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.

über-patriotic

This past Saturday we went up to Katrin’s parents’ place in Weißig to have a 4th-of-July cookout – albeit on the 5th. At the grocery store we saw a section of products called “McEnnedy – American Way”. Napkins, hot dog and hamburger buns, popcorn, muffins and many other items typically associated with the US were all packaged in various themes of the American flag and American icons, for that authentically American touch. Who, for example, would buy napkins not printed in red, white and blue? Do hamburger buns taste the same without baseball players on the wrapper? How do I know the muffins are truly free unless the Statue of Liberty stands proudly on the label? And so what if the fellas in the Cultural Research Department mistakenly translated Wienerbrötchen as Hot Dog Rolls? This is a free country.

I’m really tired right now and would like to go to sleep, but darned if those Germans aren’t whoopin’ it up big-time outside my window once again after their soccer team came back and eked out yet another nail-biter against yet another sub-par team. This episode’s disposable crew member was Turkey, who watched their long shot of a European Cup title get gobbled by their less-than-impressive opponents. What’s that, person who actually knows something about Fußball? Turkey does have a good team? Well, until nine of their players were sidelined with injuries or penalties before this game, yes, I’d heard they did. But tonight there was talk of having to use the second-string goalie as a striker, which I think is like using a catcher to start the game on the mound – while still wearing his gear. Despite my best efforts to soundproof the apartment with duct tape and plastic sheets (what to do with all this code-orange gear?), I could still easily follow tonight’s titanic struggle by counting the number of whiny groans versus jubilant macho grunts emanating from the bars and apartments. In the end the grunts won. No sooner had the final whistle put the football world out of its misery than the mobs took to the streets to spread this misery to the innocent and uninterested, smashing beer bottles, blocking traffic and singing unintelligible soccer songs with as little rhythm and harmony as their team displayed on the field. Dichter und Denker to a man.

Oh, look! Someone’s brought fireworks to the celebration!

I sound like the bitter captain of the chess team, whose dream of checkmating in front of thousands of screaming fans never materialized. But I grew up playing baseball, (American) football and basketball well into high school. I had season football tickets as a student at Ohio State. I still follow the Reds though I can’t watch a single game. I even brought my baseball and glove with me to this country knowing I’d never find a counterpart. And it’s this experience which makes me wonder, deeply, about a land whose uninspired, deficient soccer team, having got more breaks this tournament than a Hawaiian surfer, has brought its people beyond the brink of ecstasy. Well, most of them, anyway. There are two kinds of sports in Germany: soccer and whatever sport a German is dominating at the time (F1/Schumacher, tennis/Becker-Graf) – sports provincialism at a national level. If Tiger Woods had been a German, every Tilo, Dieter and Helmut in this country would call in sick whenever “our Tiger” took the green. An entire generation of German youth would be the burdened namesake of this golf Wunderkind. “Tiger, stop bothering your sister!” “Tiger, do your homework!” “Tiger, be quiet. Daddy’s watching the soccer game!”

In all fairness Germany’s not the only country which succumbs to collective hysteria every time its soccer team plays in some tournament, which seems like every other week. My informants tell me it’s just about every other country on earth as well. I guess with a healthy diet of three major sports in the US, most people are able to detox sufficiently enough before their team allegiance steals their vision and warps their common sense, leaving them so vulnerable they’ll worship their club, even when it’s far from divine. One sport the whole year round – this model of inbred fandom leads to hangers-on with developmental problems or a third nipple. If you don’t mix the gene pool, you get people who can’t discern their team from a good team. You get people who celebrate lousy victories with all the broken bottles, obnoxious chanting and random vandalism of a victory that truly deserves such a distinguished honor. You get a German soccer fan.

And I get no rest.

If my favorite national sports team played an average game against a sub-average opponent, lost a game to an average opponent and squeaked out a ‘W’ against the worst team in the tournament thanks to a single technicality, the last thing I’d be doing after barely escaping such a spavined group in the preliminary round is cruising about the town square at midnight in my Mercedes while honking my horn and yelling at those with sense enough to be in bed that “my” team is number one.

Then again, my team isn’t in the euro2008.

This mockumentary may be satire, but its portrayal of Bavarians does not stray far from my own experience. *shudder* The flick lasts 35 minutes, so get some munchies and a Hefeweizen before you click play.

Today my son became an Amurikin.

His passport/passeport/pasaporte arrived in the mail this morning, completing what has to have been the easiest bureaucratic transaction I’ve experienced since hanging my hat in this country. Of course, we had to drive to the American Consulate in Berlin to do it. There probably aren’t enough rocket scientists in the world to understand why the local German immigration office couldn’t provide me with a residence permit in under a month and without killing an acre of rain forest in the process while Lloyd and I can get our US passports in just a week and a half. And they sent our paperwork to the US first!

On the other hand, I don’t recall being interrogated and strip searched before entering the German immigration office, whereas gaining safe passage into the American fortress required negotiating a labyrinth that was part JFK Airport, part opening theme to Get Smart. Katrin and I wanted to photograph the moment, but the US government doesn’t want images of consulate waiting rooms to fall into the hands of evil-doin’ turrurists. To be fair, I was relieved of my cell phone and camera at the gate by a very friendly though mammoth guard. And no camera was necessary to permanently capture the image of this bulk-o-hulk goo-gooing at Lloyd, who wisely decided to giggle. Equally friendly personnel sped us through streamlined paperwork, and before you can say Bitte füllen Sie diese Formulare in dreifacher Ausfertigung aus, we were swearing with raised right hands that Lloyd was good people.

Once we were reunited with our phones and camera on our way out, I wanted to commemorate Lloyd’s Americanization with a picture in front of the consulate building, you know, in case he ever wonders why he just got a draft notice from Uncle Sam. Well, son, way back in 2008 your mother and I thought it would be a good idea to…. As I posed with our newly christened son at the top of the steps, a German cop loafed into action, telling Katrin that photographing the American Consulate was strengstens verboten. We both expected this, but I still protested on principle. It’s a public building, I argued. It’s outside; I could be a mere diversion for ten turrurists with cameras across the street, behind the bushes, peeking out of manholes. Delete zee fotos or zair vill be trahble his look told me. Very well.

Foto Cop pooped on my parade. But he’s not to blame. It’s not his decision to defend a large building in a large city from the prying eyes of the public. No, that order came from my country, the United States of Hysteria. Exaggerating? How else do you explain charging a few policemen with making an entire building invisible when we can’t even provide our citizens at home adequate safety? Have the Bad Guys never heard of Google Earth? Close your eyes…

I guess the cop wasn’t able to shoot the satellite out of the sky.

And our car was also too fast:

*Achtung!*

Even Mexico and Canada are now off-limits to non-passport-holding Americans who want to see what life is like outside the Kane compound. Apply for yours today!