A couple of weeks ago we rented a car and drove to the American consulate in Berlin. Jake needed to apply for a passport renewal, but mostly we needed to do all the paper work that establishes Jethro as an actual person: passport, social security number, etc. We considered taking the train, which is what we would've done B.J. (Before Jethro). But the thought proved too terrifying. I couldn't get visions of Jethro having a nervous breakdown on a crowded train out of my head. And I wasn't terribly excited about the prospect of attempting a very public nursing session. We ultimately decided to rent a car — the first time we've driven ourselves anywhere in the last year and a half, with the exception of our Trabi Safari last May. It was great. Public transit here is wonderful, always reliable and on time, and I'm grateful that I don't have to learn how to navigate the crazy narrow streets here, but we still miss cars. Cars = freedom.
I would've gotten a shot of the consulate for you, but photographs outside it were verboten. And no electronic devices were allowed inside, not even USB drives. So you'll have to take my word for it, but we were in and out surprisingly quickly. We complain about bureaucracy in America, but nothing in America that I've experienced rivals the red tape we've had to slash through in Germany getting visas and tax numbers and everything else one needs to keep from being deported. Jumping through American hoops for a change was utterly refreshing. Surrounded by quirky tourism posters ("Visit OKLAHOMA!"), we filled out four or five forms in the small, quiet waiting room and were finished. It was a breeze.
In fact, the worst part about the trip was Jethro's meltdown in the McDonald's parking lot immediately afterward. Well, that, or the cramped and tangled post-diaper explosion backseat costume change right before we went into the consulate. I think it's a tie.
*** Note: The bombing of Dresden was 64 years ago, not 54 years ago, which I say in this video. Apologies for my pathetic math skills and a special thank you to my Uncle Dyle for being able to solve the simple subtraction problem that I apparently could not. ***
Today once again marks the anniversary of the infamous 1945 Allied firebombing of Dresden that, in one night, leveled most of the city and killed somewhere between 24,000 and 40,000 of its inhabitants.
Neo-Nazis rally along the Elbe River in Dresden, across from the city's famous Frauenkirche. (Photo from 2005 timesonline.co.uk article.)
And tomorrow, as they do every every year, the Neo-Nazis will descend on Dresden promoting their belief that the firebombing of Dresden was, in actuality, a racist holocaust enacted against Germans. Anywhere from 6,000 to 8,000 are expected to gather downtown tomorrow, prompting a massive police operation that will involve over 3,000 officers. There will also, of course, be a massive left-wing counter-protest, and I'm sure the police force will be kept busy. An e-mail was sent around the biotechnology institute where Jake works warning all foreigners either to be especially careful downtown or to avoid it altogether.
My initial reaction upon hearing news of the rally was, "Oh man. I am so there." Purely for curiosity and educational reasons, of course. But the more I think about spending my Valentine's Day with Neo-Nazis, the less appealing it sounds. Besides, it's probably not the best atmosphere to be bringing a baby into. Even if said baby is an Aryan.
JEM
P.S. Stay tuned for a video tour of a couple of sites particularly significant to the 1945 bombing of Dresden.
My whole life I've never really been a baby person.
I mean, I thought they were cute, but they've always made me very nervous and uncomfortable. My youngest brother is only 5 years younger than me, so I didn't grow up around babies the way some people do, and I never really learned the baby arts of holding and soothing and burping and diaper changing. It felt like any time anyone passed me a baby, I would do something wrong and require correction. Babies, of course, are like horses in that they can smell anxiety. So, naturally, any time one found its way into my arms, it would scream and squirm and generally act as uncomfortable as I felt.
This has always gnawed at me a little. I felt like I was missing some trait inherent in all women, and I worried about the day I'd be left alone with my own baby. Would I know what to do with it? Would it accept me? Would I accept it? Would we even like each other? The decision to get pregnant required a bit of a leap of faith on my part that the feelings and instincts would come — sort of a "Field of Dreams" mentality.
And so, a few hours after Jethro was born and I had settled into my hospital room and Jake went home for the night, the nurse wheeled Jethro into my room. Smiling, she said I could snuggle him or whatever I wanted, and when I was ready to sleep I could take him to the baby room across the hall. And then she walked out. I was alone with my child for the first time in my life. My initial feeling was a little bit of panic. I wanted to call out to the nurse, "Wait! I don't even know how to hold him! What do I do?" I stared at him for a moment and then gingerly pulled him out of his shopping cart-crib thing. I awkwardly shifted positions for a while, trying to figure out what worked, and he was patient with me. Gradually the panic and discomfort faded and disappeared. It's hard to explain the feelings that took over. For lack of a better description, I felt like a mother. I felt calm and unafraid and confident. Not so much confident in my abilities, as confident in my bond with Jethro. Confident that we would learn together and help each other.
Next week he will be three months old. And we have learned and helped each other. But not only have I developed all those baby skills I'd always lacked, I have been genuinely shocked at how much I love this new job. I love everything about it. I love holding him and napping with him and feeding him and changing him and bathing him. I love watching him grow and develop little personality traits. Even when he's screaming I love it. I'm just crazy about him. Every little thing about him.
Apparently passport photos aren't kind to anyone. However, our trip to the friendly neighborhood portrait photographer yesterday reminded me of another strange German phenomenon (we're on a roll, kids!): Hanging on the walls and in the windows of every little photo shop in Germany, amongst the normal baby, wedding and happy family portraits, there are always several massive, dramatically lit black and white prints of buck naked people. Sometimes you see faces, sometimes you don't. Sometimes the "special areas" are disguised, sometimes they're not. OK, usually they're not. Sometimes it's just a three foot wide poster of someone's butt or provocatively arched and greased up torso, man or woman.
It's not so much that these pictures are on such prominent display that I find strange — rather the fact that, apparently, people regularly pay money for naked pictures of themselves. What in the world does one do with a gigantic black and white, soft focus photo of one's own bosoms draped in a long strand of pearls? Hang it over the fireplace? Really? And when company comes, what are they supposed to say? "Ah! Are these the bosoms we've heard so much about? They're wonderful! You should be very proud. But of course you are. You have a massive print of them hanging in your living room."
Yeah, OK, so maybe you have a significant other who is particularly fond of your bosoms or can or what-have-you. And let's say this significant other happens to have a void of taste so dense that it swallows planets. I guess I could see getting a little something made up for him or her. I guess.
So, I suppose, for me, the most baffling naked pictures are the ones of couples together, entangled in some dramatic pose. What are you supposed to do with that? Send it out with the wedding invites? Hang it up so you can see how hot you are together every day? How in love with yourself does a person have to be to say, "Hey, Babe, you know what that blank wall in the entry way needs? A big naked picture of the two of us. Maybe on a bearskin rug."
Wait a second ... that is exactly what the blank wall in our entry way needs! Couples Brazilian bikini wax, here we come!
I'm from Idaho, but I live in Dresden, Germany. In a former life I was a journalist. I'm married to a mad scientist from Las Vegas named Jake, who is working on his Ph.D. here in computational biology. We have a baby boy named Jethro. We are Mormons fascinated by various things. This blog is about our lives, with particular emphasis on life in Germany through the eyes of an American. Enjoy your stay.
