Moving On

Happy Thanksgiving to all my readers in the USA!  It's hard to believe we're back in the holiday season already.  While we are having a typical Thursday here in Lux, our thoughts are with everyone back home and especially with friends and family who we miss.  Sometimes we think that the holiday season is about the traditions, the celebrations, the to do lists, and the inevitable stress.  But, I think I can speak for all those who live far away from their homes when I say that the holidays are really all about spending time with those you love.  So, despite all the hassles that come along with this time of year, treasure those times and make the most of them.

My husband and I had a quiet Thanksgiving dinner just the two of us last Sunday night.  We are just finishing up those leftovers today.  We didn't order a turkey from the UK this year, but decided to just do chicken.  There wasn't pumpkin pie.  I didn't pull out the decorations.  Before you start thinking we've fallen into a holiday depression, let me explain.  We've been a little busy.  While normally we would like to have the usual shindig with all the trimmings, we spent most of the weekend taking pictures off the walls, sorting our belongings, and deconstructing furniture.  It turns out our tour here in Luxembourg is ending sooner than originally planned.  As things stand now, we'll be moving out of the house, out of Ettelbruck, and out of Luxembourg before the end of the year.  Instead of heading back home, however, we're going to be setting up shop a little further to the east, just outside of Frankfurt, Germany.

We're pretty excited to say the least.  While starting the house hunting process and getting the legalities settled once more feels a bit daunting, it's kind of fun to be at square one again.  We'll get to learn about a new place and culture, and new opportunities will present themselves.  I'm pleased to have more time in Europe than we thought we would.  This move means a bonus year.  Now we will have a chance to get to those places on our list we thought we'd miss.  It'll be interesting to try my hand with German too.  I mean, it can't be any worse than my French.  It's a brand new adventure and yet another chance to experience the blank slate of expat life.  My husband is the first American to be assigned to this branch of the company, so we're definitely walking into unknown territory and breaking new trail.  We certainly can't say this will be a dull experience.  This coming weekend we're off to find a new house and town to live in.  No doubt we'll be spending our Christmas break sorting the kitchen and unpacking boxes.  Once again, we're leaping into the unknown.

So, on this day when we think of all the things we're thankful for I know I have a lot to list.  It has been an amazing experience in Luxembourg.  We have learned so much about the world we live in and who we are just in these two years.  We've met and formed relationships with an incredible group of people from all over the globe, relationships that have been at the core of an overall positive experience here.  We have been to beautiful, life changing places.  We've had a lot of epiphanies.  We're so very thankful to have the opportunity to continue the experience from a new locale.  Most of all, we're thankful for the friends and family at home who have supported us on this journey.  It means a great deal to be remembered and to hear from them, especially at this time of year.  We know this chance isn't a common one and there's no way to describe how grateful we are to have been presented with it.  Thanks of course to all of you who keep reading this too.

Happy Thanksgiving and while we're at it, Wir wünschen Ein frohes Fest!

These Two Years

We've passed the two year mark of this wild adventure.  It has felt like two seconds.  It has felt like two decades.  We don't know what is coming; we do know we can never go back.  There have been moments of supreme clarity and beauty.  There have been just as many moments of frustration and regret.  The expat experience isn't something that can be written up and shared in a glossy brochure.  It can't be explained away as one thing or another.  It can't be understood completely by those who haven't been there.  And each experience is so unique, one cannot even completely share it with those who have been there either.  So, we end up not talking about it much.  Sure, you answer the questions from those at home and you commiserate with your fellows about milk prices and inexplicable bureaucratic hurdles in your country of residence.  But, the other stuff, the stuff that no one else would really get ends up being packed away, tucked in a journal, filed in that part of the brain that shapes who you become.

Two years. Two years that haven't been remotely like any two years before.  Two years that are so different from everyone else's.  Two years that you wouldn't trade for any other two on offer.  How do you explain that?  You can't.  I, more often than not, find myself speechless at their immensities.  I don't know if there will ever be a point when I can sum this up in a crisp concise way that can make any sense to anyone.  Maybe I'll just fumble with it for the rest of my life.

