have zero unemployment, as it would otherwise be difficult to imagine how a village with even fewer residents than Großthiemig (I counted seven as we drove through) could manage to keep even the most basic amenities functioning, like sewage, police, post or local watering hole.

Our friend Sven P. (we know about 17 Svens) held a belated birthday party at his parents’ house. Birthdays are a big deal in Germany, especially the ’round’ ones - those ending in zero. In polite society, responsibility for the success of a birthday celebration lies almost exclusively with the birthday boy or girl. If you spend the evening in a bar, friends and family drink on your dime. If the festivities are held at home, expect to spend the majority of the day shopping, cooking and preparing for the long evening. Younger people have discovered the budget-friendly joys of potluck, but BYOB has not yet become acceptable etiquette - and the guests come thirsty. The cheap and the apathetic can instead opt to sit home alone with a solitary candle planted obliquely in a limp cupcake on their special day, but even they are compelled to provide a good time for all on their ’round’ birthdays if they hope ever to see their friends again.

Sven and his parents thought of everything, even the good weather, and we enjoyed ourselves very much. Here is the proof:

There were plenty of kids

And plenty for them to do

Anyone for tennis?

We hid Sven’s gifts - 30 in all - in a tree.

We just needed to figure out how to get back up there.

One for the money…	Two for the show…	Three to get ready…

And away we go!

We grilled by day ... sort of,

And roasted marshmallows by night.

And in general just roughed it in the wild.

I stopped subscribing to Dresden’s main daily rag, the imaginatively named Sächsische Zeitung, or Saxon Newspaper, when I read the front-page headline one morning at the breakfast table: “O du Spargelzeit!” (Oh, you asparagus season - a reverend nod to Johannes Daniel Falk’s “O du fröliche” (O Thou Joyful Day), a song celebrating those other blessed seasons: Christmas, Easter and Pentecost). The article gushed with parochial glee about the beginning of the asparagus season in Saxony. This vegetable, detested by every right-thinking American child, enjoys regal status in Germany; its nickname (it has a nickname!) is “das königliche Gemüse” - the royal vegetable. I will be the first to admit unashamedly that the thick white asparagus on this side of the Atlantic is far superior to the thready green variety in my native country (though I am constitutionally obliged not to recognize its monarchial claim). But to announce the annual harvest of a common vegetable, regardless how enamored the journalist is of its blue bloodline, on the front page of the biggest paper in the state - as the top headline - was more than I could handle before my second cup of coffee. This was hardly the first time the front page of the SZ had been abused with local fluff, but it was certainly one of the most blatant and, as far as I was concerned, the last; I canceled on the spot.

So revered it has a nickname

I started turning to the Internet for all things news, something I should have done a long time ago. Once I’d located a few choice sites, reading the news became an enjoyable experience again, and I soon forgot that the word ‘newspaper’ suggested paper was ever involved at all. My transition to electronic media seemed all but seamless save one snag: the weather report.

Now, I’m not so naïve as to expect accurate weather predictions. Foretelling atmospheric phenomena is still more closely related to black magic than modern science. Despite, or perhaps because of, its roots in superstition, however, weather forecasting appeals to me in a way that cannot be explained rationally. Leaving the apartment in the morning without checking a weather website gives me the same feeling as leaving without my wallet: naked. I feel unprepared, incomplete, vulnerable. None of the sites I’d checked could offer even ballpark-reliable predictions. The problem was they weren’t truly local sites. They were affiliates of larger distant broadcasting companies or fly-by-night operations testing out some new technology. I had to try closer to home. I had to try the SZ-online.

I recalled the weather forecast being one of the few items in the paper I respected. Clean color illustrations of basic meteorological developments gave me at a brief glance the information I wanted: temperature and precipitation. If nothing else, the chawbacons at the Sächsische Zeitung seemed to grasp the power of a cartoon cloud or a smiling sun next to a couple of numbers. Not only that, they frequently guessed right. I couldn’t ask for anything more, especially from them. When I got to the weather report for the current day on their website, this is what I found:

Saxon Weather

Weather conditions: Cool and moist ocean air is moving to central Germany on a western current.

On Friday it shall be heavily cloudy and can bring regular showers and scattered thunder storms. The air shall warm to between 20 and 22 degrees °C, in the highland from 15 to 20 °C. A weak to moderate wind shall blow from a westerly direction. In the night to Saturday it shall be, excepting some dispersal, heavily cloudy, and showers are especially likely at the beginning. The air shall cool to between 14 and 22 °C, in the highland between 12 and 8 °C. A weak southwesterly wind shall blow.

Oh, it blows all right. From all directions. What was this? Does the poetry critic double up as the weather guy? Where were my cartoons? My smiling suns? My menacing clouds? I don’t want to develop a sophisticated appreciation for today’s weather, I just want to understand it. If they went about journalism with the same attention to substance as they do forecasts, the paper’s average readership might dip below pensioner age one day. Never again. From now on I’m looking out my window.

Not long ago Katrin, Lloyd and I went for a hike through the Sächsische Schweiz (Saxon Switzerland) near Rathen. It was Lloyd’s first venture into one of Germany’s most beautiful natural environments, only half an hour from Dresden. For the occasion we bought a baby backpack to replace the lighter baby harness which had served us so dependably during our two months in Cincy. Lloyd is bigger now, and though his increased weight wouldn’t prevent me from lugging him around in the front-loading harness, his longer, stronger legs do. Even toward the end of our time in the US, my infant son’s legs had reached the unfortunate length at which any random backwards kick could ensure his status as an only child. I’d rather risk his feet bruising a kidney or displacing a vertebrae behind me than have a playful though precise strike to the front leave me a permanently cross-eyed alto.

