The German Doctor

I alluded to my first visit to the German doctor in my Paris post. I was brave for two, long days after the stress-induced seizing up of my neck, but in a weak moment, Web MD's information about meningitis got the best of me, and after a frenzied 2 am phone call to my Mom, I made a doctor's appointment to make sure I wasn't dying.

And for real, I couldn't move. I just laid there "whimpering," as Jordan put it, most of the night, because I couldn't turn my head an inch (or centimeter, as we say in Europe) and felt constant pain. My phone call to the doctor was brief, and largely aided by Google Translator. I hung up, hoping that I had made an appointment.

A few hours later, Jordan and I were on our way to the doctor. The drive took about one minute. (I love living in a small town!) Fifteen frantic minutes after we parked, though, we found exactly where the office was located. Once inside, I gave them my name, and we sat down in the waiting room where I "read" an article about Kate and William in the German version of People magazine. Having been deprived of my secret habit of reading People (#justonvacation #idon'tsubscribe, #don'tjudgeme #it'smymom'sfault) for two long months, during which time a royal baby was born, I've never wished I understood German as much as I did during those 10 minutes in the waiting room.

I'd heard rumors that doctors in Germany don't follow the same social norms for patients undressing as we do in the states. Aka, there are no paper gowns. And the doctor doesn't leave you alone, in private, to change. So I was not completely surprised when, after asking me a few questions about my pain, the doctor told me I could take my shirt off, while he finished up a few notes. Thankfully, I'd thought ahead, and worn an undershirt.

After I few minutes of poking and pushing on my neck, the doctor told me that "the muscles have had too much contractions." Just as I suspected. My treatment? Two prescriptions. One for physical therapy. The other, for pain medication that I later learned is banned in the US except for treatment of large farm animals, because of its risk of some disease I can't pronounce. 30 drops every 4 hours. In addition to my prescriptions, I was to have three treatments of electrotherapy, beginning right away.

The nurse ushered me into a different room where she proceeded to hook me up to a machine using four large suction cups with wet sponges inside. She set the timer for 10 minutes. Thankfully, I had asked her if "mein Mann" could join me, because two minutes later I was blacking out and Jordan was running to get the nurse. She burst in, turned off the machine, popped the suction cups off my back, and heaved my legs into the air where she held them for several minutes until I came to. By this time, the doctor had joined us. "You are okay?" he asked. "Yes, I think so," I replied.  "Good. We try again."

The second attempt was successful, and after a few weeks, and 480 drops of medicine, my neck felt much better.

Homesick

Though I feel little pangs of sadness and homesickness for the places I love, it is a comfort to know that they are there. Not only can I mentally walk the streets of Lake Bluff, noting the familiar cracks in the sidewalk, and admiring the street corners where the leaves are surely burning red this week, but even as I write, people are walking those streets, the leaves crunching beneath their feet. Some of them are strangers, but others are so dear, the lines on their faces as familiar to me as the cracks on the sidewalk.

I remember visiting West Palm Beach after graduating and after breaking up with Jordan. It felt so empty; so hollow. Like seeing Nana lying in the hospital bed after she died. It wasn't her anymore. West Palm Beach felt like a body void of its soul apart from the people who made the place so dear.

It is the people that make the place what it is, yet it is not people I have missed since moving to Germany. I miss the places. I miss Lake Geneva's silky, warm waters. I miss Breckenridge, with its crisp mountain air and sunny skies. I miss Captiva and the familiar crunch beneath my feet as I walk to the beach on streets made from crushed bits of shell.

Lake Geneva, Wisconsin

Garden of the Gods, Colorado Springs

Captiva Island, Florida

Vail, Colorado

This is not a new phenomenon for me, this missing of places. Freshman year of college in Florida, I plastered my walls with pictures of my beloved Lake Bluff. Sophomore year, I longed for the warm beaches of Florida, as I spent a semester studying in Colorado. Junior year, my desk was adorned with pictures of Colorado...

Garden of the Gods, Colorado Springs

 

Lake Dillon, Silverthorne, Colorado

I am often longing for...elsewhere. Dreaming of the day when I will return. And when I do, it's not long before the elusive desire for elsewhere grabs me again.

Is that why I wander?

South Park, Colorado

“If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy,
 the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.”
--C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity
 

Perhaps that is the reason I long for elsewhere...

...I am homesick.

Paris: The Worst Trip of my Life

So it's been a few weeks since we eagerly returned home to Kandern from an adventure in Paris. 

And it's taken me this long to decompress and debrief...to make some sense out of it. 

