Learning to Enjoy

I read Peter A. Coclanis' article about Study Abroad's Seven Deadly Sins with a knowing smile on my face. Not because his description of youthful debauchery abroad is my own college/travelling 20-something experience, per se (I went to a party school, yes, but my social life looked more like this than Animal House. No regrets.), but I've worked with students ever since, often in international contexts, and I've seen less dramatic versions of his bad apples. What's more, as an American living abroad, I'm sensitive to whatever image we Yanks have whenever and wherever we trapse around in other countries. We can do better. So, as a thirty-something with two daughters who will soon enough be skipping off on their own youthful adventures, I want to encourage us parents to read and think, especially this last paragraph:

Mature students with purpose and dedication will generally achieve the kind of personal growth so often heralded by study-abroad boosters. Immature students will not, for these programs do not so much build character as reveal it. A foreign country isn’t the place for a childish 20-year-old to grow up, especially when representing an American university. Students and parents, take heed.

Now, mistakes will be made, and these mistakes are often the best teachers (and make the best bar stories later). I, too, internationally open, mature-looking, tame, can look back on my own cringe moments. But even if Coclanis' list of sins are popular enough to forgive years later in the community of shared, laughable regret (I mean, who wants to be the guy at a table without a story to share?), there are dangers beyond hangovers and cultural faux pas. Also, the over-consumption and irresponsible use of good things like drink, sex, and technology isn't confined to foreign campuses. We parents can become good teachers before the teachable moments pile up too high.

So, for those of us raising children in a world of inflating choice, this is a chance to return to some thoughts about excellence in pleasure. I'll take two examples: drink and technology.

I had a professor who suggested making the drinking age 16 and the driving age 18 (that's how it is here in Germany, by the way). His logic was, once you try to bike home drunk, you'll never be stupid enough to drink and drive. Well, drunkenness is not famous for logic, and I question whatever definition of progress neighborhoods full of sloshed sophomores on BMXs fulfills, but I think he has a point for a different reason. Wouldn't it make more sense for young people to learn to drink at home: legally and under the watchful care of adults who know what they're doing?

Moreover, what if alcohol appreciation was a required part of 11th grade rather than a rare elective college course for over-21s? What if they understood much earlier the complexities of a good beer or how wine compliments food? What if they learned at an earlier age to view alcoholic beverages (in Chesterton's immortal words) as a drink and nota drug, that limitations enhance enjoyment and addiction can be avoided. America's blossoming beer culture and wine industry are showing the way already, while our kids our exposed to nothing but Bud commercials. (Note: There's a 16-year old boy in Germany fighting the good fight. Do any American breweries have apprenticeship programs for high schoolers?) Yes, anyone should be able to decline this course due to religious or conscientious objection, and by all means follow your conscience and teach your children to do the same, but treating alcohol like dirty secret only to be revealed as a cheap drug in far-away frat houses isn't doing young people, society, or study abroad programs any favors. And, after all, excellence in pleasure means not needing to rely on any pleasure for your happiness. A student, thus prepared, might find themselves abroad in a culture where the sauce is forbidden and still have the capacity for an enriching and enjoyable experience without touching a drop.

The same thing could be said of technology. Coclanis would ban smart phones if he could. He can't, and I think that's a good thing, but we can help him by raising our children to use technology well, and even when we're disoriented by the tech world's ever-changing landscape. My six-year old is growing up in a world that befuddles me more with every new adaption. My early-adaptor friend Justin has been evangelizing SnapChat to us old fogies who still think Twitter is modern, and for my daughters' sake, I'm starting to listen.

For my sake, I'd rather not. The only reason I knew about SnapChat, or at least knew SnapChat was the latest thing, is that I give private English lessons to teenagers. When I struck up a conversation about social media (an ESL trick is to explore topics of interest to elicit conversation without being boring), I quickly learned that Facebook is for dads, SnapChat's where it's at, and that I needed a different conversation topic.

