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?

On an evening not long ago Katrin and I, regularly bound to our apartment beginning at Lloyd’s bedtime, received a rare visit from two friends who have no children of their own*. Over wine and guacamole they raved about a practice they’d recently discovered while on vacation called ear candling (aka auricular candling or coning). As I scooped some of the green, viscous dip onto a tortilla chip, they explained in detail how the process works. Ear candling, they’d learned, is a method of cleansing not only the ear, but the nasal passages and brain, of accumulated impurities. To do this you insert a wax cone into your outer ear canal, light it on fire, and allow the supposed low vacuum and heat to rid your head of all that ails it. “You can hear it working!” one friend said while the other nodded in enthusiastic confirmation. There’s a hissing sound that let’s you know it’s doing its job and, just as the candle removes residue dirt from your mind, the amorphous mass of extruded dross left behind removes any lingering doubt from your mind that it’s just another hoax. As I listened I continued stuffing goo-laden chips into my mouth, worried that if something weren’t going in, something might come out to end our precious social evening prematurely. Had they forgotten to pack their bullshit detectors before going on their trip? We let the infomercial play in its entirety, then changed channels by asking them how the snorkeling was in Mallorca and whether the water isn’t still too cold this time of year.

Normally a fairly skeptical bunch, many Germans seem to have a weakness for flim-flam panaceas and talismans, especially for those treatments associated with practically any and all aboriginal peoples. The rule seems to be: the more oppressed, abused and remote a people is, the more superior their healing arts vis-à-vis Western medicine. Wellness-Shops hawking miracle herbs, crystals, fêng shui accessories and dream catchers (of various sizes and plumage designed to entangle even the feistiest dreams) can be found in any neighborhood of the universally attuned and worldly-wise. This unguarded receptiveness to exotic remedies is extended to alternative medicines in general. In January an acquaintance hired me to coach him on his English pronunciation as he recorded his reading of local celeb Samuel Hahnemann’s Organon of Homoeopathic Medicine, the homeopath’s bible and some of the driest reading this side of the Congressional Record. My employer’s plan was to convert his recordings to a book-on-CD series, which, together with a dramatized documentary of Hahnemann’s life on DVD already in the editing stage, he would sell to an international market. “The German market has long been saturated with this stuff,” he said. “I want to spread the word!” Our regular meetings came to an abrupt end after only a few weeks, however, when the alternative entrepreneur, himself a strict practitioner of homeopathy, fell ill for a prolonged period. He hasn’t called since.

Whether manufactured in a pharma lab or concocted in a shaman’s fire pit, medicine is something I’ve always held back with a ten-foot pole. It’s not that I don’t get sick, though the occasions are rare, nor that I enjoy physical discomfort - I’m a bigger pantywaist than masculine dignity allows me to admit. My aversion to medicine stems from observing Americans’ childlike faith in cleverly marketed drugs and from an awareness of the notoriously symbiotic relationship between the pharmaceutical and medical industries (Ask your doctor about the blue pill a billboard in Atlanta once encouraged me to do). If a medication merely masks symptoms but doesn’t cure the illness, I’m usually not interested. If a sports car and trendy clothes don’t relieve me of my shallow personality, I’m still a jerk.

This week my head has been hosting a vindictive sinus infection. Now, I don’t say ’sinus infection’ when I really mean a cold in the way many people say ‘migraine’ to mean ‘headache’, ‘miracle’ to mean ’statistically improbable’ or ‘tragedy’ to mean ‘just dumb luck.’ What I mean with ’sinus infection’ is that a steady stream of thin, toxic-green snot has been leaking from my nostrils for the last seven days while my eyes have felt like they’ve tripled in size and are being squeezed from their sockets by my orbital bones. I get them every few years when a seemingly harmless head cold decides to make itself comfortable and overstay its welcome. My approach in dealing with sinus infections is similar to how I cope with politicians, fashions or door-to-door soul savers: I wait until they go away. In some cases, as with politicians and soul savers - and some exceptionally persistent fashions like this and this - waiting doesn’t help, and the condition worsens. When I woke up Thursday morning with what felt like a pregnant whale wedged between my palate and brain, I realized this might take longer than I could stand. That evening when Katrin came home from work to find me slumped in a dining room chair, conscious but unresponsive, while Lloyd investigated the contents of the cutlery drawer, she suggested I try a Nasendusche - a “nose shower.” She explained the simple concept: you squirt warm salt water up your nose with a special syringe, and the water washes your sinuses, taking the impurities with it as it runs back out. It’s a very old technique, she said, and you can buy the contraption at any pharmacy. As she was telling me this, her head morphed from Chuck Norris to George Foreman before my half-shut eyes. “Couldn’t I just use one of the spare ear cones we’ve got lying around?” I asked, but she was already in the bathroom looking for the syringe. She came back out holding a designer turkey baster. “Here,” she handed me the object.

