The Simple Life

I took a walk tonight. Normally, when I have time to get out of the house and away from my work, I meander through town, window-shop a little bit to see what the store owners are displaying this week, and do some people-watching. Once in a blue moon, I stop at Palatini's Eis Cafe for a single dip ice cream in a small crisp waffle cone. When I treat myself to Palatini's, I pick the creamiest caramel you can imagine or a flavor called Boccia, which tastes of creamy chocolate and toasted hazelnuts. I'm easily overwhelmed when it comes to choosing what flavor I want and Palatini's offers so many flavors I could come back every night for a month and try something new. But I try to steer clear of Palatini's as much as possible because I know I would find myself standing in front of the ice cream case far too often, if I'm not careful.

Tonight, since the idea of wandering through town is boring, I decided to walk in the other direction-- toward the farms. I have been enamored with farms all my life. The field of mustard plants is still growing but the five foot high plants are now only green and the bright, yellow, honey-scented flowers have died back. It appears the farmer who grows the mustard planted additional crops several weeks ago and now rows of cabbage, kohlrabi, red lettuce and green lettuce have joined the mustard.

The three beautiful horses I often see an older farm hand walking in the evenings are being brought into their stalls for the night. In order to catch the older gentleman taking the horses for an evening walk, I must be out near the farms around 6:30 in the evening. There's something beautiful about watcing this average-sized man, with the short, graying hair and weathered skin calmly walking along with these three beautiful creatures. The horses are large draft horses and could easily drag the man across every field in sight, but they don't. He holds their bridles, the four of them walk slowly together, in no hurry to do anything more than enjoy their walk, while I hang back to prolong the view.

As I turn left at the curve in the gravel road, I hear young boys playing soccer in the field to the right and, to my left, I see the steeples of the old church off in the distance. More farm fields cover the land to my right. The brown sugar-colored soil is loose and dry from the lack of rain we've had these past few weeks and I see green beet leaves sprouting out of the tops of the beets. Tiny red veins in the leaves tell me these are beets, even though the blood red beets haven't started poking their way through the soil. I am not a lover of beets, but I know others in the area will be happy when these can be purchased, freshly picked, from the market in town.

The old white church sits at the far lefthand corner. It's my signal that I've arrived at the gravel path, lined on both sides with poplar trees that reach toward the evening sky. "Siebenschmerzenweg" says the street sign. Translated, the sign is telling me that the tree-lined gravel path is referred to as "Seven Sorrows Way". If I'd never been down this path before, I might be hesitant to walk a path in the middle of nowhere named Seven Sorrows Way. It's the first time I notice the sign, but not my first time down the path and I instantly know why it's called Seven Sorrows Way. Along the path are seven religious statues made of stone, bronze....beautifully sculpted, carved, and built. Each statue depicts a different religious scene involving Christ and his sufferings. I'm not a religious person, but I admire the beauty, the craft, and workmanship.

Wheat grows on the right side of the path, still green and young, waving in the wind. Now I know I have a beautiful golden wheat field to look forward to in the Fall. Along the left side of the path, the mustard flowers die back but have been joined by wild thistle. The spiky, thorn-covered purple flowers protect themselves from animals, but the birds hop through the field without a care, picking up seeds for their evening meal.

I'd always dreamed of living on a farm. And, while I don't live on a farm now, I'm lucky to have them right around the corner. Choosing to head in the opposite direction tonight was a good decision. Sometimes in the midst of inner-chaos, we find peace in the simplicity that surrounds us.

Change Catches Up With Me

Time flies and sometimes change occurs right under our nose, without us even realizing it. I'll admit my unadulterated love for my new surroundings was as blinding to my eyes as a school girl's crush. I ooh-ed and aahh-ed over every new event, place, and word the way a googly-eyed teenager swoons over the poster of the object of her latest crush.

My first six months of living in Germany were full of adjusting to my new life, a new home, new love, new language...new everything. All of it was met with enthusiasm, optimism and gusto and why not? I had worked hard to make dreams come true and they did. The love I'd waited for all my life found me and, together, we closed a gap that spanned 5000 miles and thirty years to make that dream come true for us. Along with it, I got to explore new places, live overseas, experience new things....all lifelong dreams of mine.

