Horb Wandertag / Hiking Day in Horb

Yesterday afternoon I decided to get off my lazy summer holiday butt and go for a walk around our little town. The weather was perfect - gray, threatening clouds, violent, mosquito-killing downpour right at noon, tiny fleeting bits of blue sky here and there, and a mass of dark, wet clouds over the Black Forest heading our way - so I grabbed my big camera, an umbrella, a sweatshirt (it's August, for Pete's sake!) and headed out.

I parked at the Bahnhof (train station), which is still the only place I've ever parked in Horb, and meandered into town. I brought my GPS tracker with me because my aim was to head up a big hill following a Kreuzweg ("cross way/path", or stations of the cross walk) for a nice view of Horb, and I wanted to see how far that is and how high the hill is. Afterwards I discovered that I walked 3.5 km. I'm pretty sure a km is about 10 miles, or 12 when walking uphill. Since everything from the Bahnhof is uphill, I figure I walked more than 35 miles during those two hours.

I thought I'd take you along on the journey with pictures..

Below is a view of Horb from the Rauschbart Biergarten, which is a 45-minute walk from our house. We live in a tiny village "up here", and Horb is down in the valley below, nestled on the Neckar River. This picture is from a few years ago, but the view hasn't changed.

Standing near the Bahnhof, one looks up to the Stiftskirche Heilig Geist and the colorful houses along the Marktplatz, which is behind the houses in this view. The tower to the left of the church is the Schurkenturm, or Rascals' Tower, which was used as a jail for a number of years.

Wow! I think I can take an artistic photo from here! Ok, not so much. But this shows the Neckar from the Christophorusbrücke (St. Christopher's Bridge), which takes one over the river from the Bahnhof and into town.

On the other side of the Christophorusbrücke is this sculpture on the wall of an apartment building. This is St. Christopher, patron saint of travelers on long journeys (among others). He is  recognizable in that he is usually depicted with a walking staff, walking through water, carrying the Christ child on his shoulder. There is also a painting of him on the facade of the Stiftskirche, which we'll see shortly.

This is an area called Klein Venedig (Little Venice) because of the houses lining the Neckar canal. The little white chapel at the top of the hill in the background is my destination today.

I've already written about the scandalous red building shown in the photo to the right. The large building next to it is the Hoher Giebel, or High Gabel, formerly a trading or merchant house of a wealthy local family. Today this 7-story, 25-meter high Fachwerk building houses the municipal music school.

This is the Gaistor, on the bank of the Neckar. It's a private residence now, but it was once a gate into the city, which was surrounded by an imposing wall. Before the Christophorusbrücke was built, there was a smaller bridge over the Neckar at this site, so this was the main entrance into town for those coming from the other side of the river.

There's a very cool public playground here as well, with fun things to climb and play on for kids of all ages.

This Hapsburg lion tops the Marktbrunnen, or Market Fountain, one of three Renaissance fountains in town. With his left paw he holds a shield showing the crests of Hohenberg (at his left paw) and Austria (under his right paw), and in his right paw is a sword. Horb was ruled by the counts of Hohenberg (a noble Swabian family) from about 1300 to 1806, though in 1381 through the bankrupt and heirless Count Rudolf III a good portion of the Hohenberg lands - including Horb - came under Austrian rule.

Here we see St. Christopher again, on the East-facing wall of the Stiftskirche Heilig Geist. The building of the original gothic church began in 1314, it was expanded in the 14th and 15th centuries, and all but the choir burned to the ground in the city fire of 1725. It was rebuilt in 1730 in baroque style and is currently undergoing renovations.

From the Burggarten (castle garden) just beyond the church one can get a good look at the Schurkenturm, and here you see the bell tower of the Stiftskirche just behind it.

At this spot was once a Burg (castle or fortress), built around 1233 by Count Palatine Rudolf II, called Burg Herrenberg or Burg Hohenberg. The ruins of the castle were torn down along with five city gates in 1836, and only the Schurkenturm and bits of the foundation are left.

