The Homeland, Part I

Well, I was right.

After returning to the homeland, it quickly became clear that in the American West, we now qualify as obnoxious, environmentalist, bleeding-heart socialists, while in Germany, we remain the wasteful, lazy, capitalist scum we've always been. But more on that a little later. First I'd like to subject you to the obligatory post-vacation slideshow! I barricaded all the exits in advance, so you might as well sit back and enjoy.

Away we go

Train to the airport in Dresden

We flew Air India because it was the cheapest option. And I mean no disrespect to India or its inhabitants when I say that we were a little nervous about this decision. Our nervousness turned into sick resignation when we arrived at the windowless, exit-less, almost service-less gate that felt a little like a refugee camp. But to our delight, we found Air India to be a fantastic airline. The meals were awesome (lamb curry ... mmmmm), the female flight attendants wore saris and nose studs, and our fellow Indian passengers were as patient as saints with Jethro's occasional meltdowns. Also, it turns out that while traveling with a baby may be stressful (changing diapers in those little bathrooms should be an Olympic event), people take really good care of you. On the way there, we actually got upgraded to business class, which was quite glorious.

Jethro enjoys a scene from the lighthearted musical romp "Mama Mia".

How my suitcase arrived. This was no fault of any airline, but rather our own fault for using a 20-year-old suitcase with a faulty zipper.

Idaho
We hit up my family first so that we could see this young man return from his 2-year LDS mission to Denmark.


That's my 21-year-old youngest brother Spencer. He's artistic, musical, fashionable, funny, and devilishly handsome.

He's also a fantastic speaker, which I never realized until I heard him report his mission at church. I was a very proud big sister.

And he's available! Also available is my other, 24-year-old brother Ford.

He's a flattop-rocking genius musician, master chalupa maker, large scale prank coordinator, and Mormon doctrine scholar.


He's also the proud father of a rescued Furby.




(That's the video I'm sending with his application to become the next "Bachelor".)

In addition to his uncles, Jethro met his Grandpa Erickson for the first time ...

???

and got reacquainted with Grandma Erickson.

Being back in Idaho was good for me. Germany's wet, foresty climate is beautiful, but I often miss the big wide-openness of my birthplace.


As well as the regularity with which one finds animal appendages just lying around. We also took Jethro to the site where Jake and I were married in 2002, the Idaho Falls LDS Temple.

Jake works with my cousin Zach and uncles Skinny and Dyle on the waffle line at Spence's brunch-themed welcome home party.

Jake, Spencer, and I were joyfully reunited with gallon-sized milk jugs.

We had a lovely time getting sick on pizza and burgers and fries and milkshakes and my dad's famous waffles, but before we knew it we were winging it to ...

Las Vegas

For my 26th birthday, Jake showed me a fine night out on the fabulous Las Vegas Strip.

Almost as soon as we were reintroduced to the rocket-going-off-in-your-face heat of Las Vegas, we hurled ourselves into Jake's parents' backyard pool, where we more or less stayed for about a week.


We emerged occasionally to eat, shop, watch the BBC miniseries "Little Dorrit", eat, sleep, and play with the family members in the Las Vegas area.

At Jake's sister Amy's place.

In the millisecond following the taking of this picture, Bradley (right) landed on the foot of Audrey (left) resulting weeping, wailing, and an X-ray. But I think Audrey will now agree that it was totally worth it.

Me pretending to kayak on Lake Mead.

Jake's brother John (left) threw us a joint birthday party that rocked.

Jethro experiments with solid food.

Jake hooked up with some old high school pals at Metro Pizza.

And then we were off to the Michaelson family reunion at ...

Bear Lake

The women-folk bask.

For the uninitiated, Bear Lake is a beautiful, pristine lake that straddles the Idaho and Utah border within spitting distance of Wyoming. Interesting fact: It was settled, in part, by Jake's great-great-grandfather and namesake Jacob Michaelson, a Danish immigrant and Mormon polygamist.

The Michaelson clan with what remains of great-grandpa Thomas Michaelson's cabin. (Not pictured: Mom Michaelson, who I think was sneakily avoiding cameras in the car, and Adam, Jake's older brother, whose wife, Summer, had just had a baby just a couple of days prior — IN HER LIVING ROOM!!! We were able to stop by their house on our way to Bear Lake, only an hour after the baby had been delivered. Both baby girl and mother were beautiful. Summer is Wonderwoman.)

Near Bear Lake, up a pretty precarious dirt road, is a beautiful forest and meadow where Jake's dad lived in a tiny cabin as a little boy with his older brother and parents. His dad operated a sawmill there, and his mother cooked all the meals for the logging crew. There's nothing left now, but Jake's Dad remembers it all in vivid detail.

