Trash

Hannover has a lot of green space in the form of parks with walking and biking paths. Whenever Fernando, Leo and I find ourselves enjoying one of these, we’re bound two bring up the following topics of conversation: 1.) we need bikes and 2.) there is hardly any litter here. The city is well maintained and the streets seem to keep themselves clean without the help of daily street cleaning crews. It isn’t spotless, but it’s a far cry from other places we’ve been, where there are so many cigarette butts and plastic cups strewn on the ground you want to curse the nasty litter bugs that put them there, or just sigh at the lack of civic awareness around you. Well, a strange thing has happened since we’ve started living here. I am beginning to sympathize with the trash throwers. This is because getting rid of one’s refuse is really complicated here. After two whole weeks, in fact, I have managed to get only ONE bag of trash collected. So, these days, when I see a candy wrapper or a yogurt container on the dirt near a traffic light, I imagine a poor soul just like me, someone who simply does not know what to do with his or her litter. I say under my breath to that wrapper, “Tell me about it…”

It all started innocently enough, this trash drama. The morning we arrived in Hannover, Frau Günther, the woman who owns the townhouse we’re staying at, told us a million things about the house in her broken English. We were pretty tired after not having slept on the flight the night before, but I remember her showing me several different types of garbage and recycling bags and explaining to me the difference between one trash bin and another. I thought I heard her say that trash went into one, and that plastics and cans went into another. Easy enough, I thought, just like home. I think I recall her telling me that trash day was Monday. Then she kindly walked me out to the end of the drive and showed me where the teeny trashcan lived, tucked cozily in a metal row house, right over the spray painted letter “C”, between the cans for addresses B and D. Simple, I thought, just come out here on Sunday night and voila, the next morning the rubbish is gone. And that afternoon Frau Günther came back with a special little garbage can just for diapers. How sweet!

That weekend we went along our merry way, disposing of trash in one bin, thoroughly rinsing out plastics and cans to get them ready for the other, putting Leo’s diapers in his special pail, and then lining up glass wherever we had space, since we didn’t know where we could throw that stuff yet. On Sunday night we heaved the bag of garbage down the lane to its little house, only to find that the bin was already jammed full. As it turns out, Frau Günther had been doing some spring cleaning before we arrived and needed to put her junk somewhere. Putting our unsightly trash bag on top of the metal structure was probably not an option, and could even incur a fine. What to do? Maybe the dark and quiet evening made me feel bold. I opened B’s bin to find it was pretty empty, so we decided to sneak our bag in there. No big deal, right?

Late the next morning, trash day, I was watching Leo as he played with pebbles outside the front door. We walked by our next door neighbor’s house and she was sweeping the walk, so she started chatting with us. Despite the fact that Mrs. Pinkward hadn’t taken English in sixty years, she did pretty well. We had a pretty stupid conversation in caveman English and German. I was just happy to be meeting the neighbors. After a couple of minutes of standing around and smiling, she revealed to me that “there was a problem”. I had put our trash in her bin. Even though she was nice about it, I was mortified and offered to go right down there and fish it out at that very moment. She said she would appreciate that, as her husband had died four years before and she needed space to get rid of his stuff. Hmmm… I went down there only to find that she had already removed our offending bag and placed it on top of the trash stall. Perfect, I thought, the garbage men have come and gone, so bin C, our rightful bin, must be empty. Well, C was still full, so I was at a loss. It was time to call Frau Günther. She confessed that she had signed up for trash pick-up only once every OTHER Monday, which is a cheaper option, and that for the time being I could put the trash in her shed in the back yard. OK, I thought. While I had her on the line I asked her to reiterate what we were supposed to do with the glass. Glass items like beer and soda bottles get cash refunds (but only at the place you bought the items), and all other glass must be separated and disposed of at the recycling center near the supermarket.