The good?  The good stuff goes on and on forever.  You can't list it all, but I'm going to give it a go anyway.  The best part is standing in the middle of somewhere you never thought you'd stand, looking at something so incredible there's a lump in your throat that makes you want to scream, "Look at this!  Look at this, dammit!  This is what it's about!" Or it's a conversation with someone you never would have met any other way, someone who in a huge or small way will influence your life.  It's the conversations you would never have in your hometown, big conversations about life and death; conversations that have you rethinking just about everything.  It's the moments that are absolutely terrifying, those moments where you are on the brink of becoming paralyzed with fear but realize you have to keep moving.  Those moments change you.  You don't go back to who you were before.  Then again, sometimes it's all about the calm, the calm that comes with being completely broken from everything and everyone that used to define you.  But, there's lots of good in trying to share what they're like with those you encounter in the new place.  It's the liberation that comes when you know you never have to see the same place twice, the realization that tomorrow can be completely different and even the mundane is a revelation.  The good comes when you finally can be who you want to be every single day.  It comes with the slow comprehension that this life isn't something you win at.  Each day is a gift to explore, and do, and live a life you always wanted to try.  It's immersing yourself in something you dreamed of being immersed in.  It's not about being the champion expat with the longest "been there" list, the cleanest house, the busiest social schedule, the mastery of the local dialect, the most well-rounded children, the best bizarre food stories.  That's not the good.  The good are things seen, heard, tasted, smelled, and felt that wouldn't be profound to anyone else.  The good isn't in the pages of the guidebook.  It's moments short or endless.   The good is the reason we're here.  The good makes us better.  The good makes us grateful.  The good has the power to tip the scales.

The bad?  The bad is stuff that can't be talked about.  It's not the inspiring things.  It's the stuff that has you screaming, not in joy, but alone in your room so no one hears it.  It's the stuff that you're not proud of.  It's the stuff that breaks you down to the brink of retreating into yourself.  It's the confusion, the endless, always present confusion.  It's being left, ignored, drowning in the confusion as other's walk along the river bank without even looking your way.  It's the sad understanding that you don't belong where you are and you never will no matter how long you remain there.  It's having the experience of being unwelcome all too often no matter how much you smile, apologize, and kowtow.  It's the loneliness.  It's knowing that your loved ones are going through life's ups and downs without you.  It's being unable to offer comfort in tragedy.  It's watching from a distance and being powerless to intervene as someone jumps off a cliff of a mistake.  It's missing the incredible triumphs too.  The bad is being just a cliche, a walking flag.  It's having to explain where you come from, a place that everyone already has an opinion about.  It's trying to balance that with the fact that you love your country and despite everything, you are proud of it.  It's the inner battle to reign in the incredibly angry side of you that can't stand all the things that would be classified as "idiotic/horrible/criminal/totally wrong" back home but are completely normal where you are.  It's bad knowing that no matter how you explain the bad, no one is going to take it seriously.  You're living in Europe, quit whining.  But the bad is there for a reason.  It makes us grateful too.  It teaches us lessons.  It challenges us to take it, mold it, and turn it into good.

These two years are all that and so much more.  It's been way beyond a trip to the sea, cheering at a cycle race in Flanders, delving into the caves of prehistoric civilization, climbing mountain passes in Switzerland, tasting rare cheeses in Paris, laughing with friends in centuries old pubs, visiting long lost homelands, and being moved to tears.

Being an expat is a mishmash of the crazy good, the crazy bad, and the just plain crazy.  It can't be explained in a way that makes any real sense.  But, there is one thing that I can say clearly about these two years.  I know that they have changed my life, they are vital, they are priceless.  I cannot imagine nor would I want a life in which they didn't happen.  Hopping on that plane over two years ago to take that plunge is one of best decisions we ever made.  They are our two, painful, gorgeous, profound years.  And that's that.

The Existential Trail

I was sitting on a ridge when I realized what I feared.  The path, no more than a foot wide, was exposed shale and the ridge it traversed so precariously, stuck out like a ship's prow into a deep and seemingly uninhabited valley.  One step to the left or right, and down we would plunge into the valley below with the weight of our fully loaded packs hurrying our descent.  The burnt colors of the Ardennes autumn were just making their subtle appearance on opposite hillsides and the scrubby bushes at our feet.  Occasionally, a cold wind whipped from the northeast and found its way around our packs and through our clothing.  We left our packs on as we sat on the trail eating our lunch, for if we removed them they would go tumbling down never to be seen again.