Jake and kid sister Missy leap across a raging river.

Mom Michaelson defaces a tree at the sawmill site with her initials.

Then we headed back to Las Vegas.

Missy was kind enough to drive our messy, sick, and sometimes screaming selves.

We had to make a couple of stops along the way. First, we made a little stop in Logan, Utah, Jake's and my pre-Dresden home. It's also where we met and fell in love. We have a lot of good memories there. (Thanks to my aunt Jenae and uncle Scott for putting us up for a night there!)

Jethro at the exact site of his parents' first kiss on the Utah State University campus.

Then we had to stop in Provo, Utah, so Jake's grandma could give Jethro her stamp of approval. (He passed by the skin of his tiny little teeth.)

And then we were on the open road passing through some of the most beautiful country I know of.

Back home
And after a couple of days we were back on Air India.

I was sad to leave our families behind again, but was amazed at the giddiness I felt when we landed in Frankfurt and were once again in the Vaterland.

OK, I'm removing the barricades now. But don't wander too far! COMING SOON ... "The Homeland, Part II": My thoughts on reverse culture shock after returning to America after 2 years! Guaranteed to be even more boring than "Part I"!!! DON'T MISS IT!!!



JEM

No Land's Man

We're flying back to the United States for a visit. I say "back" for Jake and me, but it'll be Jethro's first time there, even though he's a U.S. citizen. When we set out on this adventure (see previous post) we didn't really think we'd set foot on U.S. soil again for three and a half years. But then we had a baby. And it became increasingly evident that Jake's folks, desperate to meet their 19th grandbaby, weren't up for a trip out here. Maybe more specifically, their knees weren't up for going up and down six flights of stairs multiple times a day while they were staying with us. So Jake's parents decided to give us the money they'd been saving to come to us and instead bring us to them. Jake and I are blind with excitement. But there are nerves, too. And not just about a transatlantic flight with this guy:



Although that prospect does chill the blood. Beyond that I'm nervous that I'm going to return to my homeland and it's not going to feel like home anymore. There are so many aspects of European life that have been good for me, that have made me better and healthier. But they are things that will undoubtedly make me seem and feel strange on U.S. turf. I fear this visit will give me a taste of the "man-without-a-country" sensation I'll no doubt suffer through for a while when we return for good. I hope I'll be able to keep up the good habits I've formed here, but I have this sinking feeling that I won't have the willpower.

For example, we have no car here. So we take public transit, Jake bikes to work, or we walk. I walk all the time. Just to get to the tram stop, I walk a couple of blocks. And then there's always the 99 stairs to be climbed to get back home. I do it several times a day. Usually lugging an ever-heavier baby and a bunch of groceries. Before we came here I would go for weeks without walking more than a block in a day. I drove everywhere. My job was something like four or five blocks from our apartment and I drove there almost every day. The grocery store was two blocks away and I drove. Thinking about it now makes my skin crawl. But then I also realize that going to an American grocery store with a backpacking backpack (completely normal here) would make me look like a very un-subtle kleptomaniac, and the larger sizes of grocery items in America would probably make my normal routine impossible anyway.

Another thing that's improved our health has been the inaccessibility of fast food. It's here, but not near our place. So we have to make an effort. And, anyway, none of our favorites are here: Arby's, Sonic, Wendy's, Taco Bell/Time, Little Caesar's, etc., etc. Before it was everywhere, and it was faster and often cheaper than preparing food ourselves. And so that was dinner for us probably three or four times a week. Here, we eat it almost never. The biggest side effect of this is that I have learned how to cook, which is a life skill I'm finding to be quite useful and rewarding. I'm also pretty certain that if our arteries could talk, they'd thank us. But despite this, some of the activities highest on our "To Do in America" list involves eating garbage. Jake must have an Arby's Big Montana, and if I don't get a really big, thick Reese's Peanut Butter Cup milkshake within two days of my arrival, somebody's gonna die.

Now that I think about it, I felt like crap before we came here. I had low blood pressure, was an appropriate weight, didn't smoke or drink, exercised a little bit, but I felt awful a lot of the time. I was constantly tired, and I felt nauseous and woozy way more often than I think is normal. I threw up for no apparent reason almost bi-monthly, earning me a reputation with family for having a "weak constitution". But now I feel strong. I feel healthy. And I haven't thrown up once in the two years we've been here — and that's including the time I was pregnant. I've gotten sick a few times, but I haven't had those lingering weak, queasy feelings at all. I'm guessing that's not a coincidence.