To find redemption.

Okay, yes, I'm being a little dramatic and I realize I sound like an absolute brat complaining about a trip to Paris. I can feel the judgment.  For the record, I know that not having a fun trip to Paris is not a big problem. It's not really a problem at all, but it did teach me a few things that I feel 

compelled to share.

What do you imagine when you think of Paris? I anticipated romance, dressing like Audrey Hepburn, charming patisseries, music from my 'Paris after Dark' CD playing on every street corner, and of course, a view of the Eiffel tower from our hotel room. I went into our Paris trip with high expectations. Visions of sketching in the Tuileries, walking hand and hand alone the Seine, and eating crepes in the park under the Eiffel Tower enticed me.

And in fact, these weren't just visions. My life briefly turned into a movie for 5 days the summer after I graduated from high school when Betsy, my MWAITWWW (my most wonderful aunt in the whole wide world), took me to Paris for my 18th birthday. (Michelle, Kathy, Bonnie, Bet, you are all wonderful, too.) I was mesmerized by the City of Lights: awed by the Louvre, delighted by the charms of the Champs-Elysees, and over-all, just tickled pink. And our hotel room really did have a view of the Eiffel tower. So my expectations were, in a sense, rooted in reality.

As it turns out though, grown-up Kate does not like big cities. I find them quite overwhelming, and so does Jordan. Paris, I re-discovered, is a very big city. Especially when you are trying to navigate by car and attempting to park said car. Beware the sneaky underground parking garage that will take you through a mile long maze underneath the city after which you will pop out who knows where. As it turns out, the affordable hotels do not have views of the Eiffel tower. They have views of the goth store across the street selling creepy black trench coats and dog collars (for people). And that was one of the nicer stores in the neighborhood. As it turns out, grown-up Kate has panic attacks on the streets of Paris when she gets lost on her bike. And an entire weekend of biking can land you at the German doctor's office the following week when your neck and upper back seize up from stress. Are you beginning to see how my expectations were not lining up with my reality? And that was the root of the problem. In fact, that seems to be the root of a lot of my problems.

Lest you are beginning to wonder why I even bothered to share the story of this weekend getaway gone awry, two things did redeem the trip: the Eiffel Tower, and the lesson.

The Eiffel Tower was just as magical as I remembered. Ten years ago, (!) Aunt Betsy took me to eat in the fancy restaurant on the second level, and we didn't have to wait in line to go up. Afterward, she asked if I wanted to go all the way to the top, but I declined, tucking away the idea to save a trip to the very top with my future husband.

Though waiting in the long line that evening made our backs ache and our feet sore, it also heightened our anticipation for the adventure that awaited. And the trip to the top of the "Tour Effiel" was enchanting. A dream come true. I took about 5 million pictures as the 

sun settled down for the night while the City of Lights seemed to awaken

A few weeks ago, I asked God for a lesson from each new city we visit. (I may need to modify that to towns now that I realized we don't like visiting cities.) In Paris, God showed me that my expectations have the potential to ruin the experience. Or at least miss the real experience. A wise friend recently told me, "The difference between expectation and reality is misery." I expected so much out of Paris. Had I begun the trip without so many notions of what it would be, I would have been much more open to the beauty of reality, and much less miserable. As it was, it's taken me a few weeks to look back on the trip with fond memories. 

I'm grateful for this insight now, because it gives me a glimpse of how my expectations have the potential to damage my relationships...especially with my husband, and with the children I don't yet have. Poor Jordan didn't know when he married me that I had years worth of future husband lists recorded in my journals...qualities I hoped and expected my husband to have. These lists were compared with my friends' lists at countless sleepovers and small groups and ultimately became a larger-than-life mental picture of the amazing man my husband would be. And my husband is amazing...but he doesn't qualify for every item on my list. No one could. It's now my choice, faced with that reality, whether to focus on my unmet expectations, or to focus on the beauty of what God has given me. Similarly, my hopes and dreams for our future children, and who they will someday become are already forming in my heart. I want to let go of those expectations and replace them with an openness for what God has in store. 

Thank you, Paris. Thank you, God.

Here are more 'redeeming moments' I captured between the traffic, panic attacks, and getting lost.

Giverny

I painted this very bridge in 3rd grade.

"Hay" there!

So fun to search Paris for "The Happenings" with this sweet girl and her hubby!

Isn't he cute?!

A Story.

Plot charts. Falling action. Exposition. Theme. These words have all been buried in the recesses of my brain, gathering dust for the past 10 years. I didn't think I would ever need them again. Yet, last month, I found myself creating lesson plans in which I had to teach these terms and concepts. Scary.