I had been secretly obsessed with this path.  Some inner drive insisted that we stand here at some point during our journey in Europe.  However, I did not know that this specific place existed until we popped out of the undergrowth and trees that completely enveloped the trail only moments before.  As soon as the view of the valley and the simplicity of the path was revealed, I knew that this is the place I had longed for.  I had expected to step onto this treacherous track in the Alps or the Skarvheimen, but not a few miles from my doorstep.  Yet, there it was, just as I imagined it.  And here we were, perched on the edge just I knew we had to be.   And that is when I began to realize what I feared.  It wasn't the trail itself or the realization that one misstep would certainly ruin the day.  In fact, it had very little to do with the place at all, except being there planted the seed of a realization.

What would happen, who would I become if I had chosen a different trail?  What if in my search for the day's trek I had decided on a course with constant elevation or one with fewer or more kilometers?  Or worse, what if I had settled for a guidebook's recommend trail.  What if we had erred on the side of caution to follow a course others had told us to take.  We would never have been here.  We would not be standing in that place I had imagined.  I would still be visiting it in my dreams, where mist covers the view on either side only a few feet from the edges of the trail.  This place only exists where we were.  Similar paths no doubt can be found elsewhere, but there is nothing guaranteeing we will stand on them.  This trail would become a regret, because it had never been followed.  My great fear in fact was not something tangible such as an insect or an animal or a disease or a gruesome end it was, as Thoreau so elegantly put it, "when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."

Those who travel regularly know the value of a good guidebook.  They provide that much appreciated information such as where to find museum passes and sample the best cannoli.  But, many times we fall into over reliance.  We turn our brains off and blindly follow the tour presented in the pages of Lonely Planet, Trip Advisor, and Rick Steves' Europe.  First, we head here, then at this time we go there, and finally at the end of the day we must end up at this place to see this thing.  We foolishly believe that a perfect travel experience can only be had if another says it is perfect.  It doesn't matter if it's a well worn tour or something off the beaten path.  It is only good if it says so in the book. We cheat ourselves.  We close doors in our own faces because we don't want to believe in the possibility that we can walk through them.  We no longer turn our heads from side to side to peer around corners because someone has convinced us that it is not worth our time or what is down there is not good.

Of course, one of the great analogies for life is travel.  In life as in travel, we often turn to the directives of others in order to map how we will live.  I do not refer to one's world view, sense of morality, or religion (be it the belief in a higher power or the conviction that there is none).  I'm talking about how we decide to use our time on this earth, the trail we choose to follow day to day.  We all have things we want to do in our lives, but it seems many times we decide we want them because someone told us we must.  First, you do this, then this, then you must do this, because then this has to happen, and only then can you die being fulfilled.  What would our lives be if we allowed ourselves to pick and choose what we want from the standard formula and then turn down paths more suited to ourselves?  What if we listened to our gut more than the directives of those around us?  Would our mistakes and unsuspected tragedies seem as horrific?  Would we turn to self-help books, fad diets, and approval of others so readily?  Would we lay all our hopes and fulfillment in relationships?  Would we rest our laurels on our children only to be shattered in the wake of their departures or their so called failures?  Would we gather so much unnecessary wealth and prestige in hoarded piles around us?  These things, these acts, are so often prescribed as what life is about or what will flesh it out, but is that not dependent on the life?

I believe so.  Like a vast stretch of wilderness there are many trails to be taken.  If we all choose to follow the same one, it becomes worn, littered, graffitied, crowded, and uninteresting.  We, as individuals, are meant for different paths, stretching in all directions.  There is no trail greater than the rest.  It is nothing but tragic when we ignore our gut and allow ourselves to be swayed to a different path.  The greatest tragedy, however, is if we attempt to drag someone else down ours.

While the great trails of the world that lead to famous mountain peaks and deep clear lakes are beautiful and inspiring, that moment sitting with our packs on that ridge was not meant for those places.  It could have only happened there, in a little known valley of the Luxembourgish Ardennes.  It was perfect.  It was absolutely necessary.  It was designed for us and no one else.

So, I did not fear being there.  I feared not being there.  I fear consciously abandoning my trail.

