Verena's 29th
On December 29th we woke up to a perfect winter day: blue skies, sunshine, not too cold according to the little thermometer that Matthias attached to the garden wall so that we can see it through the window in the dining room.
Packing means making lots of little decisions that inspite of their limited scope, have quite an impact on your well-being during the time of travel. We travel light, which, for all six of us including presents and instruments, adds up to 7 checked pieces ofr luggage and 5 carry-on bags, or : 1 samsonite for Matthias, one big bag on rollers for me and the boys, Luis small blue bag, Coras lumpy half suitcase/half backpack, the green bag Pamela gave me when I had too much returning from California, which is now stuffed with a white unicorn dress-up for Julia, the Hippie costume for Lenja and the angel for Nina, another smaller bag with shoes, and an almost empty bigger one in which we intend to put our jackets once we are at the airport. Luis, Cora, Matthias and I each carry a backpack: Matthias his computer and all our documents, Cora her Quebec History, Math and Psychology books, I have books (Levi-Strauss, Traurige Tropen und a book I bought at the airport ,"In Fact" ,with short pieces of creative non-fiction), and Luis more or less generously shares his space with Tinu and Joni, they have some colored pencils and paper, Luis his "Motortrend" magazine (which he studies a lot) and his French books (which he never touched the whole journey). In addition, Cora is taking her violine, as she will be playing at my mother's birthday party.
The bags aren't packed yet, though. We write lists during breakfast: 5 pairs of underwear, 5 pairs of socks, 2 long T-Shirts, 2 sweaters, long underwear, ski pants, mittens, hat, pyjamas, something dressy for the party including shoes. Luis and Cora are good and fast at packing, they just follow the list and done. I'm slow. Havint to look closely into my and the boy's closet is discouraging. There is no discernible structure. This is my never-gotten-to-it and half-way started, well-intended, but not practical, totally neglected although necessary, kept running, but not beautiful life. My clothes is stuffed into cheap wired shelves, T-shirts mixed with sweaters, jeans with pyjamas, shawls with skirts. I basically always just put the fresh laundry on top of everything, with the idea of getting back to it later, which of course I never do. In Tinus and Jonis closet I couldn't decide whether to put all the T-shirts and jeans together, or divide it up, so that each of them has his shelf. So it's both which means nothing, plus clothes they have both grown out of, and summer stuff they can't use at all right now.
If ever I could get organized, unliimited space and time would open up for me.
I start spreading everything on my bed, when the phone rings. Therese,who lives a street away, offers to take the children, give them a run-around oon the ice rink and feed them lunch. That is great! Colin picks them up 15 minutes later. I truly, truly appreciate their simple and generous friendship. They kept the boys happy , fed our hamster while we were gone, and when Colin picked us up on our return, they had also bought some groceries for us, milk, orange juice, bread and cheese, to get us started. None of this is ever a big deal.
Check-in is fast, we're always early. Last time we went to California, we needed every minute of the two and half hours we were there before departure. This time, no US immigration, which is such a relief. They always, always make you feel there is something you did wrong, or at least something you should be grateful about for letting you in. "Now you screwed up my whole system", Matthias was shouted at last time. Anyhow, this time, we have too much time to hang out at the book store. Cora and Luis find CDs. (Deep Purple and Scorpions, I believe), "Paper Bag Princess" for Tinu, "Smelly Socks" for Joni, "In Fact" for me. It starts with "Notes for Young Writers" by Annie Dillard: "Dedicate (donate, give all) your life to something larger than yourself and pleasure - to the largest thing you can: to God, to relieving suffering, to contributing to knowledge, to adding to literature, or something else. Happiness lies this way, and it beats hollow pleasure."
On the plane, I read everything on the Tsunami. Staggering numbers of lost lives. (Now, four weeks later, the numbers have risen to 200.000 or more. Not everyone willl be counted.) Because anger is not as disturbing as trying to grief on that magnitude, I get angry: Why hasn't the Pacific Tsunami Center in Honolulu, where the earthquake was registered right away made a couple of calls? They did warn the Navy Base in the Indian Ocean, they had that number on their list. "It was a holiday, we did not have any other numbers, it is hard to predict a Tsunami from the 3 inch wave that starts out at the epicenter..." After it hit Indonesia, why didn't anybody have the clarity of mind, some grasp of the situation to warn Thailand, Sri Lanka? It is easy to pass around blame sitting in an airplane 30.000 feet above the Atlantik, hard to be on the ground and count the dead.