My students were gracious when I taught characterization wrong one day. They enthusiastically brainstormed themes for the short stories we read. And they humored me when I asked them to create plot charts of God's story. The story of redemption. The story of Jesus coming to earth to live as a man. The climax, of course, being when he dies on the cross, is buried, and rises from the dead three days later.

I figured this would be an easy assignment. These kids grew up as missionaries, after all! They knew this story. Most of them turned down my offer of a Bible to help them find their three required supporting verses. They already had them memorized. Neatly written charts were soon piling up in the assignment tray.

One student, working quietly in the corner, had taken a Bible and opened to the book of Matthew at the beginning of class, presumably finding his supporting verses. Yet, in the book of Matthew he stayed. Toward the end of 4th period, his plot chart was still blank. And he was still reading. I interrupted him to make sure he understood the assignment.

"Oh yes," he replied. "It's just that...I don't really know this story. I've never really read the Bible before, so I need to read it first, and then I can do my plot chart."

I attempted to mask my surprise. "Of course!...And this is a great opportunity to read it. Um...It might take you a while to read the whole thing, though, so..." I offered him extra time and suggested some adults in his life who could give him a summary. He thanked me, and continued reading.

 

A few days later, I sat grading these plot charts, remembering myself as a middle school student. I wouldn't have needed a Bible for this assignment either. In fact, that's all it probably would have been to me. An assignment. Another grade on my report card. Even though this story is the crux of my faith. It encapsulates everything I believe, affects how and why I live my life, and gives me purpose. I would be nothing without this story.

And while many of my students would agree with those words and the power of this story in their own lives, this plot chart was probably just another assignment to them, too. A nice way to integrate faith and learning. But for at least one student, this was an open door. An invitation and an opportunity to step into something new. To be exposed, for the first time, to the story of all stories.

From one man he made all the nations, that they should inhabit the whole earth;

and he marked out their appointed times in history and the boundaries of their lands. 

God did this so that they would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him,

though he is not far from any one of us.

‘For in him we live and move and have our being.’

Acts 17:26-28a

 

 

He is not far from any one of us.

On food. Or more precisely, carbs, and the German grocery experience.

Recently, we've taken to eating bread for dinner on Friday nights. This is not because we are missionaries, and it is not because I can't cook. (Actually, I can cook now, though some of you who lived with me during the plastic-bowls-in-the-toaster-oven phase might find that hard to believe.)

We dine on bread and water Friday nights because of the amazing bread that is sold at the amazing fruit (and bread) stand every Friday. (Warning: if you are gluten free, this post may cause feelings of dissatisfaction and anger. Read on at your own risk.)

The amazing fruit stand

This bread will change your life. The perfect balance between soft and dense. Sprinkled with a little bit of salt and some herbs. In fact, writing this post has taken me much longer than it should because of the constant urge to take another bite of said bread. Spread a little butter, coconut oil, or (my favorite) boursin cheese on it, and who needs a meat, vegetable or fruit for a complete meal?

Another favorite, though less indulged-in treat, are schokocroissants (chocolate croissants). When I was four or five years old, I would wrap a towel around my head after a bath and pretend to be Claude the Baker. This is because there was a German bakery in our town (owned by Claude) (the baker) that we frequented for his smiley face cookies and chocolate croissants. I haven't yet encountered the same yellow smiley face cookies, but I have found sad faced cookies. (Maybe some sort of German health warning?) However, chocolate croissants never fail to delight me by bringing me back to that happy childhood memory. And who doesn't love a trip to the bakery?

The German bakery experience is quite similar to what you would find in an American bakery.  The German grocery shopping experience, however, is quite different than in the states. Let me walk you through a typical trip.

Kate's guide to the German grocery store:

 

First, make sure you have some plastic bags in your car, as there are bags for purchase only in the store. If you want to be a little more charming, bring your basket.

If you are buying more than a couple days' worth of food, (which isn't common, as the refrigerators are small and food spoils quickly with less preservatives inside) bring a euro or two for a cart. Your euro will be returned to you when you return your cart, but you need to slide it into the slot to take a cart away. Hence, there is no need for the grocery store workers to scramble all over the parking lot collecting carts from lazy shoppers. Very efficient. Very German.

