Chocolate Box Town

Not feeling very funny today, so I thought I might show you some photos I took in the Summer. Not far from our town is a castle town. Built up high on a hill, the original inhabitants lived within its walls and I suspect some of them are still there.
It makes for a lovely walk, little houses nestled up against each other and cradled by the remaining walls. One of the members of my family was born in this tiny place and speaks (even today, some 50 years after moving down to the 'big smoke') a rough dialect that takes all my concentration to understand.

The people from this town are loyal to their ways. They know the history of the area, they know who was born and who is a relative. I suspect that knowing the geneology is a good thing, considering how few of them there actually were 50 years ago... never good to marry your brother. Sometimes, I hear the guitar riff from Deliverance in my head when I am walking around the castle walls.....

Entry to the town is either through a steep uphill, hairpin drive (terrifying in winter) or from the other side...but then there is the stone wall entrance, which is tiny, suitable only for Fiat Pandas or Smart Cars. It would be hopeless to try and bring in any heavy machinery. So everything is handled through small loads.

I think the town dwellers like it this way, it keeps the tourist buses away.

Oben and Up

Hey, where did the Summer go? As if by magic, things have changed here. It seems to have happened overnight, or was I just too busy to notice. My neighbours have buttoned up their garden houses, tucked up their stone statues and raked up all their leaves.

Don't know why I am pretending, all the signs were there, clear as day. The first happened when I woke up and found that Mr Frost had come to visit. He left behind his card. All the lovely summer Geraniums killed with a single stroke.

Then the water buckets iced over. Miss 8 found this exciting, but it reminded me that I have now made my home in a country that requires you to change your tyres over according to the season -- unheard of in Australia. Why, we only change our tyres when the rims start scratching the driveway (or is that only in Queensland heeeeheehee)

And so it was, that we decided to start investigating indoor activities. There are massive indoor sport halls here on every corner. Clubs that meet at pubs (more my style), dancing, singing, more drinking, more singing.... all of this will eventually lead to Carnival, which is just about to come a knocking. I will post more about that later. As Miss 8 is still too young to take much pleasure in the drinking, singing, more drinking, more singing club, we took off to the movies.

I wasn't sure what to expect. The first shock being the prices... I did try explaining that I only wanted 2 seats, not buy the whole cinaplex, but it didn't help. Then there was the usual or might I say, not so usual Movie Snacks. Popcorn... the first mouthful almost landed on the back of the head of the person sitting in front of me. It was SWEET... blerk! No salt, no butter... I scanned around to see if anyone else had discovered this devilish mistake, but they all seemed to be stuffing it down as if normal. The then was the 'shared armrest' protocol. Hmmm... would this be different. Which drink holder belonged to me? Very confusing. As if that wasn't bad enough, it was a 3-D movie, which required me wearing funny glasses, and resulted in me embarressing myself when I kept constantly trying to swat things out of the air....that weren't there. This caused much merriment for 13 year old boy on my right....and distracted him enough so that I could plant my elbow firmly on the armrest!

In the end, it was fun, but I miss watching movies that haven't been dubbed. Somehow that little out of sync mouth movement v's sound distracts me from the movie. Might be time to invest in a home cinema.

PS. Photo of Miss 8 taken just after I had tried to swat a bird out of the sky, at the same time upending my bucket of SWEET (just can't come to terms with that) popcorn into the lap of Mr smartypants 13 year old spotty youth. She is NOT amused! More and more often lately she wears that same expression when she looks at me.....should I be concerned?

I am a Doughnut!

We haven't had a story lately, would you like another? I thought as much. Ok, get cosy, put your feet up...hey! not on the coffee table! Good, ready?
As a fresh young bride, I was whisked out of Australia, all the way to Europe, landing squarely in Germany. It was exactly 30 days after I got married. Everything was new, new husband, new country, new language. It seemed every conversation I overheard was about to explode into a full blown blood bath. The gutteral utterings all but nonsense for me at the time.