After climbing up to the Burggarten, I am now about to drag my sorry carcass up this hill to the Ottilienkapelle (St. Ottilia's Chapel). This is the Kreuzweg. You walk up this hill, passing along the way the twelve stations of the cross, where I'm guessing you pause and reflect if you are among the devout and pious, or the less-than-fit.

One of the nice things about living in such a small community is that one can take a walk like this and bump into no other people.

This is the fourth station: Jesus begegnet seiner Mutter (Jesus meets his mother).

I felt a bit of a dolt being winded, starting to sweat, and wondering if it would be worth it, when it occurred to me that Christ walked a longer and harder road than this to be nailed to a cross and bleed to death over what I am quite sure was more than three hours. And I'm not even religious!

Was it worth it? I'd say it was. It's not the most gorgeous view I've ever seen, but it's nice to be surrounded by nature, peace, and questionable weather.

At the top of all mountains and many hills in Germany (especially those with a Kreuzweg leading to the top) there is a cross. Christianity and religion in general is a big part of Germany's culture, history, tradition, art, and architecture. That's not to say that churches are full on Sundays or that people make visible displays of their beliefs through posters, bumper stickers, or social media. I've never heard someone say, "I'll pray for you" in German, nor would any German say, "God bless Germany." Christianity is all around for people to take it or leave it, ignore it or appreciate it.

It's difficult to get a good photo of the Ottilienkapelle, but here it is. Behind me is the Kreuzweg. The Ottilienkapelle was built in 1431 as a pilgrimage stop, though it has seen plenty of renovations since then.

St. Ottilia is the patron saint of good eyesight, which explains why local literature says many suffering from eye ailments have made a pilgrimage here.

There you see one of the summer storms that dumped on the villages on the other side of the valley. I was sitting here in the rain as well, but it didn't last long.

From up at the Ottilienkapelle I could see my car, 17 miles away.*
Now it's time to head back down and go to the store for some bread and wine.
*Yes, I'm exaggerating.

On the way down I snapped one more picture of the Marktplatz in Horb, which is really quite disappointing. The painted building is the Rathaus (town hall), and that's nice, but otherwise the Marktplatz is just a cobblestone road on a hill. No street cafes, no nice places to sit, few trees, and cars park all along it as well, destroying photo opportunities of old buildings.




So that was my strenuous and solitary walk yesterday. Every time I go for a stroll in and around Horb I learn more about my adopted town, and one day soon I should be able to give a decent guided tour to visiting friends. Is it worth a day trip just to see Horb? It's not on the scale of a city like Esslingen, but if you're here anyway or passing through, it's a lovely little town with enough history and unique buildings to make a tour interesting.

Why YOU should be an Expat

Last winter I dedicated a blog post to my son to let him know what he could look forward to during a 2-week visit here, and today I dedicate this post to my daughter. She's 21, entering her final year of college, studying for the GREs, and pondering which grad schools she wants to apply to. Luckily she also knows me well enough to know that I'm not pressuring her, but saying this is an option and something to consider. I want to tell her why I think she should BE AN EXPAT!

You're young.

Most of the expat bloggers I've communicated with or have read about are closer to your age than mine. Do it while you're still young and free enough to be able to take chances and do something daring!

You CAN speak German.

I know you often feel like you can't, but you can. Besides, the only way for your language skills to grow is by living in a country where they speak that language. And if you choose some other country, like Italy, for instance, you'll learn that language, too, because that's who you are. There are plenty of expats in Germany who know less German than you do.

You will be challenged every single day.

This is the big one. I can think of no better reason than this. Daily intellectual challenges are not for everyone, but I think you'll get bored if you're not challenged. People will challenge you. The language will challenge you. Being away from what you know will challenge you. Simple, everyday tasks will challenge you.

Travel opportunities

You know that the life of an expat doesn't automatically mean jet-setting around the world at every whim. But with planning and saving, it is not out of the realm of possibility to spend a long weekend in Paris, a few days in Rome, or hop up to England or - better yet - Scotland. A quick check shows me a flight from here to London is about €100 ($134). From Chicago to London is ten times that.

