Life in Small Town German-America

Kandern train station

I used to think that I grew up in a small town. Lake Bluff, population 5,710, felt like quintessential, small-town America, complete with a main street and a park with a gazebo. At least, I used to think so, before I moved to Germany. Because back in August, but I didn't know that Kandern was actually more like small town America than Lake Bluff--except that everyone spoke German and there were no crunchy granola bars.

Even Uncle Sam is in Kandern!

When did the realization hit that my year in Kandern, Germany would be closer to living in small-town America than anywhere else I'd probably ever live? I think it started at Ikea, which is arguably very European, and not very small-town-like. But have you ever run into upwards of forty people you knew at Ikea before? I am not exaggerating. During our first trip to Ikea, we saw new acquaintances around every corner. After thirty minutes of chitchatting at what felt like an architecture and design themed cocktail party without drinks, we had to duck behind the strangely-sized pillow section to sneak out before we ran into more friends. 

The really fun part about every native North American in this town shopping at Ikea, is that everyone's apartments look like slightly different versions of each other--Like the showrooms on Ikea's top floor, plus a lot of Christian books and framed Bible verses. Our friends have the same pillows as we do, only theirs are on the bed instead of the couch. My neighbor has the same plant holder as I do, only I thought it was a candle holder... And of course we all have the same teeny-tiny glasses that couldn't keep a fish hydrated, and make me feel super high-maintenance when I need my glass re-filled seven times during dinner at a friend's.

Running into people we knew at Ikea was great, but it doesn't happen every time. Ikea is, after-all, forty minutes away, in Freiburg. What does happen every time, though, is running into friends at the grocery store. I honestly don't know if I've gone to grocery store in Kandern without seeing someone I know. Ten years ago, when I moved to West Palm Beach for college (or, university, as they say here because it sounds so much cooler), I longed to run into someone at Publix. Because everyone knows that when you see an acquaintance at the grocery store, you really live there. You fit in. You are known. Well, if I added up all the times I've run into people I know at the grocery store in my life, it wouldn't come close to the number of friends I see at the grocery store here in a week. And not only is it nice to see friendly faces amidst the madness of the German grocery experience, but asking a fellow English-speaker, "Where are the breadcrumbs?" is often easier than asking an employee, "Habenzie brot...?" and then acting out the crumbling of bread and hoping they are good at charades.

My favorite part of small town life is the walking. I walk to the grocery store, the cafe, the insurance store, the doctor, friend's houses, the bank, the bookstore, the pharmacy, the little bench by the river...it's all so close and convenient. (I do drive to work, as it is a few kilometers away, and embarrassingly, I usually drive to the main BFA campus, even though it is a few blocks away. I blame it on the preposterous amount of library materials I am usually toting back and forth. Feel free to judge me, it's admittedly pretty lame.)

The most flabbergasting aspect of small town life is the lack of security at the bank. A few times I've gone to the counter to deposit money. I try to avoid this because if you are assisted at the counter more than once a month, you are charged. I did need to pay my doctor bill, though, and so to the counter I marched. Being without my bank card or ID, I figured I would need to deposit cash into the doctor's account.  However, the bank teller ignored the money in my hand and asked for my name, in order to deposit the money directly from my account. He couldn't find me in the system, so I told him my husband's name. Bingo. He found him. "And how much would you like to deposit?" I told him the amount, and that was that. All taken care of. No need to see my bank card, or even my ID to make sure I really was Kate Jones, married to Jordan Jones, from whose account he was about to withdraw a sizable amount of money. 

 One of our friends recently transferred his rent money into his landlord's account, only to find out a few weeks later that his landlord never received the money. Somehow, it was deposited into another family's account. Thankfully, our friend knew this family and together they walked to the bank one day after school to sort out the mess. In America, this fiasco would involve profuse apologies on the part of the bank and probably some kind of free service added to his account at no charge. In Germany, however, the bank offered no apology. And this visit counted as one of his monthly trips to the counter! I love Germany, but sometimes I just don't understand...

