Bike people

    

When we lived in Beijing, Oliver and I bought bicycles. They were dirt cheap and broke down a lot, but they took us everywhere. This wasn't such a big deal for Oliver, since he came from one of the most bike-friendly cities in one of the most bike-friendly countries in the world... but for me? It was something of a revelation.

I had always wanted to be a bike person. I had never wanted it enough though, to go out and make myself into one. I needed a little nudge, and once I had it I was hooked. We biked two hours to a tea market once, just because we could. Bikes! We dodged buses and melted into crowds of cyclists. In the course of my rides to all corners of town, I discovered that biking allowed me to feel like I was a part of every place I traveled through. In cars I have always been impatient and frustrated, wishing I can get to my destination and regretting that I can't connect with any of the things I'm passing. Biking changed all that, and made the journey every bit as desirable as the destination.

When we moved to Canada we bought "real" bikes, and Oliver rode his to work most of the time. I did too once in awhile, but I was back to public transit as my default and cycling as a weekend hobby. New York was even harder, and each baby put a one year hold on any rides we would take.

But then - but then! - we moved here. The babies were kiddos, and the streets were screaming at us. "Get on your bikes!" Grandmothers, families with bike trailers, two year olds (I am not kidding. Two year olds)... everybody was on a bike. The city was set up for it, the streets were safe for it. We decided not to buy a car, and bought a bike trailer instead. And I'm going to try and say this now, though I warn you it may take me a few tries to do it without squealing:

We are bike people!

Oliver rides to work every day, even in torrential downpours. The kids and I ride every day - to the zoo, the pediatrician, playgroup. On the weekends we head out as a foursome, sometimes for a 20-mile trek to a cool Altstadt, and sometimes just 15 minutes down the road to get some currywurst.

The happiness I get from this is multi-layered, and sometimes as I'm flying downhill on a sunny morning with the promise of a good outing before me, layers peel back and I enjoy many of them at once. I am a part of this place! We are keeping things simple! Wheeeee, so fast! My kids think biking is the default!

Will they love it the way I do? They're certainly on their way.

No answers needed, thankfully

    

Two times last week, we were still out on the road when the kiddos started napping. Instead of biking frantically and yelling things like "no sleeping on the road!" and "Nils, poke Liv for me!", I gave up on making it home. We live very close to Frankfurt's largest cemetery, and I decided to pull over and just sort of hang out for awhile.

The cemetery is something of a notable place. Lots of old graves - Schopenhauer's being the best known - and big trees. The kids and I bike through it all the time, and if you don't count the time we saw a bulldozer ripping out gravestones of those whose families no longer pay for upkeep, it's a calming place. 

(I know, right? There is something so deliciously (horrifyingly?) "Germany" about bulldozing graves. Story for another day.)

My favorite spot is the section dedicated to the Second World War. It's right on our bike route, and there is never another soul there. 

This statue, too. The first time I saw it, before I ever looked at a grave and saw "1944", I knew. The slumping shoulders, the grief and guilt and total defeat... this couldn't be about anything else.

There are signs that I could read, but I've never stopped to read them. I like leaving it all a bit of a mystery, and piecing things together as I pass through again and again. The section of Russian and Eastern European names, for example. Was there a battle of Frankfurt? There must have been, why have I never heard of it?

And who leaves the flowers and candles? There is always something when I pass through, and I wonder who remembers who, and who still feels what. What about Elise Zeh? She died at 60 in 1944... who planted the flowers at her grave? No one else has those... is someone still mourning her loss?

I like the fact that I can't come to easy conclusions here. As Nils and Liv napped last Friday, I wandered back and forth in a section of graves for civilians who must have died in an Allied bombing raid. My mind kept wanting to assign labels like "innocent victim" and "evil fascist," but I couldn't. The young couple buried together, he with military honors and she a month after he passed... who were they? Ardent nazis or scared young people with no choices? The 5 year old boy... okay, it's pretty easy to label him "innocent victim". The 80 year old woman: innocent? Informant? Okay, and say she was a racist, fascist, all those terrible things. Do I get to say it was "correct" that she died when her city was bombed? 

Hmm... guessing that one's a bit above my pay grade.

There is a family grave, too. Father, mother and daughter all gone in one day. When I look at it I can't help but remember a trio of memorial stones I saw for a Jewish family.

This is a complicated place, and I am a pretty simple person. I'm going to sigh with relief that it's not my place to decide who deserves what then, and just keep biking through. I think I should also leave some flowers. I could put them at the feet of that statue.