Bikes

In many areas of our life here, Fernando and I don’t feel like we fit in. We have noticed that, often, our possessions (Leo’s stroller, my engagement ring), our clothes (Fernando’s khakis, our inadequate foul-weather gear, Leo’s sweatpants), and our customs (languages spoken, pastimes enjoyed, peanut butter dependency) mark us as different from the locals. Sometimes it’s nice to feel different, like when we're talking on the tram and know, for sure, that some eavesdropping German is sitting there diligently trying to understand. Also, to our benefit, some people simply assume that because we are from somewhere else, we are interesting. But sometimes being different feels pretty bad. Like, for example, when we are fined multiple times on the train (at 40 euro a pop) for not understanding the ticketing system, or when we have to wait over a month to get internet service at home, or when we can’t figure out how to set up voice-mail. But now we’ve got one possession and custom that makes us feel positively acculturated: bikes and bike riding. From the fortuitous way in which we got our bikes in October to our daily use of them for transportation and fun, our bikes have been a high point of the past few months.

Bikes are everywhere
Well it’s not Amsterdam, a city which seems to have more bikes than people, but there are bikes and riders everywhere in Hannover. It is easy to see why so many people bike around here. Oh, Germans will tell you about how it’s good for the environment and healthy for the body. But the real reasons people do it are because of all the parks and forests, and the fact that the terrain is flat as a pancake. Fernando and I, soon after arriving, added bikes to the list of 536 things we should probably buy while in Hannover. But walking by one of the city’s numerous “Rad Shops” we were dismayed that even the clunkiest of bicycles cost several hundred euros. Much, much more than I remember not-so-great bikes costing at Sears, oh so many years ago. So when a colleague of Fernando emailed him about the Hanover Police used bike auction coming up, we put it on our calendars.

The Auction
The auction began promptly at 9:00 on a Saturday. We showed up at the address printed on the email, some kind of all-purpose building located across the street from the Machsee Lake. We arrived with the first wave of people, all entering and peering curiously at the tight rows of bicycles lined up along one side of the room. There were so many of them crammed into a relatively small space that it was hard to see the details of any single bike. But it was evident that they came in all sizes and styles, from pimped-out racer bikes to graceful English cruisers, from kiddy bikes to clunky pieces of crap. We had been in Germany for less than a month, so figuring out how the auction was supposed to work was going to be a challenge. Taking turns holding Leo, Fernando and I scouted around looking for people to answer our questions. We quickly found the “Chief” of the auction and spoke some German to him, having to decline his offer to communicate with us in Afrikans. But I was suddenly flooded with tons of questions—since neither of us had been to an auction before, we didn’t speak German, and I realized I didn’t know much about bikes in the first place. Oh dear, the chances were looking good that we’d end up with two plastic bicycles with training wheels. Meanwhile, the crowd was doubling, people were starting to take their seats, and Fernando and I were starting to doubt ourselves. We still had A LOT of questions. Finally, an English speaker was located, a nice guy who represented the auction space. Hearing his smooth English caused my brain to flood with questions, which I fired away at him, one after the other:
“What are the different bike sizes?” “Look at my tall husband. What do you think his bike size should be? And mine?” “Are all these bikes in riding condition?” “Might they have flat tires?” “Do you think we’ll get a good deal?” and even, “How do you say “bike” in German?” Only after I had dumped all these inquiries onto this guy did he confess, taking a drag off his cigarette, that he knew nothing about bikes. I kept badgering him, however, until Fernando, Leo and I had no choice but to take our seats and take our chances.

