Flowers?

   
I noticed something last week. I was at a funeral, and it was a big-moment-in-your life funeral. It was much more Oliver's big moment in life than mine, but still. Still a big deal. German funerals have a  slightly different protocol than American ones, and I got the rundown just before the service. Approach. Men drop down a handful of dirt, women toss in a handful of flowers. When it was our turn to go up, I approached, flowers in hand, and didn't see any flowers in the burial pit. Okay, I was only the second woman to go forward... had I misunderstood? Had the previous woman misunderstood? Was I supposed to drop these flowers or not?

"Oliver," I whispered. "What am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to hold on to these flowers?" His mind on other things, Oliver didn't answer right away.

"Flowers?" I asked in a whisper, feeling strangely frantic. How long could I stand here before people started to get annoyed? Was I doing this wrong? Was I taking away from someone else's moment of reflection?

"Do I drop them in?"

*     *     *

Something similar happened at our wedding. When it came time to do the rings on fingers bit, Oliver put on my ring upside down. There, in another one of those big moments in your life, I was totally distracted. "Wait, it's upside down... no no, never mind. We can just leave it like this."

Do we all do this? Were these two moments in my life just a coincidence? Was I glad, both times, to pull away from the enormity of the moment and focus on something different?

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.

     

Angle of repose

   
We nailed it a couple Wednesdays ago. NAILED it. The day started with a healthy breakfast, then led us to the sunshine of the park. We stopped in a little side field where the kiddos literally ran in circles together, laughing and singing while they picked little white flowers. 

After that we played in the park, got a nice little lunch at the park's outdoor cafe, then came home for Liv's nap. Nils and I sat outside while she slept, drawing and coloring together. He even asked me to read "the artist book" to him, because "I'm an artist, too!" (Oh hey there, book I bought more than 10 years ago, imagining a child would someday say those very words to me!)

When Liv woke up after a really, really long nap, the three of us biked out, again in the sunshine, to Bornheim Mitte for the farmer's market. We bought some fruit and veggies (Mama, get some peppers! I love peppers!), and paused for a sausage. 

After that it was a quick stop at the library for some stories, home, and dinner on the outdoor space. Well fed, the two of them played nicely together:

and went to bed without protest.  Liv waved goodbye as I closed her door, and Nils asked for a few more stories before drifting off himself.

Nailed it.

Oh, and then there are days like today. I'll spare you the details; let's just say there were bodily fluids involved, sibling-on-sibling crime, harsh words, slammed doors (oh, the sass!), aborted trips to the park (rain, our playdate's sudden fever), and a big fat glass of wine at the end of the day. Should it bother me that I drank alone? It doesn't.

In the middle of the worst part of our day I started to think "good lord, what a bad day," but before the thought was even finished I knew it wasn't right. No, today was a day. Just a day.

It's all balancing out for us now. The good and the bad roll at me and I can make them both work. Gone is the despair of last winter, those days I can't use any verb but "slog" to describe, the time I was actually brought to tears by the thought "17 more years? I can't. I can't." Things feel normal now. We sleep at night; that probably helps. Days are hectic but I get to stop every night and have a couple hours to do whatever I want. Ahhh, that feels good. We have fun together. Most days are somewhere between park-flowers-cafe-market-library and the-things-today-which-shall-not-be-named, and that's great. I'm not looking for bliss. I just want to enjoy myself here at my angle of repose. I'm done tumbling now, and it feels good to rest quietly.

The narrative

   

     (Every bit as exciting as the topic: the fact that I could read the article! A story for another day...)

Germany won the World Cup at about midnight this past Sunday. The minute it was official, our apartment complex exploded. Balcony doors flung open, screams and cheers, fireworks popping, and one guy running from one side of his balcony to the other, Rocky arms flying, screaming "WELTMEISTER!" again and again. Cars on the street started honking and hadn't stopped when I fell asleep at 2 a.m.

Gah, I love a good frenzy of shared excitement.