You know where to stick it. (Don’t you?)

When I squeezed the rubber bulb a hiss of air swept my face. “How long have we had this thing?” I asked. “I don’t know,” Katrin answered. “A while. I’ve used it a few times.” “Did it work?” I asked her, eying the device askance. “Pretty well, I think,” she said. “So I just shoot water up my nose with this thing, and it’ll clean me out, huh?” “Generally speaking, yes. Saltwater, though.” “How much salt?” “I don’t know.” I went to the Internet. Technically, Nasendusche is the same principle using different equipment, so I had to find the English word. After typing in “clean infected nose with rubber bulb,” I came upon the term “nasal lavage” as well as an instructional video from the Mayo Clinic. My suspicions faded; suddenly the process took on a more respectable air. This wasn’t only endorsed by a German Apotheke, which will give refuge to homeopathic potions right next to the medicine, this was the Mayo Clinic. After watching the video I was ready. I added a small amount of salt to a liter of water, sucked it up into the rubber syringe, hung my head over the sink, stuck it in and squeeeeezed….

At first nothing seemed to be happening. Water was going into my nostril, but I couldn’t feel it going beyond the front door before it ran back out into the sink. I nudged the rubber tip in a bit deeper, adjusted the angle and…my skull was filling with isotonic solution! Like some capsized vessel pounded by a tidal wave a powerful surge of warm water caromed off a sinus wall splashing the roof and the far wall before resting in a pool on the cavity floor and then slipping back out to sea, taking the green, infected muck with it. I could feel it working. After just one shot things started to unclog. I repeated the process three more times. Finally, I could breathe through my nose! I went to bed thrilled that I’d be able to sleep with my mouth closed. The effects didn’t last, however, and when I woke up the next morning I was gasping for air through a parched throat once more with sinuses swollen like genetically manipulated tomatoes. That evening before bed I gave my nose another good squirt-down, but the relief was temporary. That was it. I gave up. This was the first sinus infection to defeat my tried-and-true wait-and-see method. And not even the nasal lavage - the closest I’ve ever come to witchcraft - was able to exorcise my nose demons. If I hope to get another good night’s sleep, if I want to end the senseless slaughter of so many boxes of tissues, it’s time I lay down my skepticism and admit to someone I have a problem.

Tomorrow I’m seeing the doctor.

*And never will as they have since broken up due to an extra-relationship dalliance. Because they were our only childless friend-couple in the city, their separation separated us permanently from the outside world after 7 pm.

It was perhaps understandable that, when I clicked on the link to watch a live stream of the presidential inauguration last night, I thought I’d been redirected to the Superbowl halftime show preview. Only when the cameras broke their doting gaze from various celebrities, VIPs and other swollen opportunists to give us a brief glimpse of George W. Bush - looking ever the awkward pubescent at a grown-up party - did I realize I’d come to the right place. I planned to watch CNN International’s broadcast, but they opted to forgo the event, choosing instead to provide in-depth analysis of Michelle Obama’s clothing interspersed with infomercials for Dubai, Rolex and … CNN. I switched to euronews.

At some point among all the posing and praying that was going on, a young, handsome, well-spoken man interrupted the carnival to offer a few thoughtful words about sacrifice and personal responsibility. The revelers were momentarily still while we watched public role model P. Diddy puff with civic pride, and everycitizen Oprah was caught in a vulnerable moment of duly spontaneous tear-shedding. The partying then resumed, and just like that, the Oaf of Office had been supplanted by an oath of office. And while I couldn’t help but get caught up in the inspiriting words of Obama (made easier since I live in a country whose own politicians couldn’t arouse passion on a Hawaiian honeymoon), I was surprised to sense also a twinge of sadness at the departing of one of the most misguided, incompetent individuals ever to be given his own Boeing jet at taxpayer expense. There stood that affable ninny at the door of Marine One, turning one more time to face the public with his stock smirk and vacant sparkle - I half expected him to wave finger ‘Vs’ above his head before retreating from view forever.