On Tuesday night of this week, Fernando and I noticed right outside of the garbage stall a heap of clear plastic bags that appeared to contain plastic and cans. We induced (deduced?) that every other Wednesday must be plastic and tin day. Wonderful! We were really starting to get the hang of this garbage pick-up thing, and really, it WAS good for the environment. The next morning as I was returning from an errand with Leo I saw that, indeed, the plastics had been collected, all but one lonely bag—ours. I left it there for a few hours hoping it might disappear. At five when I saw that no one had decided to take it home with them yet, I reluctantly brought it back to our house, without a clue as to what was wrong with it. While nobody was looking I dropped it out of sight under the front steps.

So now we have about 11 days before the next trash pick up, still no clue how to get plastics and cans picked up, and bin C is already near overflowing. I don’t know what goes where. Banana peels and diapers—definitely trash. But plastic wrap and soup cans? What about a broken drinking glass? I think I have to call Frau Günther again. In the meantime, I find myself using the little street litter bins more and more often. Not to the point of disposing of all of our trash there, but I do try to unload my pockets and backpack whenever I remember. Unfortunately, I think these are meant specifically for cigarette butts, as they all say “zigareten”. Our air shipment arrived the other day—about ten big boxes. While the men were dropping them off I should have counted them to make sure everything had arrived, but I was too busy stressing about what we would do with all the wrapping and boxes when we were done. They said I could call them, and they’d pick them up. Thankfully!

Customer service, German version

Sep. 21, 2006

So many things we want these days—an apartment closer to Fernando’s work and to the city center, information about how to meet other expats, language lessons that fit our schedules, and to begin planning that visit to Paris we have been talking about for as long as we’ve been talking about moving to Germany. I’ve spent the last two weeks thinking that if only I had internet at home, I could be more productive during Leo’s daily nap and do some Google research. Or in the evening Fernando and I could work on booking cheap hotel and airfare for the hoped-for trip. Yet, even though back at home we did everything on the internet, it seems that here in Hannover, even if we did have a connection, it might be difficult to move forward on these projects at the speed we Americans like (instantaneous). For one thing, we’re still disoriented and don’t speak the language. So that’s our problem. But Germany just isn’t a self-service culture like the U.S. And that’s their problem—oh wait, make that our problem now, too. Back in July when we visited Solvay here to work through the details of our move and his job transfer, Fernando noticed that for every little transaction there’s a particular person responsible. There are professional, full-time, salaried, impossible-to-fire people who do what we often do ourselves back home. For example, to rent an apartment, we have an agent. To sign up for a language course, Fernando has been told to talk to a “language course coordinator”. And to take a trip, we talk to a travel agent. OK, sure, these functions also exist in the States, but you don’t use them if you don’t want to. Here, however, we must rely on these people not just because we’re clueless, but because it seems to be the German way of doing things. Unfortunately, these intermediaries, these go-betweens, these liaisons, these “contact people”… sometimes feel more like obstacles than facilitators. Referring to a conversation with one of these intermediaries, Fernando declared the other day that “there’s just no customer service in this country”. How could this be possible, with all these people facilitating your every financial, residential, leisure, and linguistic decision? Counterintuitive yes, but please, read on. Here’s an explanation of what we’re running up against, detailing our projects and the various go-betweens who have had the frustration of dealing with us on them.

Find an apartment to rent.
Enter Solvay’s real estate agent, July 2006. Supposedly knowing we’re a family of three and looking for a “flat”, Mrs. Farahmand spends an entire day showing us tons of available residences, from town house to penthouse, most with 4-5 bedrooms and as many floors, with a price range of 675 to 2200 euros per month. That’s a pretty big range. After the day of showing, Fernando reiterates who we are and what we’re looking for. Mrs. Farahmand is dropped, and Solvay’s other agent is called in. Once she is informed of what we want, she tells us matter-of-factly it’s absolutely impossible to get it, and certainly not before 2007. Fernando spends a quarter of an hour on the phone explaining to the woman that we’d be willing to negotiate on certain factors. This seems completely unheard of to her. She said she’d call me, and we’re still waiting, three days later…

Take language lessons.
This is done through a Solvay language coordinator. She wants Fernando to tell her what he wants, but will not suggest or offer any information about what they have to offer. He remembers vaguely that this coordinator works with several institutes, but none are named. Fernando consults with me, and then tells the woman what I want—early evening classes. It turns out I can’t have that, so, try again. Now it looks like I’ll be taking early evening classes, but private ones. Goodbye, dream of making lifelong friends with German classmates…