An Open Letter To Bose Corporation

Dear Bose Corporation,

There is a crater where my road used to be.  The house across the street is an obliterated pile of rubble.  The days are filled with the sound of explosions and endless pounding that rattles the dishes in the cabinet.  The nights are filled with the sounds of heated arguments in the streets.  If I didn't know better, I would swear my house is in the center of a war zone.  There are pictures of my neighborhood after the Battle of Bulge and it looks disturbingly similar.

However, this isn't a war zone.  It's a construction zone.  Except for holidays and the month of August, the small city square I live in has been in a constant state of renovation since we moved here almost two years ago.  They've dug up our street three times in the last 21 months.  When one building is demolished and a new one is built in its place, they move down to the next address.  As I write this, there are two demolition projects underway across the street, one behind our house, and the third attempt to do whatever it is they can't stop doing to my street kicked off yesterday afternoon.  Occasionally, one of our adjoining neighbors to our row home (architectural creativity has blessed us with 5) gets in the act with a sledge hammer or a hammer drill.  If there is a disease that creates an unquenchable desire to tear things down and rebuild them, there are a lot of infected people in this town.  One would think that after quitting time, all this racket would cease.  Alas, the clientele from the bar around the corner picks up where construction crews left off.  All told, there are approximately 3 hours a day of peace, between the hours of 4 and 7 A.M.

While I'm sure there are some people that thrive in this type of environment, I'm not one of them.  During the week, my time is spent editing photographs, painting, writing, or editing video.  I need a quiet environment so I can, well, hear myself think.  At the beginning of September the construction reached a new level of intensity and I found myself unable to stay focused on what I was doing.  The only time I could get somewhere quiet was when I rode my bicycle out to the middle of nowhere or I walked up into the forests.  Unfortunately, doing that meant I wasn't able to paint, write, or do anything else.  I was becoming frustrated, irritable, and sometimes downright enraged.

Then, one day I walked into one of your shops and popped on a pair of your Quiet Comfort 15 Headphones.  At that moment, I knew life was about to significantly improve.  They were playing loud music in the shop.  There were other people inside talking at a level to be heard above the music.  But, when I flipped that little switch on the right ear cup, all of that was silenced.  I heard absolutely nothing.  It was beautiful.  I'll never forget it.  I think I may have teared up a little.

I've owned these headphones for two weeks now and I cannot stop talking about them.  I put them on as soon as the construction crews roll into town at 7 A.M. and I'm blissfully unaware of their presence for the entirety of the day.  I thought that wearing headphones all day every day would be uncomfortable, but these are so light and soft I forget they're even there.  Whether I have music pumped into them or not, they provide that quiet environment I have been craving for so long.  They are allowing me to hear my thoughts again, to focus, and to express them.  I cannot begin to explain what that means to me.

In short, thank you, thank you, thank you.  Please, give your Quiet Comfort development team a hug from me.  I can honestly sayyour product has changed my life for the better.  That is big deal.

Sincerely and with my deepest thanks,

CG

Prisoner of Constructionville

Boot Tracks

One day it was summer, the next day Winter was banging on the door impatiently demanding that Autumn hurry up and do its thing so Winter can settle into its 7 month (at minimum) oppressive occupation of the region.  With its thunderous arrival comes the sad realization that we're beginning another long slog through seemingly endless wet, dark months.  While it is tempting to retreat into a large chalice of Belgian Strong Ales until next May, we're not willing to give up on all the cycling induced fitness we were able to grab a hold of this year.  However, our focus has shifted to training in a different activity besides cycling.  While we still commute by bike nearly every day, the pace has slackened as we use our reliable all weather FX and Redline.  The road bikes await the distant coming of drier conditions from their perches on the trainers.  Weekend excursions are no longer to Belgian roads and cycle paths, but to muddy tracks in quiet forests much closer to home.  It is officially hiking and backpacking season.

The forests of Luxembourg are magical places, especially in the Mullerthal region (Petite Suisse Luxembourgeoise).  While the region is only about 7% of the Duchy it is full of gorges, streams, ruins, crags, and rock shelters.  Except of course for the castle ruins, it reminds me of the sandstone ledge areas of the CVNP, Nelson Ledges, and the Liberty Park Conservation Area in Twinsburg.  The Mullerthal is stunning and, in my opinion, best seen on foot.  