What I've seen of SnapChat doesn't appeal to me, but I can understand it's appeal to teenagers. The temporary videos, the switching graphics, the crazy editing - it's like a digital house of mirrors. It's a ceaseless barrage of crazy images, which contrasts with my love of words, glorious bare words that leave the rest to the imagination (at least the Onion understands me).  This carnival atmosphere might explain SnapChat's generation and personality gap. As Facebook's grown from a playground for students to an adult-centered shopping mall with political graffiti, it makes sense that the young people want to run off to the carnival and use technology for regret-free silliness. I watch all the movements and get queasy; I feel the same way when I'm at a real carnival and I see teenagers devour chilli-dogs before hopping on the whirl-a-rama.

But in a few teensy years, my daughters will be exploring the carnival themselves. It's helpful, then, if I also know what's out there, so that I can help them navigate these pleasures with excellence. I've had a lot of helpful conversation with other parents whose kids are already of smart phone age, and it is a challenge for those of us who grew up with AOL and Gateway computers. But it means a patient, loving engagement, not to spy, but to understand the world they're entering, and help them use it in a way that it doesn't use them.

The marketers and the adults are descending on SnapChat, so I figure by the time my kids are old enough it'll be passe and the carnival will have moved elsewhere. But it will be there, and I pray I'll be able to help them use it well.

Humans, learning, and morality are complex, so there's no guarantee that any of this will spell maturity in travelling twenty-somethings. Sometimes it takes a horrible mistake for us to actually learn, so it's not all hopeless. It's a worthy pursuit. Excellence in pleasure, in this world, means "walking in the light" as the Apostle Paul instructs us. Coclani's description of fleshy immaturity reminds me of another phrase from Paul, this time condemning: "their god is their belly." What other gods have we been invited to follow, day in and day out? Excellence in pleasure suggests there's another.

Germany vs. the USA - the Maternity Ward Edition

The main difference is the screaming. There's more of it in Germany.

Let me explain. My first daughter was born back in the good ol' US of A, while the second was born here in Deutschland, so I've gotten a front row seat to the birthing philosophies and practices of both medical systems.

In the United States, we pay good money for medical services, and for that reason, these medical services should be as painless as possible. This is, of course, the purpose of medical services, to painlessly prop up our bodies, regardless of condition, so that we can fulfil our purpose by getting back to work as soon as possible. Americans agree with classical economists with this purpose, that all things work together for the good of those who love profit and work hard according to its service. For this reason, Americans put great trust in profitable technologies to solve all our problems. Take, for instance, genetically modified food. Americans understand, and have seen irrefutable scientific evidence, that the only way to feed the ever-growing world population is to invest heavily in genetically modified foods, because what's natural has no way of keeping up with our industrial ways. This philosophy is also applied to birth. My German wife wanted to have a natural birth (we'll contrast the key German philosophy later), which was a novelty for all the midwives in the hospital. ("midwives" themselves were a novelty - what will those hipsters think of next?) Sure, the midwives were trained in the advantages of doing things naturally, but to actually have a woman in a hospital in America who wanted to be natural (and wasn't forced due to a speedy labor in the taxi cab) was exciting! Now, our daughter would be born on New Year's Day, and the hospital was full, perhaps because a number of families wanted their children to be the first born in the New Year (we didn't win that competition). But, there wasn't the kind of screaming you see in the movies. All the other moms sat placidly in their beds with needles in their spines, awaiting the child emerge with minimal resistance. From the silence, you'd think they were all waiting in those transport capsules from Alien. The screams from our end of the maternity ward must have been disconcerting.

Of course, for all our technology, no one noticed that our daughter was "sunny-side-up", i.E. facing the wrong way, until she was almost out. Moreover, and this is serious, a huge hole in America's healthcare system is postpartum care for mothers. Sure, we have all the appropriate vaccines and follow-up visits for the baby, good on-sight training and support groups for those who have trouble breast feeding... But rebuilding the woman's body through support and exercise is foreign to our system, yet it's such a boon to a woman's health, family, and happiness. Postpartum exercises is nothing but yoga for the yuppies who can afford it. Changing this seems like a pro-woman, pro-family, pro-life kind of policy we could all agree on.