The auction started. The Chief auctioneer stood on stage in front of about 100 of us sitting down, and rows of people standing behind us. His assistants would wheel out bikes on to the stage in a steady, single-file stream. The auctioneer would stand with each bike, shout out its main features, and the bidding would begin. We hadn’t a clue as to what he was saying, and from our seats towards the back it was impossible to tell if it was a “good” bike. And as can be expected of an auctioneer, he was speaking rather fast. Each transaction took about a minute or sometimes less. Luckily, it was very repetitive, and soon we were understanding the words for the bikes’ heights, and whether or not they had gears, brakes, and bells. The most effective way for us to figure out if a bike was in decent shape, however, was by the rate at which the bid would go up. If, for example, the opening bid was 50 euro cents and hovered at 3 euro for several seconds before finally being sold for 2.50, it was a definitely a beater. But most of them would start at 2 euro and shoot right up to around 55 or so, and then be sold. Occasionally a real beauty would be wheeled out, fetch a bid of 200 euros within 40 seconds, and everyone would clap in admiration. Does that always happen at auctions? We watched, totally engrossed, for about 15 minutes, but were getting more and more anxious to start bidding ourselves. We were handing Leo a steady supply of drinks and snacks and he was being pretty good, but who knew how long that would last? I was ready. I was determined to get the next bike that wasn’t a BMX dirt bike or a tricycle. Out one came, and I raised my hand gingerly, keeping it raised as the price went up—55, 60, 61, 62, 63 euros… but somehow, someone else got the bike, even though my hand never once left the air. Then this odd thing, let’s call it Highest Bidder Totally Ignored, happened again. Some sympathetic onlookers started to nod their heads at me and “tsk tsk” the carelessness of the auctioneer, agreeing (I think) that I had been cheated of my bikes. One of them even bellowed “Nein!” in protest when the bike was given to another bidder, for a second time. The auctioneer just shrugged his shoulders and said he hadn’t seen me. But the bikes were moving too quickly to be upset about it. Next, out came a beautiful mint green ladies’ English bike that WOULD BE MINE. I propped up my raised hand with my other arm, annoyed but certain that this was the winner. I didn’t even listen to the bids, just kept my hand raised high. The bidding stopped, my neighbors looked at me approvingly, Fernando gave me a wad of bills, and I marched up to the front to claim my new bike. But by the time I got there, someone else was leaning against it and smiling broadly, handing money over to the cashier. When I went to take the bike, he hissed, “Das ist mein!!” I returned empty-handed to my seat, feeling outrage and humiliation in equal parts. It was time for me to cool-off (boy, had it gotten hot in there!) outside with Leo, who was starting to get fussy anyway. Well, we were only outside for about ten minutes before I peered through the window and saw Fernando with a big smile on his face, getting ready to wheel his handsome dark blue bike out of the building to meet us. He had just won a bidding war and gotten a good-looking bike! Now I definitely couldn’t leave without one… So, I took a deep breath, returned inside, and bid on the first bike that was the right height and had more than one gear. This time, the auctioneer took notice of me and the OK-looking, royal blue bike was truly mine. I met Fernando and Leo outside, where we took turns trying out our new purchases, both of us a bit shaky on them, but happy to prove that they actually worked. We felt elated, and I must have exclaimed several times about how much money we saved, but that wasn’t all, it was also gratifying to figure out something that was entirely in German.

Since the sale, Fernando has been biking to work (about ten minutes) and we installed a seat for Leo on mine, and it’s much faster to get around town than with a stroller. Leo likes to ride in back, though he hates having his helmet put on him. It also seems relatively easy and safe to ride here, since almost all sidewalks include a bike lane, and as mentioned before, it’s incredibly flat, so it’s OK that only one of my gears works.

And because this is Germany, there are lots of rules with bikes. You must have a light if riding after dark, and I’m pretty sure bells are also mandatory. You must use the designated bike path, and it’s rude to ride through the pedestrian center of town. But for now we don’t mind these inevitable, German rules. Because we understand them, and we’re OK about following them. Just like the Germans—hooray!!.

Time to learn more German

I’m sure it’s been said before, that a great way to learn about a culture is through its language. For this reason Fernando and I want to learn German, even though most everything at Solvay is in English and most of the people that I find myself wanting to talk to also speak it sufficiently. We could survive without German, but probably not thrive, which is of course, what we are striving to do.

Yet at the moment, the language learning situation is pretty pitiful. Fernando has taken four classes and I only three. Between us we have six different titles of beginner German series textbooks, workbooks, and CD’s. The books reveal that the pages stop being turned at around page 32, while the pricy box of CDs is still wrapped in cellophane. I am also finding myself to be less adventurous with the language than I was upon arriving here (which most Germans would probably say is a good thing), and have had trouble finding a daily routine that includes studying German. Excuses abound, some better than others, and we do plan on getting better about it, ASAP.