And then somehow, without me even realizing it, the Winds of Change started to slowly drift toward me until one day they finally caught up.

They say that people who move to other countries go through five different stages of transition:

• 1. Honeymoon Stage
• 2. Culture Shock Stage
• 3. Initial Adjustment Stage
• 4. Mental Isolation Stage
• 5. Acceptance and Integration Stage

Different people move from one stage to the next at their own pace and it's likely that most will fall back into previous stages at one time or another, before moving forward again. Without understanding or realizing what was going on, in early February, I slowly started to move into Stage Four, the Mental Isolation stage. Athough I may not have been able to identify it then, looking back, writer and expatriate Daniela Montebaur's description of Stage Four fits perfectly:

4. Mental Isolation: The initial adjustment stage is followed by another wave of integration ups and downs.


"During this stage Hart really needed support and help from her friends and co-workers. She felt anger toward the host culture and doubt about her decision to live in Europe. “Maybe the people back home are forgetting about me,” said Hart.


She complained about the fact that everything is “verboten” (forbidden) in Germany and that the food was different. People were staring at her in a way she was not used to. “I sometimes felt as if I had an imaginary American flag on my forehead. People just knew even before I spoke. “I got the ‘you’re different’ type of look,” said Hart. She lost motivation to continue learning German, and you could tell a difference in her personality. The sparkles in her eyes were dimming but her mind was expanding as she transitioned."

Although I never questioned my decision to move to Germany or my relationship with my sweetheart, it was painfully clear that the roles I'd held all my adult life were changing and I had no clue how to deal with that or what I was supposed to do next. And, like many others who have chosen to live in countries other than their homeland, I felt "out of sight, out of mind"...as if friends and family back home had forgotten all about me and no longer had the time.

My entire adult life had been spent raising my three children and, in the blink of an eye, they were all grown up. Living so closely to them the past few years I'd never had to fully make that realization because I saw my children regularly. Then, in January, I went home for a visit that coincided with my daughter's wedding and I realized "she's no longer my daughter first; now she's her husband's wife". The same realization came about as my older daughter talked of moving in with her partner. And my son...well, for those of you who whose son hasn't grown up yet, it is true what they say: a son grows up and leaves his mother.

Despite the fact that I had been the one to leave to come live here in Germany, it was with bewilderment and disbelief that I came to realize that the role I'd cherished so much in life had left me. I was no longer a mom raising her kids, which was my defining role for over 25 years. Yes, I know...I will always be their mother and we remain close, but you know what I mean. My kids no longer needed me. Because of the no-pets rule where I now live, no furry kids needed me either. All my life, I'd been needed. And suddenly, I wasn't.

At first, I tried to combat this by making a difference elsewhere. I dove into my writing and a few other projects in which I felt I could "make a difference". But regardless of the distraction and temporary satisfaction, a dark cloud starting forming over my head and then again, without me knowing what was going on, it engulfed me completely.

Days went by where I felt discouraged, forgotten and depressed. I felt that no one needed me, that I didn't make a difference and the world would barely notice if I was gone tomorrow. Thank goodness for the patience and love of the wonderful man who stood by my side even on the occasions I morphed into Brunhilda, the Bipolar Witch. Who, I'm afraid, is prone to fits of crankiness, child-like temper tantrums and sobbing hysteria.

In an effort to sort things out and figure out who and what I was in this new stage of life, I realized I had to at least have a foundation from which to rebuild myself. It became important for me to figure out what the new "truths" were that defined my life and, after much thought, I came to realize a few things:

1. My children will always be my children and we'll always be close but they are developing and enjoying their own lives as grown-ups because I did my job and raised them to do so. And I have to learn to let my baby birds spread their wings and fly just like they allowed their mama to do ten months ago.
2. I love my sweetheart and I want to be with him. (He also loves and wants to be with me.)
3. I love living here and want to stay in Germany.

These things I know for sure. I haven't figured out the rest and I realize this will take time. I still can't say for sure that I know what my new roles are in life. I am figuring out who I am, but as for "what" I am...I'm still trying to define that. The dark cloud that hung heavily over me has lifted and, though I can see it looming in the distance and know there will be days when it returns, I also know I have begun to step away from the doom and gloom it rained down on me these past few months.