Superior mother-care aside, Germany still has its own quirks. In Germany, medical service is almost an embarrassing necessity, sort of a sell-out. We have friends who send their daughter in our local "forest" kindergarten, where the little tikes forage around in the freezing rain and all the crafts involve tying sticks and leaves together with twine, and this is much more natural and therefore better than doing anything in a building. I'm surprised that they don't have forest hospitals, where patients lay on piles of leaves and surgery is performed with sharpened sticks, because it's natürlich. The word natürlich has a deeper, richer meaning than the English word "natural." It harkens back to a nobler time where we weren't so reliant on tablets and mobiles and shots and clothes, and people weren't so obsessed with bourgeois notions like pain avoidance or morality rates. Natürlich is better. Take, for instance, genetically modified food. Germans understand, and have seen irrefutable scientific evidence, that the only way to feed the ever-growing world population is to stop any and all investment in genetically modified food and go back to doing food the natürliche way that has fed mankind through the ages. Nonetheless, Germans, like everyone else, want to live and be comfortable, so they begrudgingly accept medical technology to keep us alive and warm and comfortable (gemütlich, which is almost as an important natürlich over here - if you have a product that can manage to be gemütlich and natürlich, believe me, it'll sell well here - but many things in Germany seem to be a struggle between Natürlichkeit and Gemütlichkeit). As having a baby is a natural process, however, Natürlichkeit trumps Gemütlichkeit, as we could tell during our hospital visit when the midwives (standard-issue over here) bragged about their hospital's low rate of epidurals. They went on to cite statistics about the horrifyingly high rate of epidurals by those snaggle-tooth, hill-billy American women who, for some backwards reason (probably involving fast food and a general lack of discipine), are reluctant to embrace the immense, natürlich, pain Mother Nature has ordained for them. Hence the screams. When we were waiting for my wife's labor pains to get going (no drugs, of course, only the help of the cocktail, which was sehr natürlich), we heard the mom ahead of us screaming like she was going through an exorcism. Oh, but in Germany, my wife got a hot tub to sit in during the process, so I guess there was a little Gemütlichkeit after all.

After the birth, however, the advantages of Natürlichkeit are clear. Our basic insurance covered standard midwife visits and, as I write this, my wife is at her postpartum gymnastics class, rebuilding and restrengthening her body with peer and professional support. Both systems, of course, helped bring a beautiful little girl each into the world and so for them, through all the quirks, I give thanks.

Intercultural Advice for Germans Who Coach U.S. National Soccer Teams

Now that world soccer is taking a break from club competition for a new round of national team matches, I thought I'd apply my well-honed intercultural expertise to the spat between U.S. National Team coach Jurgen Klinsmann and Major League Soccer commissioner Don Garber. You see, recently, the MLS lured U.S. soccer stars Michael Bradley and Clint Dempsey back home to the good ol' U.S. of A. from some respectable European outfits (Roma and Tottenham, respectively).

Coach Klinsmann, who (as you know) is from Germany, raised concerns about his marquee players moving from the traditional power houses in English Premier League and the Italian Serie to  the U.S. Market. In a recent interview, he said that "it's going to be very difficult to keep the same level that they experienced at the places they were. It's just reality. It's just being honest."

Such honesty didn't sit well with the MLS brass, and Garber called his comments "personally infuriating." Now, Garber's "infuriation" may be due MLS branding worries, or perhaps about the perception that the U.S. National Team and MLS should work hand in hand to build U.S. soccer, but there could also be an intercultural communication issue at play. Klinsmann's comments were quite direct, and we Americans can have a hard time German directness. Now, as a Southerner, I grew up in a culture where you learn to give the bad news with the least direct way possible. For example, say I'm wearing a hideous, tacky tie. The German response would be: "That tie is ugly and you should be ashamed for leaving the house with it. It doesn't help that you're a unattractive person to begin with."
The American response: "Wow, that is a colorful tie you got there! I LOVE it (really), but I think the establishment requires that you wear a tie with one color, so why don't you try a navy blue."