So if understanding a language is a window into the culture, then knowing 1/10th of the beginner level of a language would seem merely to enable the confirmation of stereotypes. Everyone knows, for example, about the timely and punctual German, whose buses and trains always run on time. Well, until I learn more of the language, I guess I’m doomed to be led by these generalizations. Because my meager German study, coupled with about two months of on-the-ground observation, confirm the stereotype of obsessive punctuality. What I have also encountered is a general preoccupation with time, which I am not sure is a symptom or a cause.

Telling Time
Military time is alive and well in Germany, considered the official way of reporting time in anything written—newspapers, office hours, train schedules, movie times, etc. But not only is it used, it has a name, “24-Stunden-Hr”, and there is an entirely different set of words one must use to report time in this military style. In reality, it’s not difficult, just like reporting the time off of a digital clock, so that “19:23” would be “nineteen twenty-three”. However, the military time system must NEVER, under any circumstances, be confused with the other, more colloquial, “street” way of telling the time, called “Die Uhrzeit”. This one is more difficult, as it is based on more than just numbers, requiring agility with terms such as a quarter before, a quarter after, and half three (2:30), and also with such absurd expressions as three minutes after a quarter to, four minutes after half seven, a minute before a quarter after, and just a few minutes before the hour, etc. I cannot imagine managing such eloquence if asked the time on the street, let alone interpreting the answer if I had to ask. Good thing I wear a watch.

Special “Time” Words that Don’t Exist in English
We have all heard about how the Eskimos have lots of word for snow, leading us to conclude that snow is important to them. In a similar fashion, the Germans have several words to describe time and dates that do not exist in English. For example, the concept of “morning” is simply not precise enough. There’s a special expression to refer to the hours between 10 and 12 noon in order to distinguish them from the “morning”, which is from 6 to 9:00 only. There is also a special way to greet someone if you see them at around noon, which is when the country lunches. You say something that sort of means “Mealtime”, but you say it regardless of whether the person is eating or in any position to do so anytime soon. In the afternoon, there are several different farewells, all dependent on whether that person worked that day, is still working, will be working tomorrow, is unemployed, or a student. In terms of holidays, there is a special term to describe that awkward week between Christmas and New Years, as well as about four different ways to refer to New Year’s. And come to think of it, one of the only German words that I knew before moving here, learned in some A.P history class in high school, was “Zeitgeist”, which means the spirit of the time. It figures that English would import a time-related vocabulary word from German.

Recurring Themes in German Text Books
Between my study at home and my classes here and in Atlanta, I have noticed that there’s one topic that all the coursework treats with unexplainable intensity: greetings and time of day. The question is “Was sagt man?” (What does one say?), followed by several little pictures indicating what time of the day it is. The answers, of course, are expressions like “Guten Morgen”, “Guten Abend”, etc. But they always throw in a trick, in the form of a little picture of 12:00 with a sun, indicating noontime. But you must never say Guten Mittag (Good Noon) because that’s just ridiculous. Ha ha ha!! Mittag is a sacred time (deserving its own special greeting, as we saw) and should never be referred to directly. In these books there is also an urgency to teach us about the elusive subject of when “good morning” should switch to “good afternoon” and “good afternoon” to “good evening”, etc. Not one exercise but several centered on this theme that just seems like common sense to me. And special attention is paid to make sure that no student EVER greets or says goodbye to an acquaintance with “good night”. “Gute Nacht” is reserved for that person staring at you from across the bed with his/her head on a pillow, ready to catch some zzz’s.

My Teacher’s Obsessions
In our first class, after conversing with me for about five minutes in German, Andree stopped his “immersion” methodology short and grabbed a calendar from the wall. Not to practice numbers or days of the week, but to show me the national saints holiday calendar and the dates of the school vacations. Unfortunately, I learned that there are fewer observed church holidays in the North (where Hannover is) than in the more religious South. The next lesson we had a lengthy discussion, in English, about the strict opening hours of German stores and how he appreciates the fact that nothing is open on Sundays. He also gave me about five different ways of saying “At the moment”, arguing with himself for several minutes about which was the best.