 

Once inside, you may need to stop at the incredible bottle eating machine (not the official name) depending on how many bottles you have collected that week. Insert all of your plastic bottles and cans, and the machine will spit out a receipt of store credit for you to spend. Do not attempt to "throw" or "toss" bottles into this temperamental machine. Unless you gently place them, it will vengefully spit the bottles back out at you, despite the fact that your arms are full and bottles are clattering to the floor.

Do not be alarmed if you don't hear any music, or if you smell cigarette smoke. Music is not played in most German stores and the smoke is just coming from the workers who are taking a smoke break out back. If you move quickly through the dairy section, you won't smell it by the time you get to the bread.

If you can stand the smoke, take a moment in the dairy section to revel in the fact
that you can buy brie cheese for only 1 euro!

If you are looking for freshly sliced deli chicken or turkey, you have come to the wrong country. After asking numerous grocery stores and butchers for "hanchenbrust" or "putenbrust", I have given up. Typically they say yes, and then point to a pinkish, brownish sausage-like cut of meat that has clearly been ground up and put into some sort of mold. And if you are looking for crunchy granola bars, stop wasting your time. They aren't here. I've looked. Everywhere. Nature Valley granola bars used to be a staple in my diet. Perfect for a morning snack, a hike, or an emergency snack in your purse that you might not need for five days but you're so happy when you find it because you're stuck in traffic with nothing to eat and your blood sugar is getting low and even worse, you're getting hangry. (Not a typo.) You may also have trouble finding pecans, salsa, good tortilla chips (according to Jordan), and almond butter.

That happy moment when you find a stowaway granola bar in your pocket after you've been in Germany for month.

However, if you want yogurt, gummy bears, pretzels, granola, chocolate, cheese, sausage, fresh fruit or veggies, you are in the right place. I find it easiest to buy whole foods because they don't involve reading German labels. If you are in doubt, just buy it, google translate it when you get home, and if it sounds too gross, bring it to share at your staff lunch on Friday. While shopping, ignore any rules you follow in America regarding personal space, or waiting your turn. If you want to be very polite, you can say, "Entschuldigen" for excuse me, but most likely, your fellow German shopper will give you a puzzled look, since pushing past someone, and even bumping into them to get through is perfectly acceptable. Don't forget to weigh and price your fruit and vegetables yourself. If you don't, the clerk will ask you to do it upon check-out and this will annoy the customers in line behind you who have all followed the rules about weighing fruits and veggies.

If the check-out lines are long, hang back a bit. Most likely, a clerk will call for back-up. But don't expect the customers behind you to honor the fact that you were in line first. No one will smile at you and insist that you go ahead of them. Once another register opens up, it's every man for himself. Don't be surprised if the man behind you jumps ahead in line and then appears totally unaware of your death glare from behind. (In hindsight, you will see this is a good thing, as you are supposed to be sharing the love of Jesus in this country.) And to be fair, if you arrive at the register with only a few items, the woman with a cart-full of groceries ahead of you, will probably let you cut in front of her.

The never-ending dairy case

Place your items on the conveyer belt, like you would normally, but be prepared to scoop them up yourself after they are scanned. Have your basket or bags ready. If you're not quick enough, just toss your purchases back in the cart and deal with them in the safety of the parking lot. I can only conclude that German grocery check-out clerks must go through rigorous training to learn how to scan items at record speeds. And of course, the counter space after the register is quite limited, so if you don't move quickly, cucumbers and yogurt will be piling up and falling on the floor.

Right about now, the clerk will say something to you that you cannot understand. She is telling you the total price for your groceries. Just hand her the largest bill in your wallet as if you have nothing smaller. Over time, you will end up with lots of change this way, but you will also avoid looking like a total fool in front of the customers waiting in line behind you. Keep in mind that once you pay, the clerk is done with you and will move on to the next customer. Do not give her any money until you are prepared to move yourself and your groceries and your cart out of the way for the next customer. (This is probably not proper etiquette, but more of a survival technique.)

(There is no picture of this step. Honestly, it would be like trying to capture a picture of a bolt of lightning.)

The clerk will hand you the receipt, and bid you "Choos!" in a sing-songy voice, to which you cheerfully reply, "Choos!" as if your heart isn't racing and you certainly aren't about to cry or simply drop from mental exhaustion. Once your groceries are nestled in your car and you have returned your cart and collected your coin, you can do some deep breathing exercises in the car to calm your nerves. This will also help in preparing you for the next step: driving a stick shift car through the narrow streets of a pedestrian filled town.

Consider your trip a success if you arrive home in one piece with some food. Because even if you don't know what you bought, or how much you paid for it, you can always serve fresh bread for dinner, and have a chocolate crossiant for dessert.