Therefore, I've collected a list of sentences that Klinsmann could use to talk to players about their MLS careers while avoiding further infuriation.

(Note: For the sentences to work, you need a continuous smile. Also, practice flashing your eyes at every stressed syllable. Practice in a mirror as necessary.)

• "It's so GREAT that you're playing Sporting Kansas City next week! You know, wouldn't it also be fun to play Chelsea or AC Milan?" 
• "The MLS is the best league in North America!"
• "I mean, the MLS competition is great, but the quality is just an inchy, squinchy bit lower than some of the European leagues. Just an inchy, squinchy bit." (Sip your sweet tea and smile)
• "Oh, you're leaving the English Premier League? It must be the weather..."
• "Oh, bless your heart!" 
• "What a wonderful league you're moving to! I need to refresh my drink." (Then walk away)

I hope this helps.

These Sweaters Don't Run

The Wall Street Journal wonders if the new Under Armour suits are responsible for Team USA's disappointing speed skating run in Sochi. My problem with the suit (since you asked) is its lack of patriotic fervor. I mean, the Dutch are cleaning up the event, and they're wearing Netherlands orange spandex you can see from space. Meanwhile, the Stars and Stripes are wearing uniforms that conspicuously lack both. They're black with a silver crotch - neither color's on the flag. I know black's probably back to being the new black, but really, they all look like cyclist ninjas.

Look at the Dutch or the Russian home team - they're wearing their colors with pride at every event! They love their countries, and you see it a ski jump away. Good for them! We're dressing our athletes like America's out of style.

You're already thinking of the exception: Those fantastic, yes fantastic! opening ceremony sweaters. Don't like the sweaters? Well, if you don't like Gramma, apple pie, and Abraham Lincoln, that's your problem. I love the sweaters, and I hope Under Armour is paying attention to those who can do it busy style. (We know from those University of Maryland football unis that they an do patriotic) I think red and white stripes down those long, skater legs would be a start. Some other suggestions:

• Would it be against the rules for US ski jumpers to wear American flag capes?
• I guess all the figure skaters look smashing in their own right, but what an Uncle Sam Suit? Or better yet, George and Martha Washington for the doubles. 
• Can we design skier or bobsled helmets that look like star-spangled cowboy hats?
• ...and ice skates on cowboy boots. 

Frankly, if you can't enter the sports arena like Apollo Creed in the first Rocky, well, I don't want to root for you. 

Viva la Denglisch!

Professor Walter Krämer, his German Language Society, and "the Majority of Germans" are "annoyed" with Denglisch, "the superfluous use of English junk,"which they see as "contempt for their language." Some Denglisch is worse than others, though, according to the professor.

"Our society, which has 35,000 members, is not against foreign words being used in German - even English ones. We have no objection to using fair, interview, trainer, doping, and slang. 

"We do not hate foreign words. Most of our board members speak foreign languages and two of our members probably speak better English than any American. One was a pilot for a US airline."

However,

"We have a problem with words such as event, highlight, shooting star, outfit which are used to glorify the everyday and the banal. This drivel shuts off many Germans, who do not know these English words from their own language.  

"I am often asked for a statement on a certain subject. I tell those who ask that I do not give statements. If they asked me using a German word it would be a different matter. I will give an Aussage."

I hope Professor Krämer and his cohorts have developed a smart phone (or should it be, Klugtelefon?) app that clearly delineates the approved English words from dirty, dirty Denglisch so the next time some German office manager says "livestream," her employees will know whether they must scowl with annoyance or smile with acceptance. Everyone, you'll want to make sure you get your point across, so be sure to practice your scowl. (Ok, now scowl! Yes, that's it!) 

In the meantime, I have started the perfect grassroots organization to fight scowl with scowl: The Society for the Advancement of Denglisch (SAD). 