Life is everchanging. Sometimes we plan the changes. Other times, the changes make plans for us. In one sense I embraced change and in another I was completely blindsided by it. I am thankful for my children and the definition they brought to the first part of my adult life. I am also thankful they allowed me the chance to define who I am, outside of mom, even though I didn't realize that would be part of the deal. And I'm thankful to this wonderful guy who loves and accepts me with the patience and support that only true love can so unselfishly offer. When I am crying and sobbing "I'm trying my best" he responds with "Don't try so hard; just be yourself".

And, with that, my adventure in Germany has also become an adventure in which the thing I am trying to learn about, adjust to and figure out is me and what, exactly, it means to be myself.

Eating One-Eyed Pete...My First Experience Cooking a German Recipe

Let me begin by saying, for those of you who are big softies and animal-lovers like me, One-Eyed Pete is/was not a barnyard pet or furry, adorable critter of any kind. He...or she...was a fish to whom I've given this comical nickname in an effort to humor and cajole myself through an otherwise "iffy" situation.

Maybe I should offer a little background history. I'm an animal- and nature-lover. Whenever Mario and I are going to watch a movie with animals in it (the real kind, not animated), I always jokingly remind him that I only like movies where the animals shake hands, make friends, then merrily skip off into the sunset. To which he normally offers up the typically manly answer of: "It's just nature." In my personal bubble, that sort of "nature" doesn't exist.

There is some hypocrisy involved, in that, I am not a vegetarian. Meat passes my lips two or three times per week, but even there I have my limits. I won't eat anything that involves having some googly eye stare up at me from my plate. At least not until today.



Damfnudel, similar to dumplings.

 Seven months have come and gone since I first arrived in Germany to come live with Mario. Fortunately for both of us, we're healthy eaters and, because of this, have steered clear of standard German fare. Cream-laden sauces and soups, sausage and meaty dishes, and doughie noodle and dumpling type side dishes are abstained from in favor of pan-seered chicken, baked fish, lots of veggies and occasional pasta. We're both fine with this because neither of us wants to be shaped like a dampfnudel.

A few months ago, while in Munich for a short holiday, we picked up two Bavarian cookbooks. As we poured through the pages together, Mario ooh-ed and aah-ed over the recipes exclaiming that this one was "really delicious" and we "had to try that one" while I perused the pictures, pointing out what recipes I wanted to try. Then the books sat in the livingroom for a few months as coffee table books, before being relegated to the book pile alongside a chair.

Last week, I proclaimed that I might like to try a recipe from one of the Bavarian cookbooks to feature in my food blog.  Mario and I leafed through the books together, in search of something healthy, and came upon a fish recipe. I love fish, as does my sweetheart, so this was a win-win situation. The only problem was that the fish pictured in the recipe was whole...as in bones still in, skin still on, and googly eye peering up from the page.

Now, to my credit, in the past few months I've made some progress in this area. One Sunday afternoon, we stopped at at fresh fish stand at a nearby flea market and enjoyed cooked, mixed fresh fish tossed in oil and vinegar. This sounds harmless, I know, until you find yourself staring down at a cooked whole squid in your container, with head and suction cups on legs still intact. My approach as someone new in the country is to "do as the Romans do" when feasible, so I ate the squid...head, little suctions cups, and all...and it was really good.

During the Christmas holiday I was asked by Mario and his family to cook a whole turkey for Christmas Eve dinner, which is the special dinner for the holiday.  Since there'd been no Thanksgiving dinner here and no one really understood, until it was too late, the importance the holiday and its feast preparations held for me, the family felt that having me cook a turkey would be a good way to make up for my missed holiday. I thought this was very gracious and kind, since goose is the normal fare at Christmastime, and none of them had ever had a whole turkey.