It doesn’t take long to get the sense that this country is ruled by the clock. After my class for example, I walk downtown to the metro stop and the 6:00 bells are chiming like mad, seeming to go on until almost 6:15. They seem to be saying, “Stop work already!” “Go home!” “Have your supper and then head to bed!” The evening is reserved for rest and maybe watching TV. Unfortunately for me, it’s the evening when I like to vacuum, do laundry, and run out to Publix for milk and peanut butter. Oh well.

But there’s one significant thing that kind of throws a monkey wrench into this generalization about Germans’ time-obsession. Remember those excuses for not studying that you thought I was going to spare you? Well, one big one was that my teacher arrived irritatingly late for our lesson 2 out of 3 times, and even pulled a “no show” for our 4th. AND he didn’t call to apologize. So what gives with my chronically late Teach? Oh, wait… his name is Andrée Prannà, and he’s half Italian. Capiche?

Black Cat and Halloween

So far we have written about both big events and small details of our Germany experience so it’s a bit strange that we have not mentioned our cats Roscoe and Starla, when they have been part of this whole process. Their series of vaccinations in August, expulsion from their home at 592 Scott Circle in September, 10-day kennel stay, overseas journey in kitty-carriers on the luggage level of a plane, three-hour van ride from Frankfurt to Hannover, moderate jet lag after arrival, and speedy adjustment to German life are all quite news-worthy, especially to cat people. Unfortunately, that is not the end of their story. We had to put Roscoe to sleep on October 31st because of a tumor that was taking up nearly his entire bladder, one which could not be removed successfully due to its shape and size. Having a pet die is very sad, and putting him to sleep might be even worse, due to the added sense of responsibility for the animal’s outcome. Well, take it from Fernando and me-- when you actually wish your pet would go away and then he actually does, permanently, it’s the worst.

Our beloved fat Roscoe had come down with his 5th or 6th U.T.I. about four weeks ago. He had been plagued with them throughout his four-year-old life, and had been on a special diet of prescription-only kibbles for the past two years in an attempt to control the formation of crystals in his bladder. As with Roscoe’s previous infections, the outward signs were the same. First we were annoyed by his extra-loud meowing in the middle of the night. Like anyone else though, Roscoe goes through mood swings, and we attributed his increased chatter to his new environment. Then we noticed an extra amount of cat litter scattered throughout the house, followed by the observation that Roscoe, during that hour or so of the day when he is awake, was parked in the litter box, attempting to pee. At that point, just like in Atlanta, Fernando and I looked at each other knowingly. Each was waiting for the other to offer to take the cat to the vet. Given that I have more free time then Fernando these days, I volunteered.

Luckily, there was a Tiersärzt within walking distance from our house. On Monday morning (vets do not seem to work on the weekends here) Leo and I walked into the cute little office attached to the side of a stately white painted brick home, and found a friendly English speaking woman vet who told us we could come back with the cat at 3:15 that afternoon. We returned with Roscoe and a digital photo of the pea-sized puddle of bloody urine he had left in the kitchen sink that morning. I had taken the picture to avoid having to go through the whole song and dance of diagnosing a sickness, as it was clear to me what was going on with my poor kitty. Appreciative but not entirely convinced by my snapshot, Dr. med. vet. Maj-Britt Perslow gave Roscoe a muscle relaxant and a shot of antibiotics, and handed me a vial with which to collect his urine—somehow!--for analysis. That was the first time a vet had asked ME to collect my cat’s urine, and I really only took her half seriously. I figured the antibiotics would work their usual magic and within a few days Roscoe would be peeing freely in his litter box, at which point I could just throw out—um, recycle--the vial and the vet’s business card.

Meanwhile, Fernando and I were moving to our newly renovated apartment. The walls were gleaming white, the odd light-blue carpeting freshly laid. The landlord, though a decent human being, was not a cat lover. Our real estate agent, who was our go-between during the negotiations, told us about the landlord’s no-animal policy, and his particular dislike of spraying male cats. Learning this, Fernando and I assumed we were out of the running for the apartment. But the agent wanted to persist, and decided to inform Mr. Zgoll (without informing us) that we had only one, female cat. Somehow, this little white lie worked and we got the apartment, but it made Fernando and I feel uneasy from the start. Every nice thing Mr. Zgoll did for us throughout the month of October made us feel guilty about “the lie” and even more worried about how difficult it would be to hide Roscoe’s existence from him for two years (and from our neighbors, who presumably weren’t allowed to have animals, either).