And don't forget Blind Booking by German Wings! For as little as €66 ($88) you can let them pick your destination from a short list of great European cities (Zürich, Barcelona, Budapest, Stockholm...) and visit a place you might not otherwise have ever visited.

Language exposure

No matter where you live outside of the U.S., you will find yourself surrounded by other languages. Even in our small community, it's not just German that's all around, but also Greek, Turkish, and Italian.

Work & life experience

If/When you return to the U.S. at some point, having lived in a foreign country - especially a non-English speaking country - makes you more desirable in the job market because of the invaluable work and life experience you gained overseas as well as being able to speak a second language.

Bilingual children, if you go that route

"If I marry him, we can have British-speaking babies!" Remember that?? If you fall in love with a European and decide to have children, they could grow up bilingual. Imagine children who can speak both American AND English! :-)

You'll find more people who think like you in Europe than in the U.S.

The majority of people in Europe accept climate change as fact. They are against war in general, armed citizens, and meddling in other people's affairs. Most understand the importance of education, travel, history, and culture. They are interested in the USA but don't consider it the greatest country in the world. Most also don't consider their own country the greatest in the world.

You probably won't need a car (saves money)

Public transportation isn't exactly cheap, but compared to parking fees, car maintenance, gas prices (ca. $8.50 per gallon in Germany), and auto insurance, I'm convinced you can save money by not owning a car. You can get everywhere in Europe you'll ever need to go by train, S-Bahn, or bus. When you do need a car, there's always Carsharing.

The food

Remember how much you enjoyed the wide variety of cuisines you could find in Berlin? Greek, Turkish, Indian, Hungarian, Spanish, Arabic... In the U.S. you have to live in a big city to have options beyond Taco Bell, Olive Garden, and Panda Express for "international" cuisine.

Blogging

You and I could write a mother-daughter expat blog! Wouldn't that be fun?!

Drawbacks

Naturally it's not all a bed of roses. There are downsides to being an expat as well.

It's expensive as hell.

Nothing is cheap over here. I buy clothes when I visit the U.S.. Traveling from Stuttgart to some other exotic European city is more affordable than flying from Chicago, but once you get to that city, you'll pay a ton for lodging, food, tours, and attractions. 

You'll miss your best friends and family.

There may be days when you'll wonder why you left home to move to a place where communication is not always easy and where you sometimes feel alone. There will be days when you'll wonder if your friends back home still care about you.

Inconvenient when family events occur (weddings, births, deaths)

There are times when you need to fly back home either because of a planned event or an unexpected one, or make the decision to stay where you are and miss it. This is never an easy decision.

Sorry....I can't think of any other drawbacks!

Neutral

Two homes

It doesn't take long, as you know, to get used to the way things are in your new country. You miss things about your first home, but then when you return you miss things from your new home. To be comfortable in two different cultures, though...Priceless!

Your friend circle will change

This happens with any move out of town or state. You'll communicate for a while with your friends back home, you might share updates on Facebook, and you'll see each other when you can. But you will also make friends in your new home, find new interests, and develop other fulfilling relationships.

Football

You'll  have to give up easy access to the Packers, but you'll get FC Bayern München and Thomas Müller in exchange!

What could you do here?

1. go to school (tuition fees are minimal - ca. €300 per semester)
2. be an au pair (for a family with a child/children with disabilities)
3. teach English
4. live with us while you do volunteer work and search for a job
5. develop an additional marketable talent - travel photography?  writing?

Kochen - Cooking in Germany

It took me about one month to realize that all my old stand-by recipes that I brought from the U.S. were useless here. There's no condensed soup here (the former basis of all my sauces), cheddar cheese is too expensive, the cuts of meat are different (there's no "beef round steak", for instance), and everything - starting with the water - tastes different. Not better or worse - just different.