Yes, now Denglisch has its own society, with the motto: "why confuse yourself with thirty different words when highlight covers it?" Yes, the Society for the Advancement of Denglisch has 35,001 members (just sayin'), from business colleges, marketing departments, and private television stations all over Germany. We always meet at the the McDonald's in the train stations of major metropolitan centers all over Germany. Every week, we hold Denglisch lectures on such topics as "Hollywood's Role in Shaping German Culture," "Improve Your Local Economy with Starbucks," "Why Is It that Everyone Here Loves Cowboy Films?" and, my favorite, "Denglisch: The Only Way to Impress International Elites." 

A major project we SAD-folks are working on is the next official round of German words to Anglicanize. Here's some of the words on the dock:

1. Kindergarten - I mean sure, we used to even say Kingergarten back in the states, but that was before we came up with PLAYSCHOOL! I mean, how cool of a word is playschool! Soon, German politicians will fret about whether or not there's enough playschoolplätze for everyone age 3 - 6. 
2. Fußball - the word football is already taken to mean American football, so the only option left is to call Fußball by its proper name: soccer. 
3. zurück - do you really need all those syllables and consonants when you can just say back?
4. Glück - The land of thinkers and poets, huh? Well any armchair thinker or poet knows there's a difference between happiness and luck. Yet they have one word for the both! It's confusing. Replace Glück with luck or happiness, as appropriate. 
5. der, die, das, den, dem, des - Please replace with the word the. You know the reason. 

We SAD folks are already excited to see the new changes take effect! And we'll keep scowling until know German sentence, no matter where they place their verbs, isn't seasoned with a beautiful Anglicanism.

Oooo, now scowl again. Yes! That's it! 

These Jets Are Lagged

"I used to be better at jet lag." I've been saying this to anyone who asks about my Christmas holiday in Florida. I've rocked back and forth between the US and Germany since university, and it's true. I could handle it. I could handle it better than most of my peers. I remember how on one summer trip to Germany, so many of my pitiful cohorts slouched like war refugees on Deutsche Bahn while I stoically willed wakefulness and sleep at their proper time upon my compliant body. Several days later, I was chipper as a springtime squirrel while others were still falling asleep before dessert.

Not anymore. I can will nothing. Instead my hands, feet, and head are tethered to a timezone six hours away, watching football, avoiding public transportation, and eating large, fatty meals just before bed. The sun, wintery and distant as it is now, has no effect on me. It sits on the horizon, I sit in my living room, and we ignore each other like bored roommates. I sleep at my body's command. This could be mid-sentence in a conversation with my mother-in-law, or while chewing a piece of toast, or while typing something up so that my head hits the keyboard like this: 8iuy65rfd

What changed? Well, two things.

First, my body is aging. Now, whenever I say this, anyone older than me points out that I ain't seen nothin' yet. And that's true. I'm not old; I'm not even middle aged. I will be some day, Lord willing, but not yet. Nonetheless, I'm no longer that cock-sure traveling college student. There are things I could do a decade ago that my aging body just won't play anymore:

Me: "I'm going to sleep in."
Aging body: "This is your 7:00 wake-up call!"
Me: "That chili-cheese dog looks delicious! I'm going to eat it."
Aging body: "Of course you are, you contemptuous glutton. And for the next few days, you're going to feel as if someone poured cement in your intestines."
Me: "I'm going to run ten kilometers!"
Aging body: "And your joints are going to HATE you."
Me: "I'll put some ice on it. It'll be fine!"
Aging body: "...in about three weeks."
Me: "Jet lag doesn't phase this traveler! I'm not going to fall asleep!
Aging body: "Zzzzzzzzz"

I hear it's only downhill from here.

But age isn't the only reason I'm suddenly a jet lag failure. After all, my dad beat jet lag well into middle age with the right combination of tablets, wine, and airline pasta (WARNING: Do not attempt without first consulting your physician - especially the airline pasta part). The other reason is, of course, a small child.

Yes, for the past four years I've been traveling with a carry-on that I can't stow in the overhead compartment. No traveling parents, no airplane sleep for you. You are there to feed, change, walk, and entertain the passenger capable of throwing herself into a temper tantrum somewhere over the Atlantic. And when you land, your schedule will not abide by actual sunshine, but by your little sunshine. And when you say, "we should go to sleep," she'll say "neither of us can sleep, so let's play princess ponies," and you will smile and neigh like playing princess ponies is what you've wanted to do every since you bought your plane tickets.