I asked Mario where we would buy a whole turkey and he replied that he would order it at the local grocery store's butcher department. Then he explained to me that he would pick it up the morning of Christmas Eve so I could cook it that day. When I inquired as to why we couldn't pick it up earlier, to my horror, he explained that the turkey would still be running around the day before. My imagination immediately conjured up visions of this proud tom turkey chasing the female turkeys around the yard and having a grand old time, completely oblivious to his impending demise. The next day, the turkey arrived. It had been cleaned really well and looked like a great bird except for the feather quills sticking out of parts of the wings. I tried earnestly to pull them out but they wouldn't budge. Not knowing how a German Frau (woman or wife) would handle the situation, I hoped the feather particles would singe off while they baked but the fact of the matter is, when that golden-brown, juicy turkey was set on the platter, it still had the remnants of about one dozen feather quills sticking out of each wing. Oh well. Let me tell you, that was probably the most delicious turkey I've ever had because it was so fresh and the entire family loved it. But the thought of feathers sticking out of the skin still gives me a minor case of the heebie-jeebies.

Note the feather quills sticking out of the edge of the wing.

So, with a couple similar uncomfortable food situations already under my belt, I decided to go ahead and give the Bavarian fish recipe a go. Since Mario does the bulk of the grocery shopping I half-hoped maybe he'd come home with skinless, boneless fish but that didn't end up being the case. He came home and proudly displayed for me the three fresh trout he'd gotten at the fish counter, for the recipe we were going to prepare together. I glanced over at the fish only to have my gaze met by the Three Amigos and their three pairs of googly eyes. "Eck! The eyes are still in!" I exclaimed. My comment went unanswered.

At 1:00pm we both paused from our separate activities and headed into the kitchen to prepare the fish. The recipe was written in German but was an easy-to-make recipe. To prepare myself for the endeavor, I'd translated the instructions on the computer so I could read over them in English and know what I was doing, rather than have to rely on Mario to translate for me.

"Man up!" I muttered to myself, as he unwrapped the fish. Working as a team, he held the fish open (thank goodness the insides were already cleaned out) as I placed the butter, salt and pepper, tarragon, parsley and fresh basil inside the fish. Then we wrapped them in butter-greased foil and baked them in the oven for 25 minutes. When Mario lifted the first fish from the foil, onto a plate, I could swear I saw the mouth slowly open as if the fish was uttering it's last words: "Look what ya did to One-Eyed Pete!" After a quiet and covert shudder, I walked my plate to the table while planning how I was going to eat the fish without getting any skin or bones into my mouth.

As it turns out, no plan was necessary. The fish was so fork-tender the skin peeled back effortlessly and the fish practically fell off the bones, leaving the entire bone structure in one piece when I was done. If the fish had smelled or tasted unpleasant, I don't know if I could have done it. But in my time here I have quickly learned that some concessions are worth making when eating food that is so inexplicably fresh and flavorful.

Today, I ate One-Eyed Pete and cooked my first real German recipe, all in one fell swoop. Both of which turned out to be pretty good experiences, thanks to the man who is patient with my idiosyncrasies, yet loves me enough to push me a little bit outside my comfort zone. Who knows what the next new experience is awaiting me around the corner! The only thing that's certain is it's coming.

Celebrating Karneval in Germany...Prost!

On many levels the German people are a conservative group. When you meet someone new it's expected you will address and communicate with them formally until one or both of you suggest switching to the informal. Depending upon how you met the person, the nature of your relationship and how often you see each other this process can take weeks, months...even years. Upon walking into the grocery store or any other shop it's not likely you'll see someone with a name tag that says "Mary" or "Hannah" on it. Instead the name tag will say "Frau Wilke" (Mrs. Wilke) or something of that nature. And in keeping with the conservatism, topics of a personal, financial and religious nature are treaded upon even more lightly then is expected in the United States.

But when a holiday arrives....and in Germany there seems to be a holiday at least once or twice each month...there is no conservatism when it comes to celebration. While social conventions are big in this country, holidays are big too and the local folk approach them with a gusto and enthusiasm that lead you to feel you will be missing out if you don't, in some way, partake in the festivities.

