This gallery contains 11 photos.
Ahhh….our things are finally here! I think moving companies should be placed in the same category as natural disasters: you never know when they are going to show up, they are totally out of your control, and all you can … Continue reading
The purpose of this blog is to document my quest for 1000 Places throughout Europe. Traveling all over this continent is romantic and wonderful and all, but unfortunately we are not at that stage yet. We are at the how to read road signs in German so we can pass the test stage, the how to close down the city street to get our household goods into our apartment stage, and the what category of the multi-faceted German trash system does dog poop fit into stage. To be perfectly honest, we are also in the how to adjust to German toilets stage. The romantic travels will come….in due time. Toilets must be de-mystified…now.
When Joe and I came to Germany in May to find a place to live we stayed with the current Olmsted scholars in what would eventually be the “flat” we would occupy ourselves. I noticed that both of the bathrooms had toilet-bowl cleaners in plain sight. Personally, I think toilet-bowl cleaners are gross, and I always hide mine away, but whatever. I didn’t pass another thought about these things until we arrived in Germany eleven days ago.
German engineering of toilets is clearly not as good as cars. Anything you put in the toilet leaves evidence, even after a flush. The Walls have always been a seat-AND-lid-down-when-finished family. This habit did pay off at our first domicile – the Stuttgart Army Post hotel- where we stayed for about a week to in-process. Most of the time the evidence went undocumented because everything was covered; however, when it was time to “go”, there was a guaranteed surprise!
Married couples share a lot of things, but I didn’t really feel like sharing everything. Several days into our stay, I had to initiate a conversation with Joe, because there was no hiding what was occurring in the toilet (this is by no means placing blame on any one person. Everyone falls victim to the unfortunate design of European toilets eventually!). It came to a point where I was trying to figure out how I could go to the bathroom without ever opening my eyes. First, there was the squinting experiment. Then, I tried to prep outside and hurry-up inside, which is only practical for private settings. I also tried the completely-dark-visit, which is just plain dangerous. No solution found.
After leaving Stuttgart we moved on to Kaiserslautern. Our friends here also had toilet bowl cleaners right beside the toilet. Ok, my apologies for ever passing judgment about where a family chooses to house their toilet cleaning utensils. I get it now. In a restroom later that day I found a sign posted that read, “Scrub when Done”. Oh, the weight that was lifted off my shoulders, realizing I was not the only person struggling with the Porcelain Gods. Knowing that it is best to do unto others as I would have done unto myself, I did my civic duty and scrubbed. The sign finally made “potty talk” public knowledge and an open topic for conversation!
From Kaiserslautern we reached our final destination of Freiburg. The first day was jam-packed with logistics and a stop to the WC (water closet) was in order. You must know that my conversations regarding lavatories led to some important information and invaluable opportunities to learn from others’ mistakes. My friend accidentally sent her daughter into the wrong bathroom because she confused the words Damen (ladies) and Herren (gentlemen). The poor girl saw a urinal inside and made a 180 for the door.
So, Joe and I came across some public restrooms with Damen and Herran signs and choose correctly, newly armed with basic vocabulary. How surprised we were to find each other again on the other side of the doors! Inside the stall there was no hook to hang your purse, and there was no way I was going to put my bag down on the bathroom floor. Now I had an entirely new challenge to work through: how to hold onto everything in my hands whilst taking care of business in the public bathroom. At the resolution of this personal debacle, I looked around to complete my “scrub when done” duties. There was no scrubber! Oh my….would my newly-found ritual go uncompleted?! Walking away I found myself overly concerned with the inability to remove all evidence that I had ever stepped into the bathroom. Was I really passing judgment now at the lack of toilet bowl cleaner in plain sight? I think I was!
Moral of the story. When you come to my flat inGermany: don’t judge, just scrub.
So, is it possible for the French think I am a snob? This will probably be a “I guess you had to be there” story, since there is no conceivable way I can convey the accents and communication challenges that are in play during this lengthy interaction with some Frenchmen.
Our landlord has returned toJapan, so she arranged for her friends to walk through the flat with us, sign the papers, and hand over the keys. Here enter the French.
Joe and I park the car and have to bring Liv with us because…well…we are homeless and have nowhere else to put her. We meet the French couple outside and introduce ourselves, as well as Liv. There is some important back-information to know here: When we put Liv in the kennel, we always sign her up for a grooming session on the day that we are going to pick her up. Our kennel gives a free night when you have your dog groomed, and the grooming is cheaper than the price of one night, so we save a whopping $2 and get a clean dog! One of the girls at the kennel really took a liking to sweet Liv and started putting a bandana and matching stick-on earrings on Liv’s ears when she is finished grooming her. This particular pair of earrings has managed to stay on since we left Jersey.
Back to the street scene: Mrs. French pets Liv and asks about her earrings. I try to explain that the groomer likes to put those on her. “Oh, so the dog has her own personal coiffeur?” she asks, as she mimes looking in a mirror and sweeps her other hand around her hair. “No, no,” I try to explain, “it is where we keep her when we are away.” She smiles, but I am unsure if it is because she doesn’t understand, is still trying to understand, or understands clearly and thinks I spoil my dog.
The four of us (+ Liv) start to walk around and inspect the flat, logging any damages and imperfections that are present prior to our acquisition. Here is some more information needed to help this situation make sense: our flat building was originally French barracks from one of the many times the town was either owned or occupied by the French (the exact date is still a mystery). We have the entire floor, because our landlord purchased both flats and knocked down the wall between. It is basically one really long hallway with all the rooms branching off. The French couple lives in a building of the exact same design and lay out, at the end of the same street. As we are walking down the hall together I say to Mrs. French, “This is quite a hallway.” She laughs and says, “Yes, you will need roller skates to get down this hall. You are lucky; we have our three children and only half the flat.” Time for me to open mouth, insert foot. I quickly ask questions about her children to divert the conversation away from the fact that we have twice the space, less than half the people, and are still concerned with how to fit everything in!
Move the scene to the cellar, an hour and a half later: We had purchased numerous European appliances from the previous tenants, since they were moving back to the States. These were all being stored in the cellar. As Joe is going through the items he says, “Here are your three hairdryers, Trysta.” Mr. and Mrs. French look at me….I have nothing to say. Thank goodness for Joe’s quick wit, because he made some jokes about needing to dry his own hair.
Finally, we are looking at the electricity counter and the couple is explaining how we will be billed. Mr. French keeps saying “how much you conceive” instead of “consume” and I smile and nod as if it is perfect grammar. Mrs. French, though, recognizes the error and says “con-SU-may-tion”. More nods, and ja (yes)….ja (yes). This then leads to a conversation about the word “refrigerator” and Mr. French things is it so funny how we, the Americans, say refrigeraTOR. He does his best to mock our accent and Joe returns the favor with a “re-fregh-urgh-reigh-atore”. Ahhh…chuckles all around.
After two hours of sticky, exhausting attempts at communication, all the papers are signed and we are left with 20 keys to the flat. No exaggeration here. Twenty…as in 2-0. Joe and I stand alone, in the long, empty, hallway, hands full of keys, and just look at each other. There is minimal energy left for talking.
Some time later, after wrapping my head around the whole thing, my only lingering concern is: I think the French think we’re snobby!