Bring on the Cheese

We leave for the United States tomorrow. Admittedly, it is a little strange flying to a country with a traveling warning attached to it, but we are willing to “risk” it to get home. As we have packed up the last of our belongings and finished all of our cleaning, I have been thinking about this trip and all of those cheesy things like “what I have learned.” Unfortunately, I haven’t learned that I am good at acquiring Eastern European languages or that I am extremely tolerant of other cultures. I definitely haven’t learned that I am adaptable or that I can deal with change. I have learned, however, that I underestimate the people around me. Let me give you a few examples.

I definitely underestimate my children. When we first came to the Czech Republic, I never thought that Ben was going to adapt. I thought he was going to spend our ten months here lashing out at anyone who doesn’t speak English, struggling to fall asleep in any place other than his bed in Minnesota and clinging to my leg at all times. I was wrong. Since we arrived, Ben has learned to tolerate languages ranging from Spanish to Russian and to fall asleep on the seats of an A330. He has reveled in finding clocks and cathedrals in some of Europe’s most beautiful cities and he attended a preschool where he learned to write his own name, recognize letters and even sing “Ten Little Indian Boys” complete with hand motions (Needless to say, we will have to undo the last one before we get home.). In the same light, Josh has surprised me with his ability to go anywhere and be happy. I never thought that a baby under six months of age would tolerate two trans-Atlantic flights, be willing to nurse on the steps of a palace or coo happily while being hoisted up the steps for the umpteenth time in the London Underground. I am not suggesting that my children are extraordinary or amazing, just that I need to have a little more faith in their ability to overcome their mother’s less than stellar genetic contributions.

Beyond my children, I underestimated my friends. I never thought that some of my friends would spend hours trying to make Skype work, just so that I could complain to them about the horrors of the Czech Republic. These same friends even got up hours before they normally do to sing to Ben on his birthday. They probably have no idea how much that meant to him. Another friend went well beyond what anyone should be expected to do to help me return to my old job and this same friend faithfully emailed every week. Even my family surprised me. I had hoped, but didn’t expect, that my brother would scrape together the money to come and visit us a month after Josh was born. My mom too more than rose to the occasion. She scrambled to get a ticket to fly here when I felt like I couldn’t stay behind the Iron Curtain one second longer and she sent package after package with important “supplies” like Bisquick and cake mixes (Czechs love Betty Crocker chocolate cake!) despite the ridiculous expense of international shipping. For a woman who never was good at depending on others and who never felt like she could, this year was a lesson in the true commitment that friends and family can show.

Most importantly, however, I underestimated my husband. Let’s face it. If Dan and I had compared resumes before leaving on this trip, I should have been the one to thrive in a foreign country. I had gotten much better grades in foreign language. I had gone to a fancy college where I studied abroad. I knew more than he did about the history of the region and I am just smarter. Clearly, none of these things matter, though, because it was Dan who held this whole adventure together. It was Dan who took a deep breath and stuttered through Czech to order hamburgers at McDonald’s. It was Dan who made phone call after phone call to make sure that we received our visas. Dan was the adventurous one who was open to new foods, new languages and new traditions. And it was Dan who calmed me down every time that I felt like I just couldn’t do this anymore. If this trip has taught me anything, it’s to never underestimate my husband’s intelligence, persistence, patience and love.

So, I will end this blog (at least the Czech part of it) the way I began it. We made it. I wish I could say that I thrived, that I became more worldly, that I was open-minded, that I wasn’t that American, but I can’t. Maybe that’s okay, though. Sometimes just making it is good enough.

Telc

Telc (pronounced Telch) is a tiny town to the west of Brno. It has one of the best-preserved Renaissance squares north of the Alps. We finally visited it yesterday. Enjoy the pictures.









I don't think Josh cared about the architecture, but he did really like the cone part of an ice cream cone!

The Alps

The final stop on our tour of the German-speaking world was Kitzbuhel, Austria. Kitzbuhel is really a collection of valleys connected by tunnels and mountain passes in the Austrian Alps. Economically, I would guess that the region depends on tourism, specifically tourists who want to ski. So, we did our best to stimulate the Kitzbuhel economy by skiing for a couple of days.