An exciting time to be in Germany, whispers of revolution were in the air and I was delirious with sensory overload. Finally the chapters of my well-thumbed history textbooks were coming to life. Names like Helmut Kohl and Honecker infiltrated my everyday conversations. I felt worldly beyond my tender years.

Watching the Berlin Wall fall was like sitting in a Master class. Even way before I tangoed with the German Mr Dear Husband, I had a unfathomable interest in everything to do with WWII. Triggered, I suspect, by two books read during my impressionable teen years. Diary of Anne Frank, and One day in the life of Ivan Denisovisch by Alexandr Solzhenitsyn.

As life rushes by, it took us until the Summer of 1990 to finally have the chance to cross the border and take a look around The East. A trip was planned, heading through Frankfurt, toward Dresden, then on to Prague. It was our 1st wedding anniversary. In preparation, there was much discussion about whether I would need a Visa or not. Nobody seemed to know the answer, and that summed up the whole country, doused in confusion. The merging of East & West was still in its infancy.

Being a worrier, I took hold of the reins and asked Mr Dear Husband to drive me to Bonn. I would just go to the East German Embassy and ask them. Now, I am not sure what it was like before the Wall went down, but I could swear I saw a tumble weed rush down the driveway as we approached. No cameras, no guards, and nothing to indicate if we should go in or run for our lives. As we hesitated, a man in a East German police uniform opened the front door and beckoned us inside. At this stage, I am seeing pictures from John Le Carre books in my head.... we followed him into a large room. The room empty, except for a small, battered table and chair, placed deliberately in the centre.

Mr East German Policeman, sat behind the desk, straightened his shoulders, coughed once and said, "Passport".

By this stage, I had started to shake, having worked myself into an imaginary frenzy. I held out my little blue Australian passport, with the fearful worry that I would never see it again. Visions of KGB were dancing through my head, high-kicking to the title music from Hogan's Heroes.

Mr East German Policeman took my passport with his thumb and forefinger, a slight curling of the top lip and and ever so tiny sniff. He laid it on the table, and opened it to the first page, looked intently at the photo, then back up to my face. That curled lip remained.

Then, in a manic rush, he flipped the lid of a small cashbox by his side, containing a stamp, and a stamp pad. "Twenty Marks!" It sounded more like a barked command than a request, and we reacted accordingly, each of use stumbling to turn out our pockets and throw money at him. With a slight of hand, the money disappeared, there was a quick STOMP, and my passport was slid back across the table, again, using the least amount of bodily contact possible.

We did not talk or look back until we were at least 20 minutes away. To this day, I have no idea if the stamp was legitimate or not. On no occasion during the trip through East Germany was I ever stopped by anyone, nor did anyone ever request to see the stamp.

For all I know now, there is a good chance that we were scammed... but it made our trip to the DDR all the more exciting. A fruitful imagination is a wonderful thing.

Now let's me hear you..... get that David Hasselhoff hip action going.... come on, The Fall of the Berlin Wall will be forever linked to this song....

I've been lookin' for freedom
I've been lookin' so long
I've been lookin' for freedom
still the search goes on
I've been lookin' for freedom
since I left my home town
I've been lookin' for freedom
still it can't be found

Falling...Falling...Fell

"It was one of those perfect English Autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than than in life." P.D. James