So not long after moving here I shoved my American cookbooks to the back of the shelf and started picking up German magazines and cookbooks. Things have gone better since then. Now when I am in the States and cook something, I have the opposite problem. There's no Quark in America, Gouda cheese is overpriced, the ground meat is not ground fresh while I wait and it's so full of fat that a ton of grease needs to be drained, Butterschmalz (ghee) costs way too much if it's available at all and making enough of it for Schnitzel takes a good hour, and I can't find the right kind of potatoes.

It's not really all that surprising that the same food isn't available in both countries, so you learn to adapt. But since moving here and getting comfortable with German recipes, I've noticed some interesting differences in the instructions.

Pan size

Almost all American recipes tell the cook what size pan, pot, and/or casserole dish to use. "Grease a 9x13-inch pan."  "In a 10-quart casserole dish..." "Use a 1 1/2-quart microwave-safe bowl..." Sometimes it just says, "In a large frying pan..." On the bottom of all or most pans, pots, and casserole dishes, you can find their size - in quarts or inches diameter.

German recipes let the cook decide for himself which pots and pans he'll use. I think he's supposed to know that based on the amount of meat (in grams or kilos) or veggies the recipe calls for. Martin laughs every time he sees the pan size specified in an American recipe. I think to him that's like telling someone what size pants to put on in the morning.

Stove burner setting

Every American recipe I've seen tells the cook which stove temperature to use when frying, boiling, etc. "Heat oil in large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat" is one step for making Pepper Steak Sandwiches. This instruction is for frying the meat, and it defies everything Martin has taught me about cooking meat. Heat the pan first, and on high! Then add the oil! When the oil is nice and hot, add the meat. It should sizzle straight away. Don't heat the pan only to medium-high, because when you add the meat the pan will cool down and the meat will be boiling rather than frying. Now I know why I often screwed up this recipe when I made it in Wisconsin.

German recipes don't tell the cook which temperature to use on the stove. They use verbs, for instance:

    braten = fry

    anbraten = brown or sautee

    anschwitzen = lightly sautee

    aufkochen = bring to a boil

  

If you don't know what setting to use on the stove to achieve those things, figure it out through trial and error or stay out of the kitchen. (That's the message I get from German recipes.)

Measurements

German recipes call for tablespoons and teaspoons, but beyond that all solid ingredients are by weight in grams or kilos and liquid is by volume in liters or milliliters (ml). Every German kitchen has a metric scale onto which the cook puts a bowl or plate and resets the tare weight to zero, and then measures the ingredient. 1 1/4 cups of flour comes to 280 grams. One cup of butter is 227 grams, but one cup of crushed walnuts is 97 grams. No more "3/4 cup firmly packed" brown sugar - packed or not, you need 132 grams for Nestle Tollhouse chocolate chip cookies.

Tablespoons and teaspoons, however, can get confusing. In America, "T" means tablespoon and "t" (uncapitalized) means teaspoon. Every American cook knows that. In German all nouns are capitalized, so "TL" is Teelöffel (teaspoon) and "EL" is Esslöffel (eating spoon or tablespoon). The first few times I cooked with a German recipe, I saw "TL" and automatically thought "Tablespoon" because of the capitalization. With salt or lemon juice, for instance, that can be dangerous. I usually caught myself before mixing anything, but I do remember several times having to dig out 2 teaspoons of some herb or spice (because apparently 1T = 3t).

We have measuring utensils for both metric and cups and ounces in our kitchen, so that makes it a little easier to adapt the recipes that do work on both continents. Martin still refuses to accept "ounce" as a unit of measure, though. "What kind of ridiculously illogical system is that? What's three-fourths of a cup?! It depends on the size of the cup! There are 16 ounces in a pound? You've got to be kidding me." Sadly, the delightfully logical and mathematical metric system - which my third grade teacher assured us America was going to switch to very soon - is difficult for me. I have always sucked at math (just ask my dad; the phrase "one half of one percent" still brings me to tears), so on the occasions when I have to turn liters into fractions in the midst of preparing a meal ("Shit! I need 1/3 liter, and there's no mark for that on the measuring cup!"), I crumble. Martin always raises an eyebrow when I have to write on a recipe next to where it says "1/4 liter Milch", "250 ml".