The most interesting part of small town life is the overlap of relationships. Life back in Denver was so separate and all my relationships fit into nice little categories. I had my co-workers, Jordan's co-workers, our church friends, neighbors, and extended family. Here, my friend is my co-worker; my student's mom is the counselor; our landlord is Jordan's soccer buddy; my workout partner and friend is Jordan's cello teacher; my other friend's mom is my supervisor; and sometimes I even go to game night with my students' parents. My world's have collided!

 It is strange, but at the same time it is beautiful because it is being known. It forces me to be the same person, remaining consistent even though my roles change. I am not Kate the teacher, Kate the workout person, Kate the church member, Kate the friend. I am just Kate. Kate who does each of those different things, but always the same Kate. (Okay, now my name is starting to sound strange because I've said it too many times.)

So, there's a taste of life in small town German-America. And if you've been longing for small town life, you might want to consider Kandern. You do not even have to carry your bank card with you! Just don't expect an apology from the bank if your rent money actually ends up going to your neighbor who is also your co-worker who is also your librarian who is also your work-out buddy who is also your friend.

The Workout Closet

It started with a challenge. For both of us. If I started working out, he would stop drinking coca-cola. (Actually it began with all the delicious German bread I'd been eating for the past three months...) So I reluctantly agreed, giving no indication of how long the deal would last. Because I hate working out. Historically, I've needed a workout buddy to force me to go to the gym, and even then, it's usually for yoga. I don't mind stretching; it's sweating and increasing my heart rate that is so unappealing.

I began cautiously: twenty minutes on the stationary bike with a really good book and a fan, so that I didn't notice the burn in my legs or the sweat on my neck.

Now, I am grateful for the workout facility we have here. It has lots of different machines and all kinds of weights--even some of those giant balls that look promising, but you end up bouncing on your butt way more than toning muscles because bouncing on your butt is just so fun! Anyway, the location of the workout room leaves something to be desired. It's basically a glorified closet. Athletes are usually coming in and out, toting volleyballs or basketballs to the gym, which is good because the automatic light shuts off every five minutes, making it difficult to read, and no amount of desperate arm waving, or even flinging your book across the room from your position on the stationary bike will turn the light back on. And every fifteen minutes or so, you are startled from your engrossing book by an enormous crashing sound, which is only a renegade basketball pounding briefly against the closet doors.

After a couple weeks, I thought perhaps I might try the elliptical machine. It had always looked a tiny bit fun. Five minutes on it told me I had been deceived. It wasn't fun. It felt like torture as muscles I didn't even know I had began to cry for mercy. 

I workout in boat shoes, please don't judge me.

In the spirit of not being a quitter, I turned on some music, hoping for a distraction. (By that time, I'd found that elliptical reading wasn't impossible, but the dizziness and near falls that ensued made it a less practical choice.)

Maybe it was the CD I chose. In case you can't tell from my other posts, I've always been a big fan of 10th Avenue North...ever since I helped them find a marker to write their set list for our PBA student activities coffeehouse night, before they were famous. (Yes, I'm bragging. And yes, I kept the playlist after I helped clean-up). But as I ran (ellipticalled?), the lyrics began to penetrate my pounding heart.

you fought but you were just too weak

so you lost all the things you tried to keep

now your're on your knees

your're on your knees

As my body ached for rest, my soul ached for God's presence, and I could feel it through the music.

but wait, everything can change

in a moment's time

you don't have to be afraid

'cause fear is just a lie

open up your eyes

I felt desperate. Aware of how desperate I really am for him.

and He'll break open the skies to save
those who cry out His name
the one the wind and waves obey
is strong enough to save you

And when someone, who I knew needed prayer to be set free, joined me in the workout closet, I began to silently pray one of the most passionate pleas I've ever prayed...for someone I hardly knew. 

Working out has begun to grow in me what I've been taught fasting produces: an awareness of our need for God. A tangible reminder of how desperate we really are for him. Who knew that working out would be such a spiritual experience? Perhaps it could be a modern day "spiritual discipline".

These days, what motivates me to go to the gym isn't holding up my end of the coca-cola bargain, or shedding the extra pounds from the German bread, or knowing I'll be letting down a workout buddy; It's the knowledge of how profoundly I need him, that I know will sink deeply into my bones as I pound away on that machine. It's pouring my heart out to him in desperation, and in gratitude for rescuing me. It's the awareness that I need a Savior.  And sometimes, let me be honest, it's still a really good book! 