Joni and Tinu watch "Ice Age" twice in a row (another three times on the return flight). Our part of the cabin isn't very calm, lots of little kids that are tired and can't sleep. Also, it is far too hot in this part of the plane. The lady behind us complains bitterly: "I booked my flight 3 months ago! I had a confirmed seat was in the firsr cabin!" The stewardess stays calm and friendly, I admire her. In front of our kids there is a Orthodox-Jewish family with 2 small children and a baby. The poor parents are in a constant struggle to keep things under control. Finally, it is quiet, I doze of for a moment. Then a big thump and a baby crying: the baby had falllen asleep in his father's arm. the father must have dozed off and let go, now the baby is on the floor, the mom is shouting at the dad, a new round of commotion.
It is still dark when we arrive at Zurich. The cool neon art mirrors the position lights outside on the dark asphalt. A bus circles around all the little swiss air planes, finally stops at our machine, the smallest plane I've ever been in. An orange sunrise over the Alpes while we fly so low, that we can see the villages with the spiky churches, the Bodensee, the fields covered with a bit of snow, a patchwork of brown, green and white, and the Alb, a mountain range east of Tuebingen. We're all excited, there is this strong feeling of recognition, of coming home to good old small-scale Germany. Cora smiles at me: "I really like this better than America!" Luis is happy about all the Mercedes cars and busses and engines that buzz around the airfield. Short immigration, we have the right passports here. Matthias' dad and Jaschin pick us up. We're here. Or there. Now we're back. Home? Halfway, anyways. On my doorsteps a couple of days later, the first issue of Shambala Sun, that Carrie gave me an subscription for: "One of the famous lessons about going back home is that you can't, exactly. Home, it turns out, is just another ground that is constantly changing", the editorial starts. " Coming back home is called the path."
Packing means making lots of little decisions that inspite of their limited scope, have quite an impact on your well-being during the time of travel. We travel light, which, for all six of us including presents and instruments, adds up to 7 checked pieces ofr luggage and 5 carry-on bags, or : 1 samsonite for Matthias, one big bag on rollers for me and the boys, Luis small blue bag, Coras lumpy half suitcase/half backpack, the green bag Pamela gave me when I had too much returning from California, which is now stuffed with a white unicorn dress-up for Julia, the Hippie costume for Lenja and the angel for Nina, another smaller bag with shoes, and an almost empty bigger one in which we intend to put our jackets once we are at the airport. Luis, Cora, Matthias and I each carry a backpack: Matthias his computer and all our documents, Cora her Quebec History, Math and Psychology books, I have books (Levi-Strauss, Traurige Tropen und a book I bought at the airport ,"In Fact" ,with short pieces of creative non-fiction), and Luis more or less generously shares his space with Tinu and Joni, they have some colored pencils and paper, Luis his "Motortrend" magazine (which he studies a lot) and his French books (which he never touched the whole journey). In addition, Cora is taking her violine, as she will be playing at my mother's birthday party.
The bags aren't packed yet, though. We write lists during breakfast: 5 pairs of underwear, 5 pairs of socks, 2 long T-Shirts, 2 sweaters, long underwear, ski pants, mittens, hat, pyjamas, something dressy for the party including shoes. Luis and Cora are good and fast at packing, they just follow the list and done. I'm slow. Havint to look closely into my and the boy's closet is discouraging. There is no discernible structure. This is my never-gotten-to-it and half-way started, well-intended, but not practical, totally neglected although necessary, kept running, but not beautiful life. My clothes is stuffed into cheap wired shelves, T-shirts mixed with sweaters, jeans with pyjamas, shawls with skirts. I basically always just put the fresh laundry on top of everything, with the idea of getting back to it later, which of course I never do. In Tinus and Jonis closet I couldn't decide whether to put all the T-shirts and jeans together, or divide it up, so that each of them has his shelf. So it's both which means nothing, plus clothes they have both grown out of, and summer stuff they can't use at all right now.