Meat

I have become an absolute believer in buying meat from a trusted local butcher. Not a butcher in a grocery store, but a real, trained, certified butcher who does business out of a store that doesn't also sell clothing and auto parts. In Germany even the butchers in the grocery store have to be specially trained and certified through an educational program that takes several years, but I'm guessing the meat is still shipped in on trucks from heaven knows where. I can go to our local butcher (a 10-minute walk) and tell her or any of her employees what I want to cook, and she'll pick out the right meat for me if I'm unsure exactly what I need. Those working at the butcher's counter in the grocery store don't have time for that. It's true that the meat is more expensive - in some cases twice as expensive as at the grocery store - but we are convinced the quality is better. Nothing is pre-packaged or pre-cut, the ground meat is not pre-ground, and the animals were born, raised, and slaughtered in Baden-Württemberg.

When I do buy ground beef from the grocery store out of laziness, Martin can always tell. If he walks in while I'm frying beef for tacos, he sniffs the air and says, "Beef from Real?" (Real [RAY-al] is the closest grocery store to us, and it's similar to a decent grocery store plus Target.) He says it just has a funny smell, though I can't tell the difference. There's also more fat in the Real ground beef, although still not enough to have to drain it after frying like ground beef in the U.S..

In Germany I can go to any butcher and ask for "four pork Schnitzel." I have no idea what part of the pig that comes from, and "Schnitzel" just means "cutlet". I went to a butcher in Sheboygan (with a German-sounding name even!) last year and asked for ten pork Schnitzel, and got a blank stare.

Guy: "Do you mean pork chops?"

Me: "No, Schnitzel. No bones. Ok, how about ten slices of that hunk of pork?" (I pointed to what I wanted.)

Guy: "Well, we have these boneless pork chops [already cut]. What about these?"

Me: "No, this piece of pork really looks like what I need. Ten slices, about 1 centim...er, about half an inch thick."

Guy: "Let me just talk to my boss. Hang on a sec."  [He disappears into the back, and reappears with boss.]

Boss: "Hi Ma'am. Are you sure you want slices of this? We have...."

Me: "No, I'm really sure. I don't want pork chops. Ten slices of this will be just perfect."

Boss: "Ok, we'll see what we can do." 

They went into the back again without the hunk of pork I'd pointed to, and one of them re-emerged after a few minutes with a plate of ten slices of pork which looked right. I'm not sure why they didn't just use the exact piece of meat I'd ask for, but I took it, and it worked perfectly. At our butcher here, they cut the meat in front of us, we know exactly what we're getting, and we've never been dissatisfied. We've had good and bad luck at the grocery store.

Cooking at home

Martin and I truly enjoy cooking together. We're a darn good team in the kitchen, and he doesn't get upset when he comes home after ten hours in the office and needs to brown the beef or pork steaks because he's better at it than I am. I don't spring this on him - we usually decide by lunch what we're cooking that evening. I do the Bratkartoffeln, he does the Rösti, he grills (yes, friends, I'm still afraid of grills and always will be), I make the casseroles, he does the sauce or gravy because I don't have the patience, he flattens the Schnitzel and I flour, egg, and bread them. He sharpens the knives, I do the dishes, and whichever one of us notices the floor needs washing washes it.

There's one drawback, though, and that is that our standards are not as low as they once were for dining out! We enjoy the meals we cook so much (though yes, we've had some duds, of course) that we question paying for a meal we'll probably like less. The obvious exception is our favorite restaurant, where we've tried almost everything on the menu and haven't yet had something we wouldn't gladly order again. There are also quite a few restaurants in Esslingen that we really like. But beyond those, I don't get excited about dining out anymore. Why dine out when your own home-cooked meals are so good (and less expensive!)? I'm not saying we're fabulous cooks - rather that we like the meals we cook.