The Sirens of Sorrento

I threw three coins over my shoulder and into Rome's Trevi fountain thirteen years ago. Legend has it that this act guarantees you a return trip. But really, I wanted to come back to Sorrento, a little town three hours south, where my Dad and I visited during a day trip from Rome. In the years following the two hours I spent there, "Sorrento" was always my answer to the what's-your-favorite-place-in-the-world question.

 Its piercing blue waters, powerful cliffs, and taunting Mt. Vesuvius, beckoned me the way the sirens lured sailors to the dangerous rocks below, thousands of years ago, according to Homer. It's said that the only way Ulysses resisted their song was by stuffing his ears with wax and strapping himself to the mast of his ship. The mermaids (half-woman, half-rooster, according to my mistranslated guidebook), were distraught, thinking they had lost their seductive powers and fled the cliffs. And that's why it is inhabitable today. Thank you, brave Ulysses.

But I discovered, this December, that the sirens still haunt those waters. At least they haunt the shopping district downtown. Their song is so lovely and so subtle, you hardly know they're singing. They whisper in your ear words like, "Isn't that a beautiful purse?" "Have you ever seen such a lovely bag?"

I realized I was listening to their pleasant song when I heard them say, "You've always wanted a Burberry scarf." "I have?" "Yes!" As I passed a window display of sunglasses, they reminded me that my eye doctor recently urged me to buy some Italian sunglasses to protect my eyes. Lovely lace dresses, leather gloves and purses, pottery with bright yellow lemons called to me, begging to come live in my kitchen. "We already match your tea pot! We'd fit in so well!" I wanted all this stuff. And lots of it.

This desire for beautiful things took me by surprise. I'm not usually one to get distracted by stuff, at least not expensive clothes or accessories. I knew it was not going to last. Didn't I memorize Matthew 6:19-20 in first grade? "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven..." My temporary distraction with Burberry scarves and leather purses reminded me of a song I'd been listening to recently. 

"All the Pretty Things" by 10th Avenue North

So we're waiting but our eyes are wandering to all this earth holds dear

Look at all the pretty things

That steal my heart away

I can feel I'm fading

'Cause Lord I love so many things

That keep me from Your face

Come and save me 

"How humbling," I thought, "To be so distracted by meaningless stuff that does indeed distract me from God." I basically gave myself a pass, believing the desires for "all the pretty things" would fade the further we drove from Sorrento and her Gucci wearing sirens. And they did. The longings diminished, but they were unexpectedly replaced by a stark realization: There are actually lots of "pretty things" that distract me from God. They're just harder to identify when they aren't labeled "real Italian leather". It's easier to justify distraction when it's called "travel" or "making memories" or "taking pictures of beautiful places". Even that phrase, "taking pictures", suggest a selfish grabbing for more of what I want. The gorgeous sunset isn't enough. I want to capture it and keep it forever.  Twenty-seven times from each and every angle and setting on my camera.

The beauty of what he's made can subtly distract me from him. Not always. At times it causes me to stop and thank him and marvel at his glory. But more often than I'd like to admit, this beauty, and the desire for more of it, makes me forget all about him--the one who made it for me. I take what I want, and leave satisfied, without so much as a thank you. And then I go home, look at all my pictures and sink further into the self-focused search for satisfaction.

Okay, I realize I may be losing you. You may be questioning my self-deprecating rant against photography. That's fair. Because it's not bad to take pictures of pretty things. For me, though, I am realizing that those pretty things can distract me from what's most important to me: my relationship with God. I hope I cracked open my Bible while I was in Sorrento, but I can't remember very clearly. I do remember taking lots of pictures, looking at them each night and deleting some, lamenting the fact that I hadn't brought my second memory card because 1,000 pictures was not enough, I wanted more, more, more!

Neighboring city of Positano.

It's okay to not read my Bible every day. It's not guilt over skipping my quiet time that is prompting my shame. It's the sad truth that "pretty things" sometimes control my life in a way I didn't know I'd given them permission to do. I feel alive and peaceful and fulfilled when I spend time with God. I want that to be my priority. But clearly, it's not. I am distracted by the sirens' song.