On the other hand, there are aspects of American life that I'm very excited to become reacquainted with. High on this list is friendly people. I don't want to be misunderstood here. Germans are not generally mean or vicious. I've found that if I ever need to approach a stranger to ask for directions or help with something, they're always happy to oblige. But most Germans aren't needlessly friendly. Shortly after we got here, I walked to the grocery store on a sunny, summer morning. A lot of people were out in the neighborhood, walking their dogs, working on their cars, or whatever. As was completely normal for me and where I come from, I smiled at everyone I passed and wished them "Guten Morgen" ("Good morning"). I must have done this at least 10 times before I got to the grocery store. And I didn't receive a single smile back, much less a reciprocal "Guten Morgen". Mostly I just got stares. Some people ignored me entirely. It took me a while to realize that Germans don't work that way. They seem to have this code that says "We will not interfere with one another." And for better or worse, they abide by it. On the one hand, they come off to outsiders as being cold and disinterested when they don't smile and nod at strangers on the street. But on the other hand, I've never felt threatened or unsafe when out alone at night. I've never worried about harassment or about receiving unwanted advances from a stranger. Because Germans just leave each other alone. That's what they do.

At first this annoyed me, but eventually I accepted and adopted their code of mutually assured isolation, and now I've actually come to respect it in a way. There's a pragmatism to it. Sort of like how they don't ask each other "how are you?" unless they're fully prepared to sit with you and get your true answer, however long or tragic. They're not going to smile and say hi when they have no intention of either A). having a relationship with you or B). having a conversation with you. Really, it's just social honesty. And now, having an adorable baby with me all the time, I see the other side of it. When people smile at and coo Jethro in public, I know they mean it. They're not doing it just to humor him or me. The experience has helped me understand why Germans often view Americans as being shallow and insincere. When you smile at and greet everyone you see like your long lost best friend, how is anyone supposed to know when you really do care about them? I think it's a fair question.

But still, even knowing much of it is a ruse, as an American I find the seas of smiles and how-ya-doins so comforting. I'm excited to be thrown back into it, but it's entirely possible that the Germans have had their way with me, and I'll find myself just as baffled by all the American über-friendliness as a German would be.

And so my question is, if I can't keep up my German habits or reintegrate socially in the United States, where does that leave me? A rude American? A lazy German? I guess I'll have to start my own country.

Anyone interested in homesteading Jasminestan?



JEM

How We Got Here or Two Years Ago Today

It must’ve been almost 4 years ago. It was afternoon. Jake was home from school and I was home from work. We were standing in the kitchen in our apartment in Logan, Utah, and he was leaning against the sink when he said, “Jaz, what would you think about moving to Dresden when I get done?”

I stopped what I was doing, stared at him for a moment, and I started to cry. It surprised us both, I think. But the instant the words left his mouth, I knew it was right. The feeling was so fast and so strong. I knew, out of nowhere, that this was what we would do. I put my arms around him and told him I’d like that.

He told me about a flier he’d seen hanging in the engineering building at the university advertising a Ph.D. program in computational at the Max Planck Institute in Dresden, Germany. It had caught his eye for a few reasons: He’d recently heard about the new field of computational biology and felt that it was a good match for his interests in biology and computers and his engineering background. He also knew the Max Planck Institutes were well respected in the science world.

But what really stood out was the location. When Jake was 19, in 1999, he served a mission for our church in Eastern Germany. He lived in cities surrounding Dresden for 2 years, learning the language and developing a passion for the culture while teaching others about the LDS religion. About a year after we were married, two years after he’d gotten home from his mission, he took me back. It was my first time out of the country. We visited some cities he served in and a few he didn’t. I found Germany beautiful and fascinating, but alien. I felt on edge, isolated by the language barrier and the cultural differences. Several days into the trip, I distinctly remember thinking, “I knew Jake would love to live here again, but I just couldn’t do it.” And then we visited Dresden.

I can’t explain what happened in Dresden. We were only there for a day and a night. But it took my heart. I can’t hardly imagine a city less like my Idaho hometown, but for some reason there was something about it that felt like home. I felt safe and happy and excited there. Jake, who hadn’t spent much time in Dresden on his mission, felt it, too. We went home and continued studying at the university and working, but we remembered.

And now, with the prospect of a Ph.D. program there, Dresden became the next place. The tentative (but not really tentative) plan. When people asked about our future, we started to tell them about our hopes for Dresden. We tried to hold back our enthusiasm since nothing was assured, but eventually it became impossible. It was going to happen. We were certain.