Here are some of our favorites (I am working on the quality of my food pictures, which will hopefully improve soon.): 

Bauernfrühstück - Farmer's Breakfast
potatoes, pork tenderloin, bacon, onions, tomatoes, mushrooms...

Kartoffel-Apfel-Auflauf mit Kasseler
Potato-Apple-Casserole with Kasseler
One of my favorites; not Martin's

Züricher Geschnetzeltes mit Rösti
Zurich Ragout with hashbrowns
I could eat this at least once a week.

Rösti after flipping, which Martin does expertly

Tenderloin wraps

Friendship, German style

Some day I'm going to write about a topic that no expat blogger has written about before, that doesn't appear in books like The Xenophobe's Guide to the Germans and Don't Worry, Be German, and that is fresh and new. Today, however, is not that day.

Today I'm writing about friendship.

In the U.S. when two people meet at work, at school, in a bar, at church, or wherever else and determine, initially through smalltalk, that they have enough in common that they could mutually gain from continuing contact, they are friends. It doesn't take more than a few times of getting together for them to introduce or talk about each other as "my friend, Jack/Susan." Americans tend to go from strangers to friends without much in between. (Only an American could have come up with "Strangers are just friends we haven't met yet." ~att. to Will Rogers) During the time in limbo the former stranger is referred to as "a guy I work with" or "a woman I know from church." We use other labels like "neighbor", "sister's boyfriend", "dad's current wife", and so on, but those labels usually indicate someone we don't intend to ever call our friend. With strangers, neighbors, and friends alike, we ask "How are you?" as more of an suffix of "Hi" than as a genuine inquiry.

Germans, on the other hand, have a loooooonnnnngg period of time when two people are Bekannten (acquaintances) before either would ever dare to refer to the other as a friend. If you work together, you are Kollegen (colleagues) and may never become more than that even if you work together for 20 years.

To complicate matters, mein Freund means both/either "my (male) friend" and/or "my boyfriend." So if you are with a mixed group of Germans and Americans on, say, a bus tour through Italy, and you introduce the man you spent much of last evening chatting with although you just met at dinner as "mein Freund, Marco", the other Germans will raise their eyebrows and peg you as a bit of a tart.

It works the same for meine Freundin, which is both/either "my (female) friend" and/or "my girlfriend." To avoid the ambiguity, Germans will say "eine Freundin von mir" for "a female friend of mine." Almost all titles and labels for people make a clear distinction between male and female in the German language: -in on the end of a title or label indicates the person is female.

My husband rented a bachelor flat of a family's house for 14 years. They greeted each other when they passed on the stairs, he knew most of the kids' names, and he knew when their birthdays were because they always had parties on those days. But they were not friends in the German sense until some time after 2004 when a terrible hail storm broke Martin's bathroom skylight and flooded the family's basement. Martin went down to let them know the window was broken and the water was pouring into the top floor, so his landlord/acquaintance stopped bailing out the basement to help Martin fix the window. Then Martin brought down his Wet-Vac to help with the basement, and after the storm blew over, they all sat together tossing down a few glasses of Schnaps and Bier until the wee hours of the wet morning. The storm was the catalyst, and gradually during the next few years, they became friends.

Although in their case there was no abrupt and identifiable date when they became friends, switching from using Mr. and Mrs. to first names, the traditional way to make that transition in Germany involves a carefully orchestrated ceremony. Granted, younger people these days are quicker to move to first names with those of their own generation, but there is a long-established protocol when interacting with strangers: You must address a stranger who is older than you or of higher rank or status with Sie (You, Sir/Ma'am) and use Herr or Frau Dingsbums.* You also use this when you are a customer, speaking to a police officer, yelling at a guy who just damaged your car with a shopping cart, bribing your child's teacher, and so on. Those people will also address you with Sie. Using the informal du with a stranger is insulting, and the American equivalent could be using "Homeboy" or "Yo, Bitch." Unwise when you're trying to conduct business or get yourself out of a sticky situation. Du is reserved for loved ones, pets (though cats prefer Sie), children, immediate and extended family, and God (our Father).