One of the neatest aspects of our visit was where we stayed, a kinderhotel. Kinderhotels are hotels that cater solely to families. They are scattered throughout Austria, Switzerland, southern Germany and France. Ours reminded me of a Disney resort on steroids. They provided us with everything that a family could possibly need while on vacation; a changing table in the bathroom, a baby bathtub, a full-sized crib, baby backpacks, children’s silverware, children’s bathrobes, kids’ shampoo, bunk-beds with guardrails, even a baby monitor system that could call your cellphone when the monitor detected a noise. Beyond these amenities, the hotel had endless entertainment options for children and families. There was an indoor playground in the basement; a pool that stayed as warm as a bath; a covered sandbox filled with shovels, backhoes, sifters and scoops; a farm complete with cows, pigs, chickens, rabbits and goats; a swingset; every type of tricycle imaginable and many more things that we simply never got a chance to use.















































In addition to all of the entertainment, the price of our stay included all meals. We received an assigned table in the dining room that was set specifically to meet our family’s needs. Three adult place settings, a child’s place setting complete with placemat and plastic cup and a baby setting with a highchair and cloth bib greeted us at every meal. The server even remembered to put Josh to Dan’s left so that Dan could easily feed him with his right hand.

Our first official meal was dinner. At first glance, it appeared that it was going to be a buffet. Set around the room were serving terrines, platters and baskets filled with all sorts of different dishes. There was beef carpaccio, roasted racks of lamb, deviled eggs, fresh vegetables for salads, pieces of watermelon, sliced breads, schnitzel, squash soup and a whole variety of other dishes that I cannot remember. For Josh, there was a pantry of jarred baby food from which I could pick whatever I thought he would like.

In turn, we loaded our plates and settled in to eat. After about fifteen minutes, our server stopped by and asked us if we were ready for our main course. We slowly stopped chewing and nervously glanced at each other. By this point, all of us were already feeling a little full. There was no way that there could be more food. The server asked the question again and we continued to sit in dumbfounded silence. Finally, a German-speaking couple sitting at the next table leaned over and said, “yes, there is more food coming.” Oops. We had gorged ourselves on the appetizers. A little red-faced and feeling like we had inadvertently fulfilled the stereotype of the overeating American family, we ordered our main course and then, they forced us to eat the desert course as well. Finally, after choking down our strawberry and banana milkshakes, we pried ourselves out of our now much tighter chairs and retreated to the safety of our foodless room. From that meal on, we learned to always expect more than we could ever possibly imagine when it came to food.

It wasn’t all play while we were in Kitzbuhel. Ben had to attend school, well ski school. Dan and I knew that we could not just throw Ben onto a hill and expect him to figure out how to avoid death, so we enrolled him in a class. Ben was a little apprehensive about the whole thing, but he was willing to try. We wedged his feet into tiny, inflexible black and red ski boots and locked him onto skis that were about two feet long. Once we slipped on his oversized, red helmet, he looked like a little Olympian in the making. We carried him over to his ski instructor, wished him luck and left for a couple of hours of child-free skiing.

The ski area reminded me of a links golf course. Instead of distinct paths lined with trees, the runs were barely distinguishable from each other and from the surrounding terrain. Only the occasional marker indicating the difficulty of skiing and the subtle tracks left by the snow tractors helped Dan and I to pick our way down the hills. The runs were very long, allowing us to ski for ten to fifteen minutes before we had to get on a lift. The snow was a little icy, but this was probably due to the 50 degree temperatures melting the snow during the day and then the snow refreezing during the cooler nights. I was definitely willing to trade freezing fingers and toes for a little ice, though.
















After a couple of hours of quiet skiing, we went back to check on Ben. Instead of making our presence known, we decided to watch from afar so as to not break the minute amount of concentration he might have on learning to ski. Ben was riding a magic carpet, which is a conveyor belt that the kids stand on and ride to the top of the hill. He was holding a long green stick that looked like one of those floaty sticks for a pool. Being the boy that he is, he was banging it on the belt and waving it around. I think he actually would have been very content to take off the skis and just play with the stick, but he was there to learn skiing, so when he came to the “summit,” he stepped off the carpet and muddled his way over to the almost-flat, open space that was serving as a bunny hill.

I think Ben was supposed to hold the stick with both hands, parallel to the ground and then ski down the hill. When he wanted to turn, he could lean with the stick to one side, helping his whole body to turn with it. Ben had other ideas, though, because when he started down the hill, he stuck the stick between his legs. There was my firstborn, riding the green stick down the hill, using it as a break and completely ignoring the central point of the exercise. So much for concentration.

That afternoon, we decided to take Ben out onto a slightly larger bunny hill to see what he could really do. Dan skied out ahead of us and I lined Ben up. When Dan gave the signal, I let go. Dutifully, Ben crouched and patted his knees. Everything seemed okay until he started to turn. Gradually, he turned further and further to the right until he had made a complete u-turn. Unfortunately, not even this could stop Ben. He continued to slide down the hill, crouching the whole time and grinning, completely oblivious to the fact that skiing is supposed to be a downhill-facing sport. Needless to say, Ben may have looked like an Olympian, but he didn’t ski like one.
