It started off simply enough. Riding my bike back from the market, taking a shortcut through a bike path. A perfect leaf, drenched in the colours of Autumn, drifted down and landed almost on my face. I grabbed at it, managing NOT to fall off the bike, and tucked it into my pocket. I rode on, and found myself giggling like a small child. A strange delight at finally being able to experience a whole European Autumn. There are memories tucked away from when I was nothing but a skinned-kneed girl, a yearning for the changing of the leaves, a pleasure that growing up in Sydney did not provide. My special leaf sat on my windowsill for a few days until someone decided to toss it out.
On the odd occasion I have come up for air in the past 6 weeks, from my daily toil of painting and wallpapering, I have noticed that the trees in my backgarden were slowly changing from lush green to gold. Each time I glanced at them, I felt a tingle of pure childlike delight...my very own Autumn leaves. A few minutes each day spent in the gentle art of raking, was better than any meditation, soothing for the soul. Satisfaction that the garden could be so easily restored to lush green. Then the wind arrived. It wasn't so much a storm, as a determined long winded gusting. It started in the morning and continued throughout the day. On this occasion, I was entrenched in clearing out the cellar... no windows and no chance to see that what was taking place outside would soon change my romantic notions forever.
It stopped me in my tracks. HUH? What was that? Had someone dumped a plush persian carpet on my lawn? It took me hours, of raking, bagging, raking, bagging.... the whole time muttering under my breath, "What the hell... grumble, grumble....damn leaves....damn Autumn...as if I don't have enough to do...grumble, grumble." Not even the crisp, clean air and sparkling blue sky could distract me from the massive piles of leaves that built up. My beautiful leaf had decided to throw a party and invited every mate within kicking distance.

What is it about life that all those romantic notions need to be knocked out of you, does this mean I have to grow up?

The Window Brothers

Usually, I look forward to the school holidays, the chance to sleep a bit longer is always a bonus. As Winter approaches and the mornings are gettng darker and colder, I was extra happy about this term break. Until I got the email telling me that between 8am and 9am, this coming Monday morning, the 'boys' would be arriving to install my new windows.

The punctuality reputation that Germans have, is not mis-deserved. For all the complaining you hear, German trains run pretty much on time. Businesses open and close on the exact minute that they state on their door, and tradesmen, generally arrive when they say they will.

It seemed to be tempting fate to NOT be at the house before 8am. And so I was. It is cold today, 10 degrees, rainy, and gray. All the lights were switched on, well at least those that that are more than wires hanging out of the ceiling. To kill time, I fiddled about trying to make as much space as possible, clearing paint sheets, and cleaned up paint rollers.

9am on the dot. Not a minute sooner and not a minute later. Two large vans arrived.

"Guten Morgen! My name is Pancakesoupmaker (or something like that)."

We did a quick tour of the house, he expressed his delight that the windows were easily accessible etc... and all was well.

Then the driver of the other van came in... "Guten Morgen!" My name is Pancakesoupmaker."

"Oh, you are brothers!" I said.

"Yes, don't we look alike?"

"Hmmhm yes, you are both very good looking!" said I, deciding that this was my chance to curry favor in the hope that they would do a great job, and do it quickly. They seemed pleased.

I have left them too it. Fingers crossed.

Lady GaGa & her Big Brass Band

Overheard....then roughly translated into English, but you will get the gist.

It is a rainy, misty Autumn morning. The kitchen is warm and cosy, there are wonderful smells drifting through the house as the clock inches its way toward midday lunch.

Miss 8 is sitting at the kitchen table, she is peeling the skins off a bag of hazelnuts, which she triumphantly collected from our garden, chatting away to her Oma (Miss 82). The radio is playing softly in the background.

Miss 8: "Oma, can you please turn up the radio, this is my favourite song." Miss 8 has managed (with French Resistance style skill) to switch the radio station from WDR4 (Tunes to grow your nose hair by) to SWR3 (hip, slick and cool appealing to precocious 8 year olds).

Oma obliges, and then continues stirring the red cabbage.

Miss 8: "Oma, this is Lady Gaga, do you know lady Gaga?"

Oma continues to stir, and makes a non-commital sound, something like "hummhoom".

Miss 8 sings along to the song on the radio.....

Miss 8: "Oma, do you like this song? Do you know what it is called?"

Oma is no fool, she has been listening to her bilingual grandchild, and has the tune down.....

Oma: "Yes, I can even sing a bit." A slight clearing of the throat and out came "Ompah pa pa Ompah pa paparazzi, Ompah pa pa Ompah pa paparazzi...."

You can bring the English to the Oma, but you can't take the German out of her!