So it was with this in mind that I met my dear fellow-American friend who's lived here for three years and headed into our small town square for the opening festivities of Karneval. Months before Karneval approached I had heard snippets of information about the event. All I knew was the holiday lasted five days, beginning on a Thursday and ending in the wee hours of the following Tuesday after a long Rosenmontag (Red Monday) celebration. Wedged in between the beginning and end were massive amounts of merriment, costumes, a parade, days off of work, eating, dancing and drinking. And, lest I forget to mention it, Karneval is a church holiday. In my mind, church or religious holidays always signified solemness, going to church and having a family dinner in the solitude of your own home. Not here. The Germans know how to celebrate and lighten up, emphasizing the point that when you work hard you must take time to play, too. Pubs and bars are open extended hours during regular and religious holidays and they are always full. During Karneval the pubs and nightclubs will open at 11am each morning and close the next morning at 7:00.

I'd asked many people, my boyfriend included, about Karneval and what it was. Their explanations helped me form an idea of Karneval but without a point of reference it just sounded like yet another reason to drink and be merry for what's referred to here as an extra-large weekend. Then I looked up Karneval on the internet and discovered it's actually the German version of Mardi Gras. A lightbulb went on over my head and it all made sense. All the pieces came together....costumes, eating large feasts and excessive sweets, dancing, drinking and crazy traditions leading up to a time of cutting back and making sacrifices. For all intents and purposes, Karneval is Germany's Mardi Gras...without the boobs and the beads.

My friend and I arrived in town early. On our way to the Rathause (mayor's buiilding) we walked through the Thursday morning outdoor market where one stand was offering free jello shots. Here, jello is referred to as "wackelpudding" which translates to "wobble pudding". Normally, you eat wackelpudding with vanilla sauce drizzled over the top but this time it was mixed with vodka. "Not for the children" the vendor smiled and warned us. Being that it's Karneval I partook despite the fact that my watch read 10:50am. No matter...the squishy mixture of green jello and vodka slid easily from the small plastic cup onto my anxious taste buds and was delicious. What a great way to start a sunny Karneval morning.

People were beginning to gather in the streets near the Rathaus as we walked away from the market. Most were dressed in costumes; clowns were popular as were tigers, witches and devils. My favorite was that of a little boy who looked to be all of four years old. He stood near his grandmother in his animal costume and marvelled at the men in the tiger costumes as if to say "Wow, I thought my costume was cool but these guys are phenomenal!"

The mayor came out onto the balcony of the Rathaus, ready to commence with the ceremonies. The street was closed off to traffic and the crowd quickly multiplied and spilled out onto the pavement. Small groups in the street sang songs and an older lady in a Charles Dickens era costume walked around pouring shots of schnapps and handing them out to random people. With beers, shots and tiny bottles of liquer in hand the town folks were ready to celebrate.

Many had prepared themselves for the early morning celebrations by eating Amerikaners or Berliners for breakfast. Both delicious treats are a type of cream-filled pastry with powdered sugar on the top. Word has it that when you eat a few of these they coat the stomach and prevent one from becoming drunk. Amerikaners and Berliners, amongst other rich and delicious foods will be consumed enmasse over the next days leading up to the sacrifices and deprivations of Lent. I turned to my friend and asked "Why don't we have anything to drink?" We concurred that we would be better prepared next year.

Soon the mayor addressed the crowd, joking and regaling stories that elicited laughter and response. Dancers came into the street, entertaining everyone with high kicks, twirls and a few acrobats as the people clapped in time with the music. Toward the end, the mayor called out the traditional Karneval "Hallo!" and the crowd answered with an enthusiastic "Hallo!". This was repeated three times before the festivities in the street began to wind down and folks congregated in small groups on the street to share drinks and good times or head to the tents behind the Rathaus for more celebration.

I asked my friend, whose German is far better than mine, why people were headed toward the back and she replied that something was going on behind the Rathaus. That was good enough for me. At this point, I figured it probably involved fun and would require further investigation and research on our parts. Beyond the bratwurst stand and narrow passageway leading into the rear courtyard stood a large tent where you could congregate with others while drinking and dancing. Across from that was a smaller stand selling beer, champagne and a few other things. Champagne is always good for a celebration so we decided to enjoy some of that. And at 1.20 Euros per glass (equal to about $1 per glass of champagne) I decided it was worth having another glass before we left.

Opening celebrations for Karneval will continue in our town today until the food and spirits run out, probably around early evening. By that time, many folks will have boarded the train for the twenty minute ride into Duesseldorf where Karneval celebrations will continue through next Tuesday morning.