When it came time Jake applied, and we waited. And on Dec. 20, 2006, our fourth wedding anniversary, I woke up to find that Jake wasn’t in bed. I went into the living room, and he told me he’d just gotten the e-mail. His application had been denied. I felt like the floor gave out beneath me. I was shocked, first, that anyone would turn Jake away. I knew his talents would be a gift to any institution. And I don’t say that as his wife. You can ask anyone who’s worked with him and who knows his mind and his work ethic. They’ll recommend him even more vehemently than I would. Simultaneously, my heart shattered for Jake, who had been working toward this so single-mindedly and so hard. I’d never seen him want anything quite as much. Then I felt something like falling. Like grasping at air. Our “next step” had vaporized, and we had no idea where we’d go. And finally, as I held Jake in the dark room and cried and whispered “I’m so sorry” into his shoulder, I felt relief. Naturally, I’d felt anxiety about the whole thing — leaving our families, friends and belongings for so long. Being dropped with no one but Jake into a culture and language I didn’t understand. But I didn’t have to feel anxious anymore. That door was closed.

Over the next few months, Jake sent out what seemed to be a steady stream of applications. After the refusal, he had decided against getting a Ph.D. He felt more inclined to get into the workforce, so that’s where the applications went: research institutions, laboratories and universities. And I retooled my vision of our next few years. I saw us in a little house or condo somewhere in the United States starting the life we’d likely have for years to come. It felt — fine. It was difficult to shake the strong feelings I’d had about moving to Dresden, but they started to fade, and I started to embrace the more conventional path.

But in the midst of the job applications, Jake also sent an e-mail to the professor in Dresden he had hoped to work with, asking what had been lacking in his application. In time, he heard back from the professor who said that he hadn’t even seen Jake’s application. It had apparently been turned away in committee before it made it into any of the professors’ hands. He asked Jake to send it to him, saying that he was still bringing in Ph.D. students independent of the Max Planck Institute. Jake did and the professor responded quickly and positively. As they corresponded over the next few days, I saw a light come back on in Jake, but I was growing increasingly ill with anxiety. Now my vision of American suburban existence was getting ripped out from under me and being re-replaced with the prospect of moving overseas, which seemed this time around to be much more real and terrifying than before. The professor interviewed Jake over the phone, and a week later Jake flew to Dresden to interview in person. I knew that was it. It would be difficult to turn Jake away on his credentials, but I knew once they met him, it would be impossible — a brilliant, hard working scientist with charisma, a cool head and quick wit. It was over. I sent him off at the Salt Lake City airport, and I knew, with creeping dread, that we would be back at this airport soon.

And we were, two months later. It was two years ago today, the day that I hugged my family in the airport and got into the security line, tear-stained and shaking and clinging to Jake’s hand for all I was worth, and feeling somehow like Adam and Eve being cast out of the Garden of Eden.

That was two years ago.


I think we've done all right.



JEM

The Shark Hat: A Retrospective

Jethro's beloved shark hat, which I received from the Turek family at my baby shower last September, fell out of the kinderwagen yesterday somewhere between our church and the tram stop. We went back this morning to look for it and couldn't find it anywhere. We grieve, but are comforted by the good times we shared with shark hat. Rest in peace, good friend.





JEM

All Good Things

Frau Peycha lives on the third floor of our building. Every day she goes down the stairs backwards, very slowly, gripping the banister in one gnarled hand and a plate of pungent canned cat food in the other. She moved into this building with her husband right after it was built by the communist government in the '80s. Her husband has died, and her mobility has diminished, but she has stayed. She was the first person in the building to talk to us. The day after we moved in we bumped into her around the front door, and she was small and friendly and sweet with her white cloud of hair and her floral print house dress. And she seemed delighted to learn that Americans had moved into her city.

A couple of months ago, Jethro and I were returning from a walk, and we bumped into Frau Peycha in the yard behind the building. She had just fed her cats. She cooed at Jethro in his kinderwagen and asked me what his name was. I told her and got the reaction I normally get from Germans: a furrowed brow and wordless question mark. I repeat the name, and usually they attempt to say it. The thing is, "Jethro", in addition to being a name most Germans have simply never heard, contains two sounds a lot of them tend to struggle with. In German, the "j" sound is usually pronounced like a "y", and the "th" sound doesn't exist at all. Usually it comes out like "Jessro" or "Jeffro", and occasionally "Yetro". But in cases like Frau Peycha's, the older, especially staunch Germans, no attempt is made. She just looked at me like she'd smelled something bad and said, "That's going to be a problem when he starts school and no one can say his name."