Despite our half-hearted effort to get an early start that Sunday morning, we didn’t arrive at the small town of Rathen on the Elbe River until shortly after one. Rathen is a popular destination for regional tourists, and it’s no wonder; the composition of rustic country houses against the backdrop of tree-covered hills and Dr. Seuss-like sandstone spires is the Old World archetype, so authentic you expect it to be fake. With Lloyd sitting harmlessly in his backpack perch, we wove our way through the masses of Germans, Czechs and Poles clogging the streets, past the gingerbread houses and on to higher ground.

The route we’d selected from a trail guide seemed simple enough: a relatively circular track leading us through a diverse landscape of mixed forest, fields and cartoonish rock pillars. The inclines weren’t too steep, and the trail guide estimated the entire tour at 14 kilometers, 4.5 hours - longer than we wanted but still leaving just enough time to get Lloyd home, fed and in bed on schedule. And besides, those guides always grossly overestimate hiking times, factoring in old people, families with dawdling children and those for whom flip-flops are a lifestyle choice. Our first highlight along the way was the Bastei, a concentration of particularly impressive sandstone outcrops high above the Elbe River and one of the most popular areas of the entire national park. We reached it only an hour into our hike and stopped to feed Lloyd, who seemed to be enjoying his new vantage point. Katrin and I weren’t as fortunate; sightseers of both the bipedal and bus-delivered variety were blocking the best views so that I often resorted to holding my camera high in the air and then bringing it down to show me what it had seen. This soon grew old, and it seemed best to move beyond the reach of buses and primitive thong sandals.

Just down the road a small old man was entertaining tourists with his street organ. I wanted to get a short video of this. As I directed the camcorder at him, he stopped, folded his arms across his chest and frowned like a little boy refusing to play ball unless he gets to be shortstop. “No video!” he huffed. I didn’t understand. He was performing publicly in the middle of a scenic national park, standing before one of the most photographed landscapes in the country, and pictures weren’t allowed? “Why not?” I asked. “Yeah, why not?” he replied, hands out to his side as if I already knew the answer, if I just listened to my heart. “Yeah, why not?” I said again. “Yeah, why not?” he said. You get the idea. This monkey-see-monkey-do exchange led me to suspect the real organ grinder was on break, and I was dealing with his stroppy Capuchin assistant. Not wanting to further embarrass myself talking to the wildlife, I stashed the camera and walked past the diminutive creature. “I would have paid you for it,” I said, pointing to his upturned hat lying in the dirt. “You can keep it!” he said, refusing to budge until I was safely out of sight. “Good, I will,” I snapped back. And now I hate organ grinders; I never saw that one coming.

After another hour, we came to the Steinerner Tisch (stone table), a small, square, stone table framed by four stone benches. It was built at the beginning of the 18^th century for a hunting feast and apparently has remained in situ since. Katrin and I sat down at the ancient table and spread out a small feast of our own: turkey and cheese sandwiches with a side of carrots and apples; we’d forgotten the mead. Lloyd, exhausted from all the climbing, dozed next to us in his pack as we ate and relaxed. While gnawing on a carrot I heard footsteps close behind me. An elderly couple was standing there looking past us at the table, which was hidden from view beneath crumpled tin foil, napkins and daypacks. “Guten Tag,” I offered them. “Guten Tag,” they replied, the man holding his dejected gaze on the table. “Well, at least it’s still being used,” the woman commented. Then I saw a camera hanging from the old man’s neck. I imagined them hiking uphill all this distance at 0.27 miles per hour just to get one clean picture of something even older than them. What was the significance of the table to them? I wondered. Did they meet here so long ago? Was it the site of their first picnic together? Or maybe they were unwrapping more than just sandwiches on its rough surface, her bare apple bottom where my Granny Smith now sat.

Ew.

Quickly we cleared away the clutter so they could get a few shots. They thanked us and left.

A look at the map told me we were running a bit behind schedule. Lloyd was still sleeping though, so we debated whether or not to cut a few kilometers out of the trip. Katrin thought it a good idea, but my inner Braveheart said we should press on; Murron would have wanted it that way. When Lloyd woke up I hoisted him heroically onto my back and we continued uphill.

My years of military and backpacking experience have taught me this: No matter how detailed your map, there will always come that crucial moment when this power line or that dry riverbed does not coincide with what you’re reading, and your most seasoned educated guess leaves you with the sinking feeling that you should have turned left at Albuquerque several miles back.

Katrin and I stood in a parking lot that I swear didn’t exist on the map. That is until a kindly bus driver made it materialize, with God as my witness. Somehow I’d managed to confuse an interstate road for a bike trail and led the three of us in the only direction one will go when relying on chance and instinct to guide him: the other way. Time was running out on us, and if we were even within five-kilometers of my best guess, we were still hours away from our starting point and wouldn’t get Lloyd back home before he rightfully experienced a meltdown. Luckily for us I am not a proud man, not even mildly self-respecting. With the map waving at the end of my flailing arm I chased down the first human I spotted, the bus driver who drove the route between where we were and - true story - where we wanted to be. After conjuring up our location on the map before my disbelieving eyes, he offered to drive us back on his magic carpet bus. Yes, for free.

As we bounced along down the road with the good fairy bus driver, I felt a little embarrassed at having to be rescued from what amounted to nothing more than a routine Sunday stroll through the woods. Still, we’d had a good time, especially Lloyd, who didn’t complain once or panic when things started getting sketchy; a natural outdoorsman he’ll turn out to be. The bus door opened, and we got out where we’d started so many hours ago, wiser for the experience. Take trail length estimates seriously. Never trust a tourist map.

And never tip the organ grinder.

Our adventure told in song and pictures