With empty champagne glass in hand, I stood basking in the sunshine and watched the locals participating in the festivities. What struck me most was the pure enjoyment seen on the faces of friends laughing together and strangers exchanging pleasantries as they waited in the queue for a bite to eat or another drink. It wasn't so much the food, the drinking or any other specific thing they were there to enjoy. It was the sheer enjoyment of celebrating.

By noon it was time for my friend and I to head out. She had to pick up her daughter from school and I had to think about starting my work day. I walked down the sunny main street of our town smiling to myself and thinking about the events of the morning and my first Karneval experience. The jello shot and champagne waltzed around in my head like a happy sort of Karneval dance, sashaying from one side to the other to the umpah-umpah beat of German schlager songs. I glanced up at the clock tower as we passed the large church: five minutes past noon.

Experiencing Karneval was yet another milestone in my life here in Germany. With each new cultural experience and each new milestone achieved I feel more comfortable, more at home, more a part of this land. They say "when in Rome, do as the Romans do". And I say "when in Germany, go to Karneval". Life was meant to be enjoyed and that is what I witnessed today.

Six Months In

I arrived in Germany a little over six months ago with my life packed into two suitcases and one pale pink carry-on bag. I came here to live with my boyfriend but, in the process, have also learned and grown...not just as a person living in a foreign country, but as a person, in general.

Initially, I was hard on myself if I had difficulty adjusting to or dealing with language barriers, finding my way around, gray skies or the occasional day where I wondered what the heck I'd done. Over time, I have learned to be kinder to myself and realize that even though it was my choice to come here there will still be periods of adjustment and days or weeks like that can rear their ugly heads repeatedly over the next years.

The newness of the town in which we live has been traded in for familiarity. Our small town has become as comfortable as a stretched out pair of gym shoes while retaining the charm that won me over when I first arrived. Daily walks through town reveal the same bakeries, confectionaries and boutiques as usual yet I somehow manage to discover something new on every walk....like flowers in bloom peaking out of the hard winter ground in someone's courtyard in mid-December or the renovation of an old restaurant building that was closed when I first got here.

Normal life prevails here and I spend my days doing many of the same things other people are doing all around the world. I work, cook, clean, run errands and meet friends for coffee. Rather than viewing these activities as mundane I see them as signs that I'm adjusting and creating a life for myself here. A recent trip...my first since moving to Germany...back to see my family in Illinois, helped me to connect the life I lead before I came here with the life I lead now. And that was important. Without realizing it I had been trying to keep myself emotionally spread out between my family in Illinois and my sweetheart and friends here and around the world. What I learned was that I don't need to try. Home is where the heart is and it travels with you wherever you go. My home resides in the love I have for my children, my sweetheart and my friends. Home is not a building or structure but the love you give and receive and the memories you build together with the important people in your life. I am no longer feeling pulled between two continents because I know that kind of love stays with you no matter where you are.

Our love story continues as we head into our seventh month together. By all outward appearances you would think Mario and I have been together for the last thirty years. We take turns cooking and cleaning, have developed rituals and traditions such as watching one James Bond movie together each week and we laugh together a lot. Sense of humor is important and we have fun together...though I must say we are both easily amused.

Tomorrow we will take our second trip to Eringerfeld...the place where our love story began some thirty years ago. Going back to the old school and walking around the grounds sends me back to August 1980 and, once more, I am sixteen years old and madly in love with a tall German boy whose language I can barely understand. When I glance over at him now and look in his eyes I see that same boy, feel the same flutter in my heart and know that some things were just meant to be.

A Familiar Voice

Beginning with my second day in Germany, I started taking one or two walks per day through our small town. I figured if I went straight in one direction for twenty minutes, then turned around and headed back the way I came there would be no way I could get lost. As luck would have it, my twenty minute walk took me through the main part of our town where the outdoor market was, right by all the shops and amongst people going about their errands. My turning-around point was the train station at the end of the street where I could either go right, left or turn around and head back home.