So, for the parents of young children, jet lag is not something to be willed away, but to be endured like recovery from surgery, slowly, until a week later, you notice yourself rising with the sun again.

Glogg and Want

For Christmas Eve, I made Swedish glogg. My parents' Swedish neighbor used to make Swedish glogg, being that she is Swedish and everything, and she brought it over to their house the past couple of Christmases. But this Christmas, she was in Sweden, where I imagine she's wore an immense wool sweater and a viking helmet and while serving glogg in jeweled goblets around a 30-log fire in her father's dining hall, so I decided to step in. For those of you who don't know, Swedish glogg is basically mulled wine, except when you live in a place as cold and dark as Sweden, mulled wine isn't enough. You need to add something stronger to help it go down. The recipes vary, but I used port, rum, and vodka. (my recipe said to use brandy instead of the vodka, but a true chef knows how to improvise, especially when there's no brandy in the cupboard) It's a a witches brew, Nordic style, wine, port, spice and liquor, threatening a nasty hangover to the less responsible, but it's delicious. And mine was too.

So, after the Christmas Eve lessons and carols, we feasted. Not just glogg (just glogg, and you won't be able to find the front door, believe me!), but Russian meat pies (my parents' Russian neighbor was still in Florida), my mom's ham biscuits, my wife's salad: I feasted and I was full. Too full, perhaps, but it was hard not to be.

I wanted it. I wanted all the food. I wanted to brew a successful pot of glogg, and I wanted the rave reviews that I received. I wanted to sit with my family, and open presents with them in the morning. I wanted to see every muscle on my daughter's face expand into delight when I told her that she would get presents tomorrow. I wanted to watch her open her gifts, read through her new books, and line up her new princess figurines in a perfect row on her grandmother's shelf. I wanted Florida sunshine on the darkest night of the year, original Toll House chocolate chip cookies, and my wife's kiss.

I got all these things and more, but part of adulthood has been knowing that want is never complete. You get exactly what you want for Christmas, you're thankful, you revel, you play, and then you realize life's still the same, the same tensions and humor and angst are still there, unresolved. So I temper my wants, allow fantasy to dance in front of me without taking any of it seriously, and learn to work and create and enjoy the moment when the steam circles my nose, wine, liquor, sugar, spice pour over my tongue like an escaped drop of heaven.

It lingers, and now my glogg is a memory that I can't completely place, and I'll go about with my family and friends making more memories, hoping that I'll still carry the best ones for a long time. Happy melancholy, I guess, but it's also I reminder of where so much of our want points to in the first place, how the Author who first turned water to wine uses these desires to point back to him, to remind us that all we want for Christmas was given at the first one.

Surviving the German Winter Part IV: Temptation

This is part IV of an award-winning*, four-part series on surviving the German winter. You can read part I here, part II here, and part III here. 

Remember your New Years resolutions? New Year, new you and the rest of it? Remember how through the harmonious combination of diet and exercise, you were going to sculpt your body into something that, come summer, will cause traffic accidents outside your house as you flex in your living room with the window open? If you've managed to keep them until now, then let me say this: respect. So many of your comrades have fallen victim to Jack Frost. It's a sick irony that New Years' resolutions are made in the dead of winter. Winter is no season to avoid chocolate. Winter is no season to ride your bike three times a week. You'd be lucky if you can brave the cold enough to get from your office to a fitness studio.

Now don't get me wrong. I've managed to work out during the winter. For a few moments when I step out into sub-zero temperatures to go jogging, I feel like a superhero. I don't feel like a superhero, because I move with superhero strength (nope). I feel like a superhero because winter running tights are the closest I get to wearing a superhero costume in public. If I could find them in patriotic blue with red briefs, I'd be even closer. Mercifully, they're black. The idea is that while running, no one has to see me in them for more than a few moments. Besides, all the Germans wear exercise tights while exercising. Anything less form fitting would be unnatürlich.