CS Lewis writes in The Weight of Glory:

"It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased."

 And I am far too easily distracted.

And a few more pictures of our trip to Sorrento...

Doesn't he look so Italian drinking cappuccino for breakfast?

Visiting a lemon grove.

I found the graffiti so encouraging.

Somehow, Sorrento felt even more charming in the rain.

Christmas in Europe

Warning: This post may contain a traumatic spoiler for some of my previous kindergarten and first grade students. Please don't read it without your parents' permission.

Intriguing, right? Well, here it is: my confession. I don't actually like Santa Claus. I wasn't raised to dislike him, but my parents were up front with me about the fact that he wasn't real. So we never left him cookies and milk, and he never brought me any presents. To me, he was just kind of the creepy old guy in the red suit who was always hanging around the mall during Christmastime.

Well, after hearing for many years how secular Europe has become, I thought Christmas here wouldn't be a very big deal, or at the very least, it would be all about Santa. How wrong I was! Christmas is a very big deal in Europe. Decorations abound. Across the main street of each town, they drape evergreens with lights and some kind of star or wreath in the center every 4 meters or so, creating a glorious path of light and good cheer!

The windows on the buildings are not to be forgotten and they are either lined with lights or draped in evergreens. In one town square, I counted 92 balconies all dressed in matching greenery with red bows and gold, silver, green, and red balls. And lights, of course. Another staggering number was the thirty-odd Christmas trees in downtown Kandern. They have crammed Christmas trees into every nook and cranny. If space doesn't exist for one--no problem--they'll slice it down the middle and stick half a tree against a wall, leaving barely enough room to squeeze by.

But no one cares because it's Christmastime and they can just walk in the streets that are closed half the month for all the festivals and Christmas markets. The town is transformed into a magical Christmas land. They build little huts or booths that become shops, selling nativity sets, scarfs, candles, mulled wine, and roasted chestnuts. The exact opposite of a mall, the Christmas markets actually make Christmas shopping fun! Stores are open late and the entire town bundles up and comes out to celebrate.

With my sweet friend Betsy, inside the drink booth at the BFA Christmas banquet.

Of course, shops and restaurants go all-out in making their windows the most Christmasy as possible, filling them with evergreens, ornaments, snowballs, and advent candles. Advent is very important. Everyone has at least one kind of advent wreath, and if you don't, you can buy one at the grocery store, flower store, or local fruit stand. In fact, the town fountain in Kandern is transformed into a larger-than-life advent wreath complete with light bulbs and paper flames.

The only tradition that appears more prevalent than the advent celebration is the displaying of the nativity scene. No one seems to find it offensive, or politically incorrect, or hurtful to people celebrating Hanukkah or Kwanzaa, or not celebrating anything at all. No, in fact, everyone seems to be in a secret competition with one another to display the best nativity ever. I've seen the holy family made of wood, clay, paper, and even pizza dough! They appear in churches, of course, but also above doorways, outside parking garages, and even in fish tanks! An electronics store in Italy, not to be left out, simply stuck a baby, presumably Jesus, in a basket (Or was it Moses?) on the counter. There wasn't room for Mary or Joseph, much less shepherds or wise-men among the electronic gadgets, but Jesus is, arguably, the most critical figure.

Outside a parking garage, Jesus appears to already be practicing his cartwheels.

A pizza dough creche is most impressive.

Behind these gates, I encountered my first ever live-nativity. It was cool, until I saw the three wise-men...three women drinking coffee and chatting with each other.  Apparently there is a shortage of wise-men actors.

And the nativity in a fish tank.

For all creatures, great and small.

It is funny, and refreshing, and a little bit sad to be so readily reminded of why we celebrate Christmas by people who perhaps only display their nativities because of tradition, and not because of any true faith in the baby who was born because of the deep love God has for them. But sometimes it's hardest to see what's right in front of us. And sometimes, I think, God uses people who don't even know him, to draw others closer to himself. Regardless, I'm grateful for the ever present reminders of Jesus birth from these sweet little towns.

And Santa? The only times I've seen him, he's been crawling up a rope or ladder, trying to get in a window or balcony, but he never seems to make it inside.