For days this was my walking route because I knew I could walk, explore and get out of the house without getting lost. I walked down our street, took a right and walked straight through town past the butcher, the confectioner's shop, the church, the bakeries and the school, then I crossed the street and headed back home. Everyday, I listened to the people talking and watched as they went about their way. Though I probably appeared to have only been walking, I was also soaking it all in. Our town was small, but it was a big, new world for me. As I became more comfortable with my round-trip walk to the train station and back, I began to expand my horizons and walk in different directions.

One morning, almost two months into my stay in Germany I was walking back from the train station, daydreaming and not really paying attention to my surroundings when I heard a familiar voice. Not that it was familiar because it was the voice of someone I knew...rather, the voice had a familiar sound to it. Now, first of all, I had heard plenty of English-speaking Americans and British people during my walks through town. I had also heard people speaking Turkish, Japanese and Polish...and, obviously, German. Dusseldorf and the nearby small town in which we live are somewhat of a melting pot. Maybe not to the degree of larger cities, but the presence of people from other countries is definitely there.

On this particular day, as I approached one of the cafes in town, the voice I heard was an American voice but what made it stand out from the others was the fact that it was distinctly midwestern. My first thought as I heard her speak was "Wow, she sounds just like me!" Hearing another midwesterner speak when you're in the midwest is no more exciting then seeing yet another McDonald's, but when you're somewhere around 5000 miles away from the midwest hearing a familiar sound is almost as exciting as walking into a surprise birthday party.

The woman was in the midst of a spirited discussion with her equally spirited little girl who was a petite little thing of about four years old with wispy, wild blonde hair that reminded me of spun cotton candy. Without missing a beat, I marched straight over to the woman and declared that I'd just had to meet her because she was speaking English and I just wanted to say hello. In the course of our conversation, which lasted all of a few minutes, I learned she was indeed from the midwest and, as luck would have it, was involved with other women who had relocated to Germany from the United States with whom she had coffee on a regular basis. She informed me of the next coffee meet-up for the group of women, we exchanged contact information and then I was on my way and she and her little sprite were on their way, too.

I walked home with a smile on my face. It was special to speak to people from America but typically, after the conversation ended, I knew I would likely never see or speak to them again. But this time there was an opportunity to go out and socialize. Not just with other women, but with other women who also came from America and who, no matter how long they'd been here, were doing their best to adjust to their new home and the different culture.

I've since wondered how many times I must have walked right past this woman as she made her way though town at the same time in which I was taking a walk. Fate certainly played a part that particular morning because not only did I get to hear a familiar-sounding voice, I also ended up making my first friend in Germany. And she came along just when I was beginning to wonder if I might ever meet someone that maybe, just maybe, might end up being my friend.

Three Months and Staying...

It's been nearly two months since I last blogged. I can hardly believe it. So much has happened since the middle of September and I could have easily written dozens of blog entries. My reasons for not writing were never a case of "Oh, there's nothing to write about." Not writing in my blog became a case of my life becoming intertwined with someone else's life and figuring out how to tell a story while also respecting someone else's privacy. It was a matter of figuring out how to transform a story about two people falling in love and coming together into a story of an American woman living in Germany which is, ironically, the title of this blog. It became a battle of "do I give up the writing I love because it's not quite turning out the way I planned?" or "do I give up the plan because I want to continue the writing I love?"

Though it took me nearly two months to work through the inner turmoil and mental tug-of-war, my conclusion has been that sometimes you have to let go of "The Plan" and go with the flow. Each one of us has a story to tell. Like "The Plan", our stories change as our lives move full-speed ahead, screech to a grinding halt or suddenly take a sharp turn when we intended to just keep going straight. The blog I write may not turn out to be what I had mapped out in my mind this past July before I came to Germany, but it will continue to be my story with all it's twists, turns, ups and downs.

In five more days, I will be here for three months. It is hard for me to imagine my life without Mario in it. Sometimes I have a bad day and sometimes he has a bad day. Sometimes we have bad days together. Mostly, we have a lot of good days. But all the days, even the difficult ones, are days where I know he loves me and he knows I love him. We laugh together and we value the time we have together. We are learning how to live with one another and how to be better people because of each other. Regardless of how perfect or imperfect the week has been, at the end of the week Mario always asks "Do you want to stay for one week more?" and I smile and pause like I'm thinking about it, then I say "Okay, yes...one more week."

And, from here, my story continues...