After a week of skiing, eating and touring, we were more than ready to go home. Everyone’s patience was worn thin and we were out of clean clothes. It was a good trip, though. We did things that we probably would never have been able to do if we hadn’t been living in Europe and we did it as a family. Sure, that meant that there were marital mishaps, irritating mom moments and screaming matches between the kids, but that also meant that there are some fantastic memories. Adventures, after all, are always better when mixed in with a few misadventures.

Prague Spring - 2009

Charles Bridge















Ben and Josh with Prague Castle in the background
















The "photoshoot" is going downhill.























Grass is more interesting than the castle.

Europe in the Family Truckster

Part of the adventure in this last adventure was simply getting from place to place. All together, we spent about 18 hours on the road to drive from Brno to Vienna, Vienna to Salzburg, Salzburg to Munich, Munich to Kitzbuhel and Kitzbuhel to Brno. Consequently, I would be remiss if I didn’t describe a little bit about roadtripping in Europe.

We were crammed into our Ford Mondeo. It was an engineering feat every time we were able to get our four suitcases, stroller and miscellaneous items into the luggage compartment. Even fitting ourselves into the car was a minor miracle. Dan drove, my mom typically rode in the front passenger seat and I had the pleasure of sitting between my two beautiful boys. Okay, I lied. There was very little pleasure derived from sitting in the torture chamber that was the backseat. Whoever sat in back had to wedge herself into the tiny open space left between our two oversized, Britax car seats. This involved some anatomical rearranging and stuffing. The jaws of life were practically required to extract me when we arrived at our destination.

The physical discomfort was really only the beginning. The boys added a whole new dimension to this experience. Josh, who is in a rear facing car seat, loved to reach out and squeeze the fat on my upper arm. Aside from the fact that I didn’t need this nagging little reminder to lose the last of my baby weight, it hurt. Then, to add insult to injury, Ben had to start poking and prodding in the sadistic hope that he too could elicit from his mother little yelps of pain. Both of the boys also insisted on talking, a lot. Don’t get me wrong. I love listening to and talking to my sons, but I can only talk for so long about what is in the dump truck driving next to us. It also got a little irritating when both boys attempted to talk over each other. Ben would yell at Josh to be quiet and Josh would simply get louder and louder. This whole time, my mom smiled from her cushy place in the front seat, taking pleasure in the fact that this whole thing was some horrific form of revenge brought on by genetics.

The driving itself wasn’t too bad. We have grown pretty comfortable with European road signs and driving laws. We hummed along at about 85 to 90 mph when we were on the autobahn. Unfortunately, finding our way wasn’t always as smooth as the roads we were driving on. We left Brno armed with close to 30 pages of printed directions and maps, so it wasn’t that we didn’t have the information that we needed to get to our different destinations. Instead, it was a case of too many cooks spoiling the broth. I sat in the back with the directions, trying to distinguish between a “slight” left and a normal left and practicing my addition to keep track of how many kilometers to our next turn. My mom sat in the front seat, bragging about her keen sense of direction and attempting to override the instructions that I was giving to Dan.

“No, I don’t think you should turn here.”

“Mom, the directions say to turn here.”

“Well, this turn just doesn’t seem right.”

“Mom, how would you know? You have never been here.”

“Well, I do have a very good sense of direction, you know.”

This is how it went every time; Dan and I straining to find the typically nonexistent street signs and my mom offering commentary on everything that we were doing. On top of all of this, Ben would occasionally yell out, “We are lost. Daddy, you screwed up. Turn left!” Needless to say, we have gotten lost a lot in Europe.

Eventually, we fired my mom. Her banishment to the backseat came after she insisted for fifteen minutes that we were heading south, while I insisted that we were heading west. When we discovered that I was correct, she refused to admit that she was wrong and, in Rainman-like fashion, stated that she was an “excellent driver” and had a very good sense of direction.

Now it was just Dan and I and things seemed to settle down. We navigated our way from the western side of Munich to the foothills of the Alps with little difficulty. It was at this point, however, that Dan and I experienced our marital meltdown. As we switch-backed our way over mountain passes, the directions became increasingly complicated. Slight rights, slight lefts, u-turns and distances that didn’t seem to conform to reality caused the collective blood pressure in the car to rise significantly. We zig-zagged across valley floors, missing our roads, stopping to ask for directions, slamming on the breaks to make our turns.