If ever I could get organized, unliimited space and time would open up for me.
I start spreading everything on my bed, when the phone rings. Therese,who lives a street away, offers to take the children, give them a run-around oon the ice rink and feed them lunch. That is great! Colin picks them up 15 minutes later. I truly, truly appreciate their simple and generous friendship. They kept the boys happy , fed our hamster while we were gone, and when Colin picked us up on our return, they had also bought some groceries for us, milk, orange juice, bread and cheese, to get us started. None of this is ever a big deal.
Check-in is fast, we're always early. Last time we went to California, we needed every minute of the two and half hours we were there before departure. This time, no US immigration, which is such a relief. They always, always make you feel there is something you did wrong, or at least something you should be grateful about for letting you in. "Now you screwed up my whole system", Matthias was shouted at last time. Anyhow, this time, we have too much time to hang out at the book store. Cora and Luis find CDs. (Deep Purple and Scorpions, I believe), "Paper Bag Princess" for Tinu, "Smelly Socks" for Joni, "In Fact" for me. It starts with "Notes for Young Writers" by Annie Dillard: "Dedicate (donate, give all) your life to something larger than yourself and pleasure - to the largest thing you can: to God, to relieving suffering, to contributing to knowledge, to adding to literature, or something else. Happiness lies this way, and it beats hollow pleasure."
On the plane, I read everything on the Tsunami. Staggering numbers of lost lives. (Now, four weeks later, the numbers have risen to 200.000 or more. Not everyone willl be counted.) Because anger is not as disturbing as trying to grief on that magnitude, I get angry: Why hasn't the Pacific Tsunami Center in Honolulu, where the earthquake was registered right away made a couple of calls? They did warn the Navy Base in the Indian Ocean, they had that number on their list. "It was a holiday, we did not have any other numbers, it is hard to predict a Tsunami from the 3 inch wave that starts out at the epicenter..." After it hit Indonesia, why didn't anybody have the clarity of mind, some grasp of the situation to warn Thailand, Sri Lanka? It is easy to pass around blame sitting in an airplane 30.000 feet above the Atlantik, hard to be on the ground and count the dead.
Joni and Tinu watch "Ice Age" twice in a row (another three times on the return flight). Our part of the cabin isn't very calm, lots of little kids that are tired and can't sleep. Also, it is far too hot in this part of the plane. The lady behind us complains bitterly: "I booked my flight 3 months ago! I had a confirmed seat was in the firsr cabin!" The stewardess stays calm and friendly, I admire her. In front of our kids there is a Orthodox-Jewish family with 2 small children and a baby. The poor parents are in a constant struggle to keep things under control. Finally, it is quiet, I doze of for a moment. Then a big thump and a baby crying: the baby had falllen asleep in his father's arm. the father must have dozed off and let go, now the baby is on the floor, the mom is shouting at the dad, a new round of commotion.
It is still dark when we arrive at Zurich. The cool neon art mirrors the position lights outside on the dark asphalt. A bus circles around all the little swiss air planes, finally stops at our machine, the smallest plane I've ever been in. An orange sunrise over the Alpes while we fly so low, that we can see the villages with the spiky churches, the Bodensee, the fields covered with a bit of snow, a patchwork of brown, green and white, and the Alb, a mountain range east of Tuebingen. We're all excited, there is this strong feeling of recognition, of coming home to good old small-scale Germany. Cora smiles at me: "I really like this better than America!" Luis is happy about all the Mercedes cars and busses and engines that buzz around the airfield. Short immigration, we have the right passports here. Matthias' dad and Jaschin pick us up. We're here. Or there. Now we're back. Home? Halfway, anyways. On my doorsteps a couple of days later, the first issue of Shambala Sun, that Carrie gave me an subscription for: "One of the famous lessons about going back home is that you can't, exactly. Home, it turns out, is just another ground that is constantly changing", the editorial starts. " Coming back home is called the path."
posted by Captain Cook at 8:20 AM
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