Plan a trip.
I tried to do this, yesterday afternoon, with a travel agent, thinking maybe there would be 3 or 4 days all inclusive package deals to Paris. I go into the agency with Leo, and to my relief, it is confirmed that English is Spoken. When I ask about their travel deals, however, the woman points to three of the room’s four walls, covered in magazines advertising the different tourism companies’ offerings. The woman suggests that I look through these thick magazines, decide what we want, and come back to book the trip. I’m almost convinced, but just as I reach for one of the magazines, I realize I’ll have an awful lot of trouble reading the German. I ask if we can have a conversation, to get a “general sense” of what’s out there. Confused, the woman cursorily asks me to take a seat and opens one of the books to the Paris section. Without asking me what kind of place we want or what our budget is, she circle two hotels, closes the book, and suggests I do the rest of the selecting and come back to book. When I ask her about flights, she quotes me three different airlines, from expensive to outrageous. I nod and smile and make a pact to never come back, and to book this trip only with the help of Rick Steves.

These people are doing their job, and clearly, by the book. But we want to be wowed. I want my real estate agent to convince me that yes, five bedrooms are a must and that six flights of stairs is actually constructive fun for a one year old. We want our travel agent to ask us questions and see what kind of trip we want to take and how much we want to spend. I want the language coordinator to find a German class that takes place in the early evening, when people are done with work, or tell me why private classes are superior.

Convince us, already!!! Sell us something!!!!

It seems like to the Germans, the product or the “service” or the thing or whatever, speaks for itself, and must not be questioned. Not surprising in a country that created the Ultimate Driving Machine and other ingenious products of engineering. In fact, they probably hate it when people try to sell them things. Oddly enough, what I want right now is a car salesman type person as my next intermediary. We probably will be buying a used car some time soon. Will we be able to do a test drive, or should just looking at it be enough? We’ll keep you posted.

17 Sep 2006

Sep 17, 2006

We’ve been in Hannover now for over a week, long enough to have several of the pieces of advice about Germany and Germans—given to us by Maitry, our short-term German teacher back in Atlanta—confirmed or denied. While she spent most of MY lesson time teaching me about how to say the German words for different fruits, vegetables and meats (while also managing to encourage me to jump on the raw-food bandwagon when preparing food for Leo), she let Fernando in on more of the Ways of The Germans. The weather, Maitry said, was an obsession with the German. Sure, everyone, everywhere, talks about the weather-- as an icebreaker or when planning what to wear or where to go, but apparently the Germans talk about it more than others and tend to worry about it, too, always expecting the worst. Well, the weather has been pretty amazing so far. After a couple of chilly days that were kind of a shock coming from Hotlanta in early September, it got about ten degrees warmer and the sun has been shining consistently with a high probably in the high seventies. Fernando’s new colleagues warned him that the weather would turn bad on Wednesday. When Wednesday passed with nary a cloud, he was told to consider an umbrella for Thursday’s showers. Thursday was even more beautiful, and so then Fernando learned that in reality, the bad weather had happened in Holland. So, Maitry was right about the weather obsession.

While this beautiful streak of German Indian summer might be anxiety provoking for the natives, it has been wonderful for us and has really shaped how we have spent our first nine days or so. Basically, my role has been to facilitate Leo’s life without toys. We are still waiting for our ship, well, plane, to come in, with the air shipment that was supposed to take less than a week to arrive. In that shipment are all of Leo’s toys, his jogger stroller, his high chairs, and a couple of odds and ends in the remaining space for Mom and Dad, like deodorant, books to help orient us in this country we decided to move to, and pants. But entertaining Leo has been easy because of the above described weather. Each day we go out twice, once before nap and once after nap, and go to a play ground, to a meadow that’s just a ten minute walk from the house heading away from the city, or in the backyard, where there’s some grass and a patio adorned with a table and chairs and several potted plants that Leo is slowly thinning by touching them with too much enthusiasm, even though his Dad has taught him about soft touches. Needless to say, Leo needs to be reminded. We also went to the zoo, which is supposedly the biggest or best in Europe (not sure exactly what the sign said).