Finally, we got to within five kilometers of our hotel. We thought we were home free. Then, I read the next direction. “Take the exit.” What?! Which exit? What road? Isn’t there a name? Are we supposed to experience some sort of divine intervention? Will an angel appear to us and show us the way? Crap. When we got to where “the exit” was supposed to be, there was nothing. We continued driving, hoping to experience some sort of epiphany about what to do. No epiphanies. We hit the next town and knew that we had gone too far and we made yet another u-turn. We headed back, straining to find the road that would lead us to our salvation. It was at this point that Dan made the ill-fated decision to turn. I disagreed. He continued turning. I continued to disagree. He continued to turn. I insisted he stop. He continued to drive. You can see where this is heading. All I will say is, we did find “the exit” and we are still married.













It never ceases to amaze me how things that are so easy at home, like driving and finding road names, can be so difficult here. I guess that is what makes this whole “trip” such an adventure and, occasionally, such a pull-your-hair-out kind of misadventure.

Sightseeing, Spittlebip and Schnitte

As I said a couple of days ago, we didn’t just eat on this trip. We also managed to squeeze in quite a bit of sightseeing. In Salzburg, for example, we took a carriage-ride around the city in an effort to see a lot of sites without a lot of physical exertion. We were, after all, feeling particularly American that day. All five of us piled into a worn, open-top carriage pulled by two sturdy, bay horses. The driver asked us if we wanted information about the city, we said yes and he proceeded to tell us all about the sites in English that was so heavily accented he may as well have been speaking German. The horses settled into a gentle trot and Ben burrowed under one of the thick blankets and snuggled up to his grandma. Josh sat on my lap, cooing and smiling at anyone who made eye contact with him. We rode past Salzburg’s main cathedral, the smallest house in Salzburg, the oldest bakery in the city, important statutes and a row of buildings that were actually built into the face of one of the cliffs that looms over the city. Dan snapped photographs, mom looked for stores that sold schnitte (a layered German dessert with a name that produces many bad jokes and a taste that mom loves), Ben jabbered and Josh squirmed. The ride was lovely.

We did actually walk through parts of Salzburg. One evening, Dan and I went out on a bona fide date after the kids went to bed. We stopped in a cafe and had rich hot chocolates with unsweetened whip cream. We even talked about topics unrelated to our children. Then, we meandered through the empty streets of Salzburg. This was such a luxury for us. With two kids and no babysitters in the Czech Republic, Dan and I never get to meander. We always walk briskly, herding Ben away from trams, bicyclists, steep drop-offs or things that would be expensive if broken. We never really relax. On this night, though, we had no children, but we did have time. We window-shopped, gazing at candied fruits, glittering jewels, worn leather lederhosen, stylish dresses and painted Easter eggs. The rain that had slowly soaked us over the course of the day had switched to snow. Heavy, dense snowflakes patted softly on the umbrella that we shared and caught the light emanating from the street lamps. We walked through the twisting streets of the old-city, past neatly renovated buildings painted in pale pastel colors. It was a different way to see the city. We didn’t have a destination in mind or a goal to accomplish. We didn’t have to entertain anyone and we didn’t have a schedule to keep. Eventually, we did return to reality and our hotel room, but I have to admit, our little boys’ sleeping faces looked a little sweeter after some time away.

One of the places we enjoyed the most on our trip was the Deutches Museum in Munich. The Deutches Museum is the German version of the Smithsonian’s Air and Space Museum, with a lot of other technologies thrown in. To be honest, I probably wouldn’t have put it high on my list for things to visit if it hadn’t been for Ben. Ben is an engineer in the making. He has to know how things work. If someone can’t explain how something works, he makes up an explanation, complete with his own imagined vocabulary like “spittlebip” and “tinkler.” This made the Deutches Museum the Promised Land for Ben. The museum is filled with airplanes, boats, rockets, engines, motors, transformers, turbines and waterwheels, many of which have been bisected so that visitors can peer into their inner workings. For hours, we walked from exhibit to exhibit trying to provide detailed and somewhat accurate descriptions of how all of the contraptions spun, flew, sailed and produced. Intellectually, it was somewhat exhausting, but for Ben, it was thrilling. He obsessed over gears. He pushed buttons to test light-bulbs. He analyzed cockpits. He compared engines.

One of the things that impressed all of us was the lightning demonstration. In the electricity hall, there is a wire cage filled with gadgets that look like they would belong in the laboratory that created Frankenstein. At the back of the cage, a massive transformer, probably fifteen feet high towers over the demonstration. Pointed, steel rods hang from the ceiling as does a large sheet of what looks like plexiglass with a giant burn mark. A steel-framed ball rests on the floor. We were warned that the demonstration would be very loud, so I went into an adjacent room so that Josh’s infant ears wouldn’t have to take the brunt of the sound.