"Oh," I said, "we won't be here that long. My husband finishes his Ph.D. at the end of 2010, and then we will go back to America."

She nodded. "You don't like it here."

We are often asked by Germans with smiles and expectant nods if we plan on staying in Germany forever. And when we say no, they always seem caught off guard and hurt, like we'd just slapped their wrists. They take it personally, which I find interesting, and they usually assume that the reasons have something to do with Germany failing us somehow — we don't like living here, we don't like the culture or the people, we don't fit in, we don't have friends. When we try to explain that that's simply not the case, that we love it here, they nod like they understand, but I can see that they don't believe us. And I can always see that, despite their aversion to patriotism, they are fiercely proud of their country and their culture. They love their home. They can't imagine anyone immersing himself in it and then wanting to leave.

But Germany itself has nothing to do with why we can't stay. In the two years we've been here, we've had great experiences and developed great friendships, but we've been absent from another life, one that has barreled on without us, seemingly at a quicker pace than before. Jake and I had been married for 4 and a half years before we came here, and in that time nothing happened. Well, a few things transpired. My brother Ford went on a mission and came home. People got married. Babies got born. But in the time that we've been gone, we've missed out on more than we participated in when we were there.

For starters, there have now been three deaths. Jake's grandmother passed away last year, and earlier this month, her husband, Jake's step-grandfather, Glen Lewis followed suit.

Glen Lewis

He was a salty, tough, decorated World War II bomber pilot who had been married to Edna since Jake's dad was a young man. He was so much like Jake in so many ways, it sometimes shocked me that there was no biological connection between them. He was the only grandfather Jake ever knew on that side of the family since his biological grandfather died young. And since Jake's other grandfather died when Jake was a kid and both my grandfathers died when my mom and dad were 12 years old and a baby, respectively, Grandpa Lewis was the only grandfather I ever knew. He was buried in the Logan, Utah, Cemetery on a gloriously beautiful summer day, and Jake was listed on the program as a pallbearer. But we, once again, were only able to experience the events of that day through e-mails and tearful telephone conversations with Jake's family, unable to embrace Jake's dad and uncle who had now lost all their parents: father, mother, and step-father. And for the second time we had to hear Jake's mother tell us that, "Everyone was there. Well, except you, of course."

My mom (second from left) and her siblings in 2005. Lanette is the one in the orange jacket.

The third death was that of my aunt Lanette Shindurling who died last December far too young from cancer that came fast and hard and from nowhere. Lanette was my mom's older sister. She had an easy, contagious laugh and a charming, crooked smile. And in that massive family (my mom was one of 12 kids), Lanette somehow managed to make everyone feel that he or she was really her favorite. She convinced me, even though I didn't see her as often as I wish could have. She'd pull me aside at a wedding or Thanksgiving meal, put her arm around me, and, surrounded by the loud laughter and horseplay that inevitably accompanies any Manwaring family event, we'd quietly share a joke or she'd ask about my life. I would feel an instant intimacy with her, certain that she saw something really special in me and liked me best. It wasn't until her death that I realized everyone felt this way. I loved her and I admired her. But I wasn't there. Not that I was needed. In a family that big, things and people always get taken care of. But I think I needed it. Because, since the last time I saw her she was as beautiful and vibrant as ever, I keep forgetting that she's gone. I still can't seem to process it.

My grandmother, Viola Erickson, and me at 90th birthday party

In addition to the deaths there have been other things, like my mom's accident last summer. Or my 93-year-old grandmother, my only surviving biological grandparent, who was experiencing some minor forgetfulness when we left, but who took a nosedive last year. While physically, she's still remarkably healthy, her memories have vaporized. And her kids, my dad and his three brothers and sister, had to make the gut-wrenching decision to move her from the small country home she's lived in for over 70 years to a care facility for Alzheimer's patients. And then there's Jake's sweet and beautiful younger sister, who, earlier this year, went through a heartbreaking divorce. And babies were born and people grew and changed. And we weren't there.

The party after our niece's baptism in Las Vegas last year

We can write and we can call. With Skype, we can even see each other when we talk. But we haven't been there. And that's the hardest part of living here. Harder than learning a language or assimilating into a new culture or making new friends. For 3 and a half years, for the payback we're getting in life experience, I believe it is worth it. But it just can't be like this forever. We can't be the no-show pallbearers. The ghost aunt and uncle. The absent sister and brother and daughter and son. We love Germany, and the day we leave will be one of the saddest of our lives.


But, no, we won't be staying. And I hope Frau Peycha and the others can understand why.



JEM