http://www.zoo-hannover.de/zoo-hannover/en/zoo_v3/home.php

On the weekends, more sunny weather activities have been the rule. While we really just slept a lot and scurried around looking for provisions last Saturday (since everything, I mean everything, in Hannover closes on Saturday afternoons and doesn’t open up again until Monday morning), the first Sunday we went to the Machsee Lake, which is an artificial lake built by Hitler’s people back in his hey day. There were crew races with mostly adolescents, and tons and tons of families walking around and eating ice cream. Most shocking to me were the enormous carps that would swim by the shore of the lake, looking for handouts. Those carps were big enough to capsize one of the shells, but that didn’t happen. The lake was also momentous for another reason. One moment it was just a pretty fake lake for all the Hannoverian families to stand in line for ice cream and people watch. The next minute it was the historic site of Leo Venegas’ first REAL temper tantrum. Like the kind that will not be deterred by anything a parent does. There were steps going down to the water and Leo insisted on going down, down, down, and into that dirty water. We didn’t want him to get wet feet or some disease, yet he wanted to keep going down, down, down into said sludge. You see the conflict. We cleared out of there without saying good bye to the carp.

Luckily, we saw more fish the following Sunday, today, fish perhaps related to the big greasy carp at the public lake, but much more streamlined and elegant, swimming around in one of the pools decorating the several gardens of Herrenhausen Garden. It’s a beautiful garden in the middle of the city built by Princess Sophie in the 1600’s ? (This is all speculative because our books about Germany haven’t arrived yet). In any case, it’s one of those Versailles Frenchy-type places, with beautiful flowers, immaculate lawns, and even palm trees of all sorts and a maze of shrubbery that Leo got a real kick out of. It was THE place for the German grand parents (Opa and Oma to the locals) to take their well behaved 15 month old babies. We saw lots of Leo’s contemporaries strapped into their buggies, lying pretty much flat on their backs, while Leo ran around and touched everything in his reach, with a special fondness for the pebbles covering the walkways, the water, the fish, and some young sleeping German girls. Leo talked with several groups of garden visitors, and they all seemed to find his chatter interesting, but then I started to worry that maybe they thought he was a savage, running around at top speed. But he was having so much fun. We were too, but a little edgy that he might jump in the water or trample an exotic shrub.

http://www.hannover.de/herrenhausen/index.html

Maitry was wrong about one thing. She had warned Fernando that children are not made to feel as welcome in Germany. Not just because the country had a negative birth rate, but because, according to her, in apartment buildings older tenants will often complain about having to live close to families with young children, and children are supposedly not welcome in restaurants. Well, we haven’t actually taken Leo to a restaurant yet, but on the train alone it’s been a love-fest. I’ve lost track of how many flirtations he has had while sitting in his stroller or on my lap on the train with strangers… how many ladies he has had waving contests with, how many business men have waved goodbye to him as they get off at their stop, how many smiles he has exchanged with hoodlums leaning over their bikes, how many arms he has rubbed and not been slapped… I’m exaggerating, but the general sense is that Germans like kids. What a relief! It may be true that they expect them to follow a certain code of behavior (like, no trampling the baroque garden) that’s eluding us at the moment, but at least they smile in Leo’s general direction. And when someone smiles at your kid, it’s like their smiling at you, and that has been very welcome. Having Leo with us as newcomers has been a huge help in making us feel OK. We just really need to sit back, make sure he doesn’t get into trouble, and wait while he charms people for us… Well, it’s not that easy, but he is an icebreaker.

But, we can’t rely on Leo. Soon he’ll be going away to college. We both need to learn German, and fast! That’s the plan for the next few days, get some lessons set up. It will be nice for me to have a little human, adult contact, and learn how to communicate with everyone around me, and nice for Fernando (though when I hear him talking to people in the stores I could swear he already understands and speaks this language). We need to learn our own ice breakers soon.

Julia