So you and your elderly neighbor have known each other for 15 years or so, you've watered her plants when she was gone, you've bought a case of beer milk for her when she couldn't get out, she brings you a Torte for your birthday, and you're over at her place having coffee one afternoon. After the usual pleasantries she suddenly says to you, "I think it's time we say 'you' to each other [instead of 'you, Ma'am']." BAM! Oh. My. Goodness. You have gained enough of her respect, and she feels comfortable enough around you to address you like her closest friends and ankle-biting grandchildren! This means you can use her first name! Then you realize you don't even know her first name. She's been Frau Butenbahtenblitzer to you for 15 years. No worries - the ceremony goes on and fills in the gaps. You blush appropriately and smile in agreement, she reaches her hand out to shake yours, and she says, "Ich heiße Ursula" (my name is Ursula) and you follow with "Ich heiße Amy." If the time of day is appropriate, you'll toast with a glass of Sekt, wine, or - if your neighbor is from Bavaria - beer. If you're like me, the moment she turns her back you grab a pen and scratch her name on some scrap of paper you have in your purse so you don't forget it. Nothing worse than accomplishing this monumental step and then finding out it's all for naught because you forgot her name by the next morning!

I assure you, American readers, this little ceremony does take place, and it's not cute or quaint. It's an honor. I've witnessed it and I have participated in it. Do remember, though, that if you are the younger person or of lower rank or status, you must not initiate the ceremony. That would be like a private saying to his drill sergeant, "So Dude, can I just call you Bill?"

Once you have achieved friend status with a German, you're in for life. It typically takes a long time to break through the keep-your-distance wall, but once you've done it, you truly are close. And from then on, when she asks you, "Wie geht's?" (How are you?), she actually means it and wants to know your answer.



*Please don't actually use "Dingsbums," because it means "thing-a-ma-bobber". I just use that to represent any last name.

A Week in the South

In celebration of my parents' Golden wedding anniversary this year, we flew to the States to spend a week with my kids, my brother and his son, and my parents. We stayed at the Fairfield Glade resort near Crossville, Tennessee in a 4-bedroom, 4-bathroom condo with kitchen, living room, dining area, balcony, and washer & dryer. My parents bought a timeshare there back in 1981, and all of us except Martin have been there between several and many times since then. We had a great week together reliving old memories and making new ones, golfing, taking day trips, going for walks, playing cards, and enjoying each other's company.

Martin had never been down South before (the furthest south he'd been before this trip was Illinois), and he found life there to be quite different from what he's accustomed to. In the weeks before our trip I tried to help him get used to the Tennessee accent by tawkin' funny in th' evnin', but I couldn't prepare him for everything.

Sorry...What?

I can't reproduce the Tennessean accent very well in writing, but I spent enough time there in my youth that I could probably pass as a native speaker. It's not as classy as British English and not as cuddly wonderful as Scottish, but it's charming in its own way. We had to wait in the Nashville airport for a few hours on our first full day for my kids to arrive from Wisconsin, so Martin had his first taste of fresh, authentic "Suthron". We passed a few glances back and forth before I grinned and said to him, "Ya thowt aye'uz keedin', din'cha?"

My favorite moment, though, was when a grandma and ma were sitting together waitin' on someone, trying to keep the ma's chile under control. We managed straight faces when Granny lit out with "I tell yoo what, yoo go pass 'ate chair, I'mo whoop ya!" (I tell you what, if you go beyond that chair, I'm going to give you a spanking!") "I'mo whoop ya!" has become our new way of saying to each other, "You shouldn't do that," and with practice and language coaching, Martin is getting close to being able to say it like a native still sounds hilarious.

"If you're in a hurry, you're in the wrong place."

Yeah, the Southerners don't do anything quickly - bagging groceries, ringing up a sale, driving, changing lanes, getting to the point... They are very, very friendly and love to chit-chat and ask questions. Everybody says, "Hi! How y'all doin' today?!" and I half suspect they might actually care about our answer or at least be willing to listen to it. If we say more than a few words to anyone, they notice our funny-talk and ask, "Where y'all from?!"

