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. 

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. 

Surviving the German Winter Part II: Play in the Snow

This is part II of a four-part series on surviving the German winter. You can read part I here. 

Once the snow comes, the kids naturally want to play in it. My daughter has seen enough Christmas specials to know that as soon as the ground is white, all the neighborhood kids burst out the front doors, armed with sleds and cherry-red mittens. They make enormous snowmen with pipes and coal for eyes (I have never seen a three year old walking around with a pipe and and two lumps of coal, though I guess that's what they all did in the 50s when the Christmas specials were filmed) and toboggan down enormous hills. These are my memories as well. What I don't remember is the battle Armageddon my mother must have went though just to get three kids dressed for the winter. I'm struggling with just one.

It takes about seven and a half hours to dress your average three year for snow. Five of those is just getting her little fingers into those friggin mittens, but the rest consists of several pairs of tights, wooly socks over thins socks, hats not truly designed for children, water-resistant snow pants with zippers to bleed your fingers and the most incomprehensible pair of snow boots in the world (they look so simple, then you try to put her feet in them). Once my daughter is wearing enough layers that I could safely roll her down a mountain with a sled (don't worry, haven't tried it, no plans to), she removes her scarf from her lips and announces that she has to go potty.

With this news in mind, I teach my daughter three choice curse words, and frantically unbutton and unzip enough for her to do her business at the proper way in the proper place. By the time everything's ready to go, of course she's already soiled herself. I can now only sigh and check which of her many layers are salvageable and which need to go directly to laundry. My daughter, then, sees her shadow in the bathroom light and declares six more weeks of potty training. Or, I could just remember to let her empty herself before we hit the sleds.

Of course, we've managed to go out in the snow a couple times this winter. It's fun - watching a little girl discover how snow crunches under her little boot is a reminder of all that is good about life. But it only takes a couple of snowfalls to crush a few of your idyllic snow scenes, and this has much to do with the nature of snow itself. You really can't have it all. Snow that is powdery and good for sledding is rubbish for snowmen, and wet, heavy snow ain't up to snuff when it comes for sledding. The snow is the great decider of your activities, even as your daughter is screaming "I WANNA BUILD A SNOWMAAANNNNNN!!!" Nope! We're going sledding, darlin'! This is after we built a snowman that looked more like a six-inch dollop of whipped cream. Just like in the commercials.

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. 

Olympic Post

The closing ceremony is over. The medals have been lovingly packed away (sorry if the American team took so long... zing! Hollah!). I watched it. Like other sports, I loooovvve watching the olympics. I remember watching the '84 Olympics with my mom. Both of us were especially excited by the horse-jumping. As I grew up, I was dazzled by Carl Lewis and the original dream team and Michael Phelps and marathons and running and jumping and swimming and synchronizing! This Olympics was no exception. This Olympics was spectacular. I loved the variety - sports, countries, fans, scenery. Well done, everyone.

Here are a few post thoughts:

1. Keep all the sports. Keep that ever-expanding Olympic Leviathan consuming strange, wonderful sports from all five ringed continents. And why not? Basketball's popular, running is elemental, but why not include walking, synchronized swimming or handball? The fun part of the olympics is that the popular and the obscure meet on level ground (or water). The olympics isn't a closet to sort out the stuff that prevents you from finding your favorite socks. There's room for everybody in the party. Now, the impatient sourpusses who can't handle flipping between rhythmic gymnastics and field hockey might ask, where do we draw the line? I like the cigar test - if you can smoke a cigar while playing without it impeding your performance, then it's not a sport (sorry darts and poker - they show you on ESPN, but not the Olympics...).  But everything we might find boring (I find riding bikes in circles in the gym boring, but I can't deny it's a sport and the athletes are worthy - plus the moment when that old Brit came back and won and cried during the anthem... well, good stuff) or not fitting into our cultural understanding or looking silly.... I mean, the 50 km walking looks silly. Evidently, proper athletic walking technique involves shaking your hips in a sexy salsa dance style. But I've never seen a sport where so many people keeled over in exhausted. Well, maybe at band camp, but that always involved asthma and heavy brass instruments... But anway, there were 303 disciplines. Keep'em all... 
2. Speaking of different sports, how can we even talk about who's the best olympian all time? Folks can make they're case for Phelps, Bolt or dozens of people before them (maybe Bolt makes his own case - this seems to annoy some folks, but I like his Muhammed Ali showmansship - plus, behind the cocky act, he clearly takes joy in running like a cheetah). Apples, oranges, times and training. I wish we could watch Bolt could race Carl Lewis or Jesse Owens or Jim Thorpe on an even plane of modern training and technology. But we can't. Enjoy the present, remember the past. Know that this bar and blog conversation can't ever really be decided. 
3. On display - part of the profession for the athlete is being on display, and none more than the Olympics. This includes way those aerodynamic suits don't leave much to the imagination (not that I noticed... someone else told me). But I'm actually talking about the emotional (which requires looking up at their faces). Honestly, would you like to have millions voyeurs watching you at your job? Imagine if your last job interview were not only broadcast live all over the world, but it was analyzed ad nauseum by business experts, journalists, and comedians for the remaining night. Especially the part when you didn't get the job and you sat on a park bench sobbing like that poor Korean fencer who was gypped out of a spot in the finals due to a strange clock malfunction. Or you got the job and you celebrated by hurdling park benches like that hulking German guy who got gold in discus with Mo Farah's victory expression pasted to your face. Sure - they knew what they were getting into, but they're still human. This struck me especially when a German high jumper got 4th place for something like the third straight tournament. There, for all the world to see, she jumped up an down, tears in her eyes, screaming "I always get 4th! Always 4th! Always 4th" That hissy fit of raw frustration reminded  me of my own pathetic hissy fits, behind closed doors, usually alone or with someone who made a promise to God and me that includes the words "for worse." But I will say, come winter time, that I have a great pair of aerodynamic running tights. 
4. London - China's incredible, collectivist display at the Beijing opening ceremonies may have been astounding, but for whatever our many flaws, I much prefer the dynamic, multicultural West with its breathing room for movement, humor, song and spirit. Great vision, great games, and if I had money to spend (ha, hehhhhh....) I'd immediately do what your tourism offices is hoping I'd do. 