***
A brief aside on exercise fashion. When we were back in the States for Christmas, I couldn't help notice how many women wore exercise tights for non-exercise purposes. In the grocery store or around town, the uniform was as follows: exercise tights and tennis shoes (both perfectly clean with no trace of sweat) with a stylish, semi-professional shirt and perfectly placed hair and make up. It was puzzling for these ever-europeanizing eyes. The look suggested, 10K on the bottom, business casual in the middle, job-interview on the top.

***
Ok, winter exercise. Things were going well until one frosty day, I sought to prove I wasn't a Warmdüscher and went running on one of the few forrest paths that wasn't salted. There was only one minor fall, but the awkward running on hard, hard ice was enough to give me a slight tear in the achilles and a week's limp. The doctor gave me some of that magical Chinese tape that all the soccer players are wearing, but the incident was still demotivating. Superheroes don't get small tears thanks to ice and bad form.

I am back to running - carefully - but temptation is much harder to avoid.

This is how it goes: I squeeze my body into my exercise tights and head for the front door when I hear something in the kitchen. It's a voice singing "Baby It's Cold Outside" the way Nora Jones sings it. What is it? Oh, don't play the curiosity card. I know dagum well what it is. It's that Swiss chocolate bar that I was supposedly saving for the moment my ambitions were realized. It's supposed to be my, my reward, for crying out loud! Well... some things deserve a reward. Something like thinking about going running in the sleet. (Big eyes. Pouty face) Just one. little. chocolaty. square. Where's the harm in one tiny little square? Besides, I'm an American! A free person, using my agency to maximize my utility! Why do I need to conform to puritan notions of nutrition? I can have a little taste - just a taste - if I want. Who's going to judge me? If I eat, say one row of squares, I mean, I could devour the whole chocolate bar, but what's the harm in one, harmless row of squares? I mean, baby it's cold outside, and I, frankly, could use a little comfort in trying times (like January or February). I deserve to be comforted, and I don't see why you should judge me!

But what's this? No... Some how, my chocolate bar has found a boy chocolate bar and multiplied. There's a good dozen Swiss chocolate bars that inexplicably found their way into the secret corners of our kitchen. Dark. Milk. White. Hazelnut. Minty. Oh, and Marzipan! No prejudice, just the entire variety of chocolate experience in one snack drawer. I mean, I have no choice but to try them all. It's my duty as a connoisseur to know, to understand all of the tastes! I could write a blog about it, too, and wasn't that another one of my New Year Resolutions? It won't be more than two or (in extreme circumstances) three squares each, and, yes, I know that will all add up to more than one chocolate bar, there will still be plenty left to share with my wife and daughter, provided they come home soon. Speaking of my daughter, I know the packet of gummy bears is her reward for successful potty training, but... she won't notice if a few are missing. You can't accuse me of taking candy from a baby - she's over three! Baby was so a year and a half ago. Oh, and what is that smell? Why, did the oven just give birth to cinnamon rolls? Two or three, while they're fresh. I shouldn't eat too much. After all, I intend to pop open a hard earned Hefeweizen at the end of the day, so I need to save room.

...yeah...

The worst thing you can do for your New Years Resolution is lock yourself in from the blizzard surrounded by candy and beer. Just don't do it. Instead, pack your winter stocks with tomato juice, herbal tea, mandarin oranges, walnuts and whole-grain bread. Also, don't go running when your belly is full of chocolate. And, don't run on the one path in Germany that isn't salted. Take it from me.

*I gave myself the award for best series published on the blog in February. 

Back in the US of A

My daughter must think Florida is a tropical Christmas land. We harked the herald in the Sunshine State last year, and we're back again, novelty German presents in tow for another round of palm tree cheer. The same houses on my parents street have the exact same decorations around their palm trees. Yup, my daughter has no proof that Florida ever removes its Christmas kitsch. Come to think about it, neither do I.