One afternoon a maintenance guy drove to our unit to check if he needed to clean the grill, and Martin happened to be sitting on the front porch. Thirty minutes later I started wondering why he was out there so long, and I went out to find him. The maintenance guy was standing out there with Martin chatting up a storm about all kinds of things, and Martin couldn't find an escape. For the next four days there were multiple moments when Martin said, "Oh, that's another thing my friend told me..." If you understand how much Martin abhors small talk and chatting at all with strangers (he'll leave a store without the thing he needs rather than ask an employee where to find it), this situation is all the funnier.

Another time I was with my brother and Martin trying to leave the shooting range (see below) although the guy in charge wanted to tell us everything about the club, the members, and the nearby town. The lads were nodding politely and responding with "mmms" and "uh-huhs", and I finally said we had to go because we had dinner plans. "OH! Well, where y'all goin' to eat?" We told him, and he went on about that place plus other options including the fancy places like Applebee's and Olive Garden that required a 40-minute drive. I don't actually remember how we got out of there.

That's part of Southern Hospitality, though, and the locals surely go out of their way to make visitors feel welcome. Coming from Germany, where only your closest friends ask how you are and pretty much everyone hates small talk, it took Martin a few days to embrace this aspect of life in the South.

Wanna go shootin'?

As I mentioned in a previous post, gun laws in Germany are very strict and one can't just drive down the road, rent a gun, and shoot stuff. But this is Tennessee. There was bound to be a place for shootin' after a round of golf. Sure enough, we found a "sportman's club" down the road a piece off Peavine Road, and I gave them a call. I said my husband and brother were interested in shooting and asked what they offer. For those without their own guns, the club rents 12-gauge pump-action shotguns and sells boxes of ammo for trap shooting. I explained that my husband is a German resident and citizen and asked if that would be a problem. Nope. I was going to tell him that Martin shot all kinds of guns during his time in the German army, but he wouldn't have cared. So we hopped in the car and drove down there.

The guy (I'll call him Gus) was really nice, explained the procedure after we signed a waiver saying we wouldn't sue him for anything, gave us ear protectors and the guys safety glasses, and out we went. Gus manned the trigger for the clay pigeons, gave the lads some tips along the way, and was all business during the shooting. (It was only after the weapons were put away that he turned into Chatty Cathy.) The lads met with varying degrees of success, but they each hit more of the clay pigeons than I could have, and they enjoyed the activity.

Photo of a Wisconsin road sign hanging on the door of Gus's gun club -
 read all the way to the end.

Driving in the South

Actually, this is nothing special about the South - it's driving in the U.S.. Just because he could, Martin passed in the right lane while giggling fiendishly, lingered in the left lane a few times when no one was behind him, turned right at a red light, and once he even turned the car on before all the passengers were seated and buckled up. In fact, I was the last one to get in the car, and I was still inside the condo when he started the engine!

"Hm. I don't know who to call. Let's just go shootin'."

On the little country road on the way to the shootin' range, we passed a small brush fire in a field. It was probably contained, but my brother mentioned it to Gus because we didn't see any people nearby. "Hm," Gus said. "I don't know who to call. [This is just a suggestion, but maybe the fire department?] I know the guy who owns the land, but I don't have his number. Well, let's head on out." As we passed the field again an hour later, it was still burning.

Life down South might be different from what we're used to, but we had a great time in Tennessee with my family, had a lot of laughs, did fun things, and enjoyed the week.

When I was young, I thought you'd look out here and see
painted white lines where the state borders are.
Lookout Mountain, Chatanooga, TN

Rock City
Lookout Mountain, Chattanooga, TN

Smoky Mountains, so called because of the blue haze
that settles on the mountains

Results of acid rain and other pollution

Walkway leading up to the observation tower at Clingman's Dome
in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park

Clingman's Dome observation tower