A Summer Fashion Proposal

I just visited weather.com, and it looks like some afternoon storms are cooling off the DC area. That being said, I felt nothing but sympathy for the residents of my former hometown, who have spent the last couple of weeks sweltering in the hundreds. Here in Germany, it's been in the 70s, 60s when cloudy (Sunday felt like winter in Florida).

The summer months are particularly tough on the men of Washington DC. Women business attire allows moderately short skirts and short-sleeve blouses. This attire can handle the mid-Atlantic heat. But the conservative business dress of the District mean that men, from Capitol Hill to K Street to Think Tanks, must enclose their sweaty necks in a tie wear a suit jacket Amazon-like conditions. Moreover, male business attire ensures that the energy-guzzling air conditioning units of every office, restaurant and government building will be running until every room could house a flock of penguins (with Morgan Freeman's soothing voice narrating their activities. Hey, I'd watch it).

So, with debt payment and spending buts pending in Washington, perhaps they should consider their AC bill, not to mention the sanity of any man who has to walk from his taxi to the Longworth House Office Building as if going through a sauna.

Once again, Japan is showing the way - not just in reliable automobiles and penalty kicks, but in hot weather business fashion. Facing a summer energy crisis after the Fukushima disaster, the Japanese government is encouraging their suit-wearing class get rid of the jacket and tie for a look that conservative-dress purists would deride as business casual. And, really, why not? What's so important about the convention of a long-armed suit and a piece of silk hanging in front of your shirt that you couldn't withdraw them for a season for the expressed purpose of everyone's felicity, not to mention comfort and less energy spending. It may even help politics. Perhaps the current fiscal debates would be more effective, not to mention more courteous, if President Obama and Speaker Boehner were wearing short-sleeve cotton button downs with a throat capable of breath.

Plus, everyone can put their suit and ties back on in October. And in January, to save energy, not to mention the heating bill, everyone can wear fashionable, colorful sweater vests.

Packing - It Helps You Enjoy Your Vacation Without Guilt

There’s something about America’s puritan work ethic that makes me feel guilty about vacation. Be it beach, mountains, Disney, Vegas, whatever, there's a little devil that sits on our shoulders telling us that we don’t deserve to relax, that the only people who deserve to relax are the handsome old people in the investment bank commercials who have clearly earned their lavish retirement on a Yacht in the Caribbean.

Fortunately, for those of us currently on vacation Austria, there’s an exercise that relieves the guilt. It’s called packing. Packing for a family makes daggum sure you earned your stay in the mountains. This is especially true if it's your first time taking baby on a vacation, and you’re aren’t exactly sure what you need. For example, we had to ask ourselves, “Will their crib be sufficient or should we bring the pack’n’play?” We brought the Pack’n’Play, happily, which we can shove in the darkest room in our holiday apartment.

When it comes to packing, my wife is management and I am labor. She thinks of every possible contingency and packs accordingly (which helps avoid my usual contingency: "How late is Target open? Is there a Target in Tirol?"), and I carry everything to the car like Atlas, except that I wear clothes, I don't have that much beard and none of our luggage is spherical, though that would be cool. Wisely, we have clothes and shoes for all sorts of weather, plenty of food, and lots of books (we’re both bookworms, and I’m a moody reader who needs options). Basically, we had just enough room in our Ford Focus for our necessities (yes, I said necessities) plus a family of three, squeezing our persons between briefcases, books and bananas (our daughter loves bananas).