Meanwhile, back at our old place, where we were all still spending the nights, Roscoe was not improving. At first I saw that he was peeing more, which was a good sign, but it only lasted a couple days (probably a result of the muscle relaxant). But getting that urine sample did not turn out to be a problem, as Roscoe was frequently leaving little bright pink puddles in the sink, shower floor, and white bathroom rugs. So a few days after the initial visits to the vet, I returned with Leo and the urine sample and was given another week of pills for Roscoe. Both the vet and her son, a recently-back-from-vacations-and-very-tanned Dr. med. vet. Holger Meyer-Perslow, were surprised by the red color of the sample, and told me to call the following day for the results of their analysis. Their analysis: bloody urine, further examination required. The appointment was set for the following Tuesday, October 31, which was also the last possible day that Roscoe and Starla could stay at the old place, as our lease ended that day.

We humans had settled into the new apartment a few days earlier but had kept the cats in the old place for a few reasons. We had visitors, the old place was next door to the vet, and well, we were afraid of the landlord seeing our male cat, since he was popping in on a daily basis doing us favors. We were postponing the inevitable of telling the truth to the landlord. We were also hoping that Roscoe would first stop peeing blood, so as to not stain the new carpets. Roscoe’s condition had us worried. He wasn’t just peeing all over the house, he was really loud at night, picked fights with Starla every day, and was less and less patient with Leo’s, um, very physical form of loving. We were quite concerned about the escalation of his aggression, and weren’t sure about the real cause. Physical pain? Trouble adjusting? Fernando and I discussed the possibility of trying to find a new home for him. After bringing him all the way to Germany, we hated the notion of giving him away. But keeping him seemed more difficult every day.

So Halloween came, and Fernando went with me and Roscoe for the examination. Fernando met me at 4:45 at the old place, which I was frantically trying to clean before we handed over the keys to Mrs. Günther, and we took Roscoe to the 5:00 appointment. Fernando was coming along to inquire further about giving Roscoe to a family or something. Though he understood our predicament, Holger informed us that if the test results were bad, it would be unfair to give Roscoe away. First, a sonogram was done on Roscoe. Both of us looked on as the doctor slowly moved the wand (?) over Roscoe’s belly and the vet’s mother and a nurse gently held the growling but resigned cat down. On the black screen, which at another time and place had shown us a funny-looking Leo fetus and promised life, now showed a bridge-shaped tumor stretching across what we were told was Roscoe’s bladder, making urination almost impossible. An hour earlier, Roscoe was just our “problem” cat that we had to take to the vet again, but now we saw what he had become—a suffering, dying animal. A few minutes later, a bladder X Ray showed a couple of smallish stones. Between the tumor and the stones, Roscoe was beyond operation, and the vet suggested putting him down. Not twenty minutes before we had wondered about how to give Roscoe away, and now it was clear that he was going to go away, and it felt horrible.

The office was already closed for appointments when Fernando and I gave the vet our authorization to inject our cat with a lethal dose of narcotics. Unfortunately, we had also promised to meet Frau Günther at 6:00 to return the house keys to her and do a walk-through of the old place. While I was doing that, Fernando stayed on and watched Roscoe slump on to the vet’s table upon receiving the shot. I got back there in time to see him sleeping deeply. A nurse passed us tissues, and Holger’s mom left the room sniffling away her own tears. A few minutes later Roscoe’s heart stopped beating. After another five minutes or so passed, he started to get cold. “Because he’s so little,” Fernando said. The staff invited us to spend as much time as we needed with him, but his dropping temperature was too much to handle. We donated Roscoe’s carrier to the vet, paid up, and walked out into the darkness, empty-handed and stunned.

Each day that passes we are less sad, and going away to Holland for a few days over the weekend really helped to get our mind off how much we miss our furry “Mr. Stretch”. I’m not quite ready to hang up a picture of him yet, but at least now I can look at Starla without crying. She has been sitting on my lap as I write this, purring.