As I write this, Germany's under a blanket of snow and will likely remain that way through the Yuletide season. We, however, spent the day on a beach just north of Naples, Florida, worrying about getting sunburned. Sure, I know you're supposed to dream of a white Christmas. Anyone who has lived in Florida for more than three years might dream of a white Christmas until they actually (re)experience one. Then they realize that snow never shows up without cold and darkness and then "In the Bleak Midwinter" becomes the appropriate carol. Enjoy your hot cocoa folks, but I'm happy to pop open a cold one while soaking up the vitamin D this December. "Snow on snow on snoooowwwwww....."

Of course, coming back to America is a reminder of the things I miss and don't miss. Here are some back-in-the-US-of-A observations, in no special order:

1. Patriotism - "the American flag!" squeals my daughter from the back seat of the car at pretty much every traffic light. Now, I'm doing my duty to teach her to wave the flag and smile (She's not quite old enough for the "Fifty Nifty" song, but she'll get there. If you don't know what the "Fifty Nifty" song is, ask your American friend), but sometimes you forget how much patriotism you can fit in a square block. The used car lots are surrounded by so many flags you'd think the bones of some hallowed president were buried under the Toyota Tundras. Of course, I was proudly patriotic when I went to see Lincoln. When I found out about the film a couple months ago, most of my German friends gave me strange looks when I got all giddy. I loved the film (Daniel Day Lewis is worth the price of admission), though something in me, planted by almost two years on European soil, rebelled in silent protest whenever the film became too sentimental. 
2. Trader Joe's - It's good to see you Trader Joe's. Thank you for opening in Florida just down the street from our little vacation condo. The chips, salsa, bean dip, peanut butter, and various American craft beers were just like old times. Of course, this time around I'm less impressed with the fact that you have Rittersport. 
3. Fashion - Everyone knows day-to-day American fashion is more casual than day-to-day European, but it's always a small culture shock when you actually see it, and I come from a part of Germany that's not exactly a world fashion capital. But wow, it's Christmas and the gym clothes are out! You can't waive an American flag without hitting someone in yoga pants, gym shorts or tights. Speaking of tights, I had the strange experience of being startled by body openness coming back from Europe. Somehow, between the time I left two years ago and Advent 2012, tights transformed from something women wore under skirts to an appropriate trousers alternative. Walking through the Atlanta airport, I thought that I had stumbled into the locker room at the local ballet. The times they are a'changin'. In any case, I take full advantage of America's casual attitude combined with Florida's pleasant weather. No, I'm not ready for tights yet (unless I'm running in the winter time) - I still feel a continental need to wear something that requires a belt when I go anywhere. But man, hello flip flops! I wear them in Germany too, though I get judgmental stares in the supermarket, because in Germany sandals combined with socks, are indoor-only attire. But flip flops are to Floridians what leather loafers are to Italians. Wear them all the time. Do you feel that breeze, feet? This is America. This is Florida. This is freedom. 
4. Plastic bags - Good gravy, America, do we really need to use so many plastic bags!? If we stacked up the plastic bags we've used since Thanksgiving we could probably get back to the moon. The lady at Target will double your plastic bag if you buy a pack of gum. The Germans have the good sense to charge for them. Everyone goes to the store armed with baskets and cloth bags, not just the types who pack their NPR totes with arugula. I remember when a plastic bag tax was introduced in DC  - people cried out as if they were being forced to go to the dentist. But it seems to have worked. Let's cut back, folks. 
5. Southern hospitality - Southern hospitality, oh I've missed you. I didn't even realize how much I missed you. We all love to feel welcome, but as a parent, you hope for a special place in heaven for those who welcome your child. This was especially true when we touched down in Atlanta to hit customs before our connecting flight to Orlando. Few people are happy to see a child in an airport, but the Atlanta airport staffers delighted at the sight of a tired, curly-haired almost-3-year old in our umbrella stroller. I near' thought they were going to invite us in for a glass of sweet tea. And it wasn't the whole smile-with-your-mouth-not-your-eyes plastic hospitality you sometimes get. The good folks in the ATL were happy to see us. We felt welcomed.