The man in charge of the demonstration dimmed the lights and suddenly a loud, crackling noise filled the rooms. I quickly covered Josh’s ears and looked up to see a bright, almost violet band of jagged light stretching between two rods. As quickly as they started, the light and sound stopped. Realizing that I was never going to be able to tell when a new sound was going to begin, I got out Josh’s winter hat with the ear flaps and put it on his head. He seemed a little perplexed about why he had to wear it inside, but being Josh, he just went with it.

After that initial burst of light and sound, the instructor spoke in German about what he was doing. I don’t speak German, but he must have said something like, “This is really dangerous and we probably wouldn’t be able to do this in the United States due to major liability issues. One of you would surely sue us for hearing loss even though you were warned and you are choosing to stand here and watch.” The demonstration lasted about ten minutes, and the instructor and his assistant created ever louder electrical wonders. At times, you could hear the machines humming, getting ready to release absurd amounts of energy that literally exploded in light and sound. By the time my mom, Dan and Ben met me in the other room, mom was ready to order a hearing aid.

The last leg of our trip took us to the Alps and if Dan and Ben ever stop barfing (both are sick right now), I will write about that. In the meantime, enjoy this preview picture.

Culinary Adventures

As I wrote at the end of yesterday’s post, Ben was hungry when we left the mine and we were more than happy to find a place for him to fill his empty body. To be honest, we spent a significant chunk of this trip eating. The Germans and Austrians aren’t known for their fine cuisine, but we managed to find plenty of food that we could choke down. One of our favorite restaurants was the Ratskeller. It was situated in the basement of the “new” (It’s actually 100 years old.) town hall in the center of Munich. The restaurant had many different rooms, each with a slightly different atmosphere. We ended up sitting in a large hall with high ceilings that were segmented into oak-trimmed arches. The plaster in the arches was decorated with paintings done in muted colors of reds, blues and browns and the lighting was dim, but warm. The tables were made of a dark oak and the benches were covered with cushions and pillows.

As soon as we sat down, our server provided us with English menus complete with pictures. German specialities poured from the pages: schnitzel, bratwurst, white sausages, fried potatoes, spaetzle and sauerkraut. My German genes were practically bursting from their chains with anticipation as I scanned the pages. I settled for some bratwurst, Dan for the sausage plate, Ben for noodles with sauce and my mom for another type of sausage.

The food was excellent, but what impressed me more was the way that the waitress treated our children. She was kind and patient with Ben as he barked out his order for pasta. She cooed over Josh and played with him as we struggled with our orders. When it came time for Dan to sign the credit card slip, she scooped up Josh and let him finger her earrings and tug on her cheeks. This treatment was not unique to the Ratskeller. Everywhere we went in Germany and Austria, children were welcomed with open arms. Servers brought us special plates, forks and spoons for Ben. They scrambled to find highchairs that could accommodate Josh. Other patrons of the restaurants smiled at Josh as he babbled and gently teased Ben as he interrogated them about whether or not they spoke English. It was so refreshing to be with people who did not treat our children as if they were the spawn of Satan.

Another “restaurant” that we thoroughly enjoyed was the Hofbraeuhaus. The Hofbraeuhaus is probably the most famous beer hall in the world. Everyday it serves literally thousands of liters of beer. We sat in the main hall of the brewery. We were there in the afternoon, so the drunkenness was at a minimum and the crowds were relatively limited. Both my mom and Dan ordered beers, while I got a Sprite (one of the bummers of nursing while on a German vacation) and Ben got an apple juice.

While we waited for our drinks, Ben and I walked over to listen to the traditional German quartet. The music reminded me of what we would hear on a carousel back home, with the steady, basey beat provided by the tuba and the cheerful, quick-paced melodies provided by the accordion and trumpets. Ben enjoyed the music, but didn’t understand why the musicians wouldn’t play his requests like “Wheels on the Bus.” Thankfully, the Germans stuck with what they new best.

When we got back to our table, the drinks had arrived. Dan’s beer came in a heavy, glass stein with the Hofbraeuhaus seal emblazoned on its side. It was a dark brew with thick foam and an extremely bitter taste. Dan liked it, but the one who who most desired a taste was Josh. As soon as Dan lifted the beer to take a drink, Josh’s hands shot up. He grabbed the edge of the mug and pulled with all his might, desperate for a drink. It was clear that he too was feeling his German roots.

While we did a lot of eating on this trip, we did manage a little sightseeing. Stay tuned for a post about the Deutches Museum, my mom’s politically incorrect threats and a carriage ride.