Of course, it was the Ford that worked hardest out of all of us. Our car braved the twisty roads through the Alps weighed down like a Camel on which you shouldn’t throw a piece of straw. It handled like we had a full grown African rhinoceros seated next to our daughter. But the Focus truly was the little car that could, bless her, and she handled her duty with distinction.

But when we got their and unloaded, we, family and automobile, could rest in the mountains, as deserving as the retirees in the investment banking commercials.

The German Phenomenon of House Shoes

Walk into the front door of any German house, and you'll be confronted with shoes. Shoes upon shoes upon shoes. In my in-law's house, for example, there is a a shelf full if shoes - dress, crocs, Birkenstocks, hiking boots you name it - that goes all the way to the ceiling. It's on your right side when you walk in the front door, and it contains enough shoes to cover the feet of every football player in the AFC North. They sit in slots upon slots, sort of like the key-holders of an old-fashioned hotel.

You see, there's never a moment, especially for German men, when their feet are exposed to open air. That means wearing socks with sandals, and that means having different shoes for indoors and out.

I am, of course, a product of the great state of Florida. Whatever else that may mean, it also means that I love the flip flops. I love the moment when my feet are freed from the confines of shoes and socks and, naked as the day they were born, exposed to the earth's atmosphere. Need to go outside? Put on your flip flops and embrace the tan lines. Need to come in side? Kick off the flip flops if you want, but it's a pretty laissez faire attitude towards foot ware. Part of the thrill of getting home from work was always to free my feet from their prison of leather and cloth and feel the coolness of our home carpets.

This is also different than the Japanese custom, where any foot gear inside is verboten (to use a German term). In college, I had a Japanese study partner. Whenever she came to my college apartment (which at the time, I shared with two good friends), she would remove her sneakers and place them neatly upon our the illegible brown scratchy thing that passed for our welcome mat. She said she couldn't believe how we Americans would soil our floors by wearing our foot gear inside. I was worried our carpet would soil her otherwise clean feet. Of course, if we studied at her apartment, I would forget the rule and step like a clumsy barbarian, full shoe upon her silky, white, shampooed and conditioned floor. I would then meet an icy stare from my study partner and wondered if I hat kicked over some Japanese holy scripture-book. Then I would see the impeccably straight row of sandals and sneakers by the door and retreat to the front door to remove my foul sandals, sniffing like a punished puppy.

Here in Germany, it's not a matter of taking your shoes off, but it's about constantly changing your shoes. Whenever you come inside, you take off your outdoor shoes and put on your house shoes. Whenever you go out the back door, you take off your house shoes and you put on your garden shoes. A good German has the appropriate shoes at every exit, and appropriate house shoes waiting for them, perhaps more.

There are several varieties of house shoes. There's what we Americans would call bedroom slippers - warm cushy things to make February more liveable. Crocs are very popular here, both the name brand and a variety of imitations. They also double as garden shoes, but you're not supposed to have your indoor crocs be your garden shoes. But the most popular house shoes by far are Birkenstocks. Birkenstocks migrated to the United States on the feet of hippies, and millions of us like them for their comfort. But, weather permitting, we wear them everywhere, and without socks. After a couple of months, an American's Birkenstock sandals each have a foot imprint that perfectly matches the owner's foot for maximum comfort. That footprint is always so black that one wonders if the American's bathroom floor is made of coal.

Most Germans exclusively wear their Birkenstocks inside. Men always wear them with socks, as if their toes would fall off if given too much oxygen. Although I suspect the real reason here is hygiene. Keep in mind, if you wear socks with your sandals, you will be less likely to have feet that smell like a cattle farm at the end of the day - "cheese feet" is what the Germans call them.

And frankly, I'm a bit insecure because I don't know if I have the shoes to keep up. Sure, I have some bedroom slippers for the winter (somewhere), but if I put them on in the summer, my feet sweat like a jungle explorer in a cannibal's stew pot. I went and bought some generic crocs at Lidl (a store that must be the result of breeding Trader Joe's and Wal-Mart), but then I discovered that these shoes were good for painting the house, but I couldn't wear them anywhere else. I would need painting shoes (for good reason), garden shoes, outdoor shoes, and house shoes, not to mention other outdoor and indoor shoes for every entrance of the house. And this does not include your basic running shoes, dress shoes or hiking shoes. I think that, per year, the average German spends as much time changing shoes as Americans spend watching television (ok, maybe not that much).

In the coming weeks, I have to get to a store and get a couple more pairs of generic crocs and maybe some Birkenstock sandals. In the meantime, I'm still wearing my Gap sandals everywhere. The cheese feet of the loud American.