Oliver and I have been watching the German national team play since 2006. 2006, that was the summer we were living in Toronto and Chicago, respectively. Engaged to be married, taking turns visiting each other over the long summer. Before one of my visits to Toronto, Oliver gave me a heads up that we would be watching a soccer game in a bar. World Cup half final. Germany versus Italy.

"Soccerrr?" I think I said. "Um, okay. How long is the game again?"

Oh Oliver! The patience this must have required! He calmly explained to me that the World Cup was being held IN GERMANY, and that the nation was in a collective state of hysteria. This was the game! The game to see who would play in the final!

"Okay, sure. I can do anything for 90 minutes."

Oh, Allison. If only you knew.

*     *     *

Somewhere in the middle of this tournament, about the time Germany was getting ready to play the U.S., I dug about as deep as I go these days and thought about why I would root for Germany over my own country. A narrative started forming. There was 2006, young and giddy and getting ready for our wedding. There was the 2008 European Championship, when we were brand-new to New York and found a billion German expats to cheer with. 2010 was Saturday mornings in a Park Slope sports bar, Oliver with a beer and me with a water, Nils kicking around in my belly. Then there was 2012, toddler Nils in his little Deutschland jersey, his little sister maybe hearing some of the screams from inside the womb.

And 2014? I get a little choked up thinking about how we'll add this one to the narrative. "2014! That was the year they won it all. We had just moved to Frankfurt...

Thanks

   
Oh, this blog.

I've always enjoyed writing it.

I love being able to share it with friends and family.

Sometimes I think about it and wince. Did I really write that? How stupid / obnoxious did I sound?

Sometimes I'm boring.

Sometimes I think I have a nice perspective on things.

Often, writing things out helps me figure out just what my perspective is.

I could also find that perspective in a journal.

At the risk of sounding like I'm fishing for compliments, can I ask you a favor? If you read this from time to time, and like hearing from me, can you email me and let me know? I can't tell if I should keep blogging or not, and the knowledge that a few friends / relatives get a kick out of my posts could swing things in the direction of "stay."

I'll wait for several weeks, since I'm guessing you don't wake up each morning and check my blog for new content. Smiley face.

Cool!

The Kahns lived here

   
My Grandpa Erickson served in Europe during the Second World War. He never talked about it with anyone, apparently, but it was obvious that the experience meant a lot to him. Uniform hanging neatly in the basement. Carefully created scrapbooks. And this beautiful desk, this glass-topped display desktop. Foreign coins, pins, and an oversized photo of Grandpa's group - battallion vs. regiment vs. corps vs. platoon always escaped me.

The story in the family was that Grandpa had been a jeep driver for a general, and that he had spent an entire winter without once sleeping in a heated building. As far as World War II hardships go it wasn't an especially dramatic one, but it was more hardship than any of us had faced so there it was.

For years now, I have wanted to make a copy of the photograph in the desk. Look at that. Deadly enemies and two generations later husband and wife. Their kids are buddies with the descendants of Holocaust survivors. Everything changes. Don't forget that.

I've heard there are many beautiful Holocaust memorials here in Germany. I've seen a couple here in Frankfurt, though the language barrier sometimes keeps me from getting to the details. I imagine that living here for a long time, and seeing memorial after memorial softens the impact, but things are all so new for me. You know what I think is just beautiful? These:

I'll be walking down an ordinary street and suddenly there are these stones at my feet. The closer I look the more the story reveals itself. Leopold and Johanna Kahn lived here. They were deported in 1942... about 50 years old, each of them. They spent some time in Theresienstadt, then died in Auschwitz in 1944.

They lived right here, right near Holzhausen Park! And as they approached their golden years they were taken away. They spent the last two years of their lives in concentration camps. How long were they able to keep up with the younger and the stronger? How frightened were they?

It's nothing new, I know. How many films have I seen about all this? How many books have I read? For some reason, this little reminder really reaches down into me.