He became president of the United States of Amnesia when I first arrived in Germany, and so I felt we were kindred spirits embarking upon similar struggles: I with adapting to a foreign culture and he with adapting to reality. Now, as I watched him board the helicopter, I felt as if I were losing a partner in my adventure; I remain here in Germany, still trying to understand some of the most basic aspects of its culture. But George has already returned to his faraway land, where simplicity reigns: black is black, white is white, and no one takes none too kindly to no grey. Where I’ve at least learned not to attempt striking up a conversation with someone in an elevator, George doesn’t seem to have learned anything. Here he is in his farewell speech, 15 January 2009:

On the absence of attacks in the US since 11 September 2001 thanks to his policies:

“There is legitimate debate about many of these decisions. But there can be little debate about the results.”

Spoken like a true silver-spoon brat used to getting his way. “Gosh, professor. I got an A on the exam. Does it really matter how?”

And here again in the same speech:

America did nothing to seek or deserve this conflict.

In all fairness, he did once admit to not reading newspapers. I just thought he was kidding. “Hey-hey, we’re just the most powerful country in the world minding our own business. What’s the problem?”

Well George, you’ve left me to figure out the world on my own. I should have been paying more attention while you were still here. You made everything seem so simple.

***Update: Here is a recording of his last weekly radio address.

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.

Boo!

A number of things have been haunting me this month.

• Suck it up. I hurt my knee mighty fine last month while working at this year’s grape harvest. But [heroic look toward the horizon] they needed me, so I pushed on. Now my knee isn’t hurting me anymore - it’s freakin’ killin’ me! I’ve called a doctor, but the appointment is still a way off. The worst part is I didn’t even get a lousy medal or nothing for ‘bravery in the face of adversity.’ I mean, sheesh!
• Child-care centers are simply over-sized petri dishes for developing the latest in childhood sicknesses. Since Lloyd started going full-time on October first, he has spent more days at home than with his co-toddlers. Some boys collect rocks. Others collect bugs. Ours collects viruses.
• So-called ‘childhood’ illnesses are nothing more than illnesses you’ve never had because you haven’t hung out with 16 other babies lately. Now that Lloyd shares pre-slobbered toys at the childhood-disease-petri-dish-care-center on a daily basis and then comes home and sneezes on us, Katrin and I have become unwilling participants in his immune-system-strengthening regimen. Colds, ear infections, fevers, 24-hour flus, frazzled nerves - our doctor has written so many sick notes for our family, his wife is beginning to suspect an affair. Why am I getting all these childhood sicknesses over again anyway? Didn’t I learn anything the first time?
• Friend-discounts are bad business. A year ago a German friend of ours asked me to translate his published book into English. I made him a decent offer, but he replied his independent publisher couldn’t possibly afford that. Aw, shucks, what’s several thousand euros between friends, right? The original plan was to do the job over the three winter months - at a time when I had few other jobs and was desperate to escape a screaming newborn. His publisher hemmed. His publisher hawed. By July I was writing e-mails warning that if they procrastinated much more, I’d have to bail. September is my most lucrative month, and this project was cramping my style. They called my bluff, and I flinched. Heck, I couldn’t say no to a friend. Now here comes the part where you toss up your hands and walk out of the cinema because that would never happen in real life: When they finally sent me the file to translate just recently, it was accompanied by an e-mail informing me they were on a very tight schedule and needed it next month. Tell ‘em to bite it! you implore me? Make ‘em squirm! Say it’s too late! Look out, the monster’s behind you! I signed the contract. I should have my provides-goods-and-services-in-exchange-for-money license permanently revoked.
• Every silver lining has its cloud. A month ago I applied for an English teaching position at a local college that I really wanted. I got the job. Whoopee. Now, on top of having to translate a 200-page book in less time than it would take me to read it, I have to prepare for, teach and grade about 20 teaching hours a week. Maybe I can plan lessons while laid up in bed with one of Lloyd’s take-home biohazards.
• Democracy. While it hasn’t kept me out of finer restaurants or relegated me to the backs of buses, the burden of sharing our current president’s surname these eight long years has certainly made me an easy and frequent target of the handful of witless wisecracks one would expect to find in any hobby comedian’s uninspired repertoire. And just when I thought I - not to mention the Office of President - couldn’t suffer any more insulting a humiliation than to be associated with that ignoramus, McCain chooses as his Number 2 (and she does stink) the most anti-intellectual blather-bag this side of, well … Bush. And those two could actually win! Why? ‘Socialism.’ Suddenly, people who could sooner tell you how many Cheesecake Factories are in the tri-state area than how many members make up the US Senate are experts on the inherent evils of a staggeringly complex economic and social theory.

Boo!