We decided to take hiking one step further this year and try a backpacking session in the Mullerthal next month.  While backcountry backpacking in the traditional American sense can't be done, we can plan nearly the same experience with a few modifications.  You can still tromp all day with everything you need on your back and camp in a tent every night.  However, the camping bit has to be done at an official campground.  So, the getting away from civilization aspect is out the window (civilization is always close at hand).  However, you can still sleep on the ground, cook your meals outdoors, and enjoy being in the quiet solitude of nature for most of the day.  For a true backcountry experience Scandinavia is a go to region.  Someday, someday we will get there.

Nevertheless, we are quite enthusiastic about our Mullerthal backpacking plans.  Except for a few minor items, we already have the necessary gear.  The trails are just minutes from home.  Plus, unlike cycling, it is an activity our dog can participate in (he put the paw down on basket and trailer travel).  With the arrival of autumn and the start of school, the holiday season is coming to an end.  In the next month many campgrounds will be closing for the season, but a few stay open year round.  European Campgrounds are mostly designed for motor homes and short or long term cabin rentals.  But, they all have at least one area for those that want to, eh hem, actually camp.  Of course, this part isn't free.  But the fees to pitch a tent are incredibly reasonable.  Some people have told me that you can attempt to backcountry camp and hope no one comes along discovering you on private property.  For expats, it's best to obey the laws.  Anyway, with the cooler, wet weather tent camping shouldn't be as popular at the campgrounds.

When you're not in the campground backpacking is backpacking.  Walking in the woods is just walking in the woods.  Honestly, I can't think of a better way to embrace the passing season.  Instead of fighting the arrival of cool, crisp mornings and rainy afternoons, we're rolling with it with a pack on our backs and making boot tracks.

A Guide for the Guides

If you live somewhere far from your family or where you grew up there is a chance that you may have visitors from time to time. If you live near a place that is a tourist destination, you can count on it.  Having visitors from home is one of the highlights of being an expat.  It's always a pleasure to spend time with family and friends who come to visit us in Luxembourg.  Part of the time is always spent showing people around.  We've had quite a few people come through since our relocation and each time we learn something new about being guides.  So, here are our top tips for being a tour guide.

1. Know your audience.

Some visitors may be seasoned travelers, others may have just disembarked from their first flight.  Some people like shopping, others art, others prefer trying new food and drink.  It helps to make plans that take your visitor's interests into account.  If they do not travel often or haven't visited your area before, make sure they get to see the big sights, even if you have visited them 1,000 times.  While the sights may have lost their luster for you, being apart someone's first visit is always a lot fun.  Ask them what they would like to see and do and plan accordingly.

On the same note, when you're walking around (and you will be walking around a lot) you may be finding yourself wanting to point out some sights along the way.  Your audience's level of interest dictates how much detail you should to go into.  Months ago we had some visitors who were fascinated by pre-Roman and Roman history.  For me they were sponges, greedily soaking up all the historical details I was happily sharing with them.  Of course, most visitors aren't eager students of early European history.  For them, it's best to stick with big names and dates that they would be familiar with.
We've yet to host anyone with an interest in cycling...sigh.

2.  Allow some free time.

Unless you have a minor visiting, adults are capable of doing their own thing.  Allow your visitors to do so.  If someone wants to go shopping up and down the Champs-Élysées, by all means let them.  You do not have to hold their hand every waking moment.  We found that planning some free time for everyone is really helpful.  Everybody has the chance to do their own thing and then we can all meet up afterwards.  That way if your guests want to spend some time in high end boutiques and all you want is a table at a cafe, everyone gets what they're after.

3. Pace yourself.

Some guests like to do their sightseeing at a relaxed speed.  Others down coffee all day and won't want to quit until about 3am.  If your pace matches your guests, cool.  If it doesn't, make sure you compromise.  If someone ends up overstretched they could wear out and tensions could rise.  That's why scheduling regular free time is so important.

4.  Show them your favorites.

Whether it's a hidden spot for a drink or a quiet park in Paris no one knows about, take your guests to places that are special to you, not the guide books.  For example, there's an Indian Restaurant we that we always take visitors to.  Obviously, they don't serve local cuisine, but the the owner and his family are fabulous and the food is always spot on.  We eat there almost every week.  While most guests are interested in seeing the famous places, they really enjoy getting to see how we live day to day.  Even though the grocery store is far from being a favorite place for us, our guests often enjoy a stroll through the aisles.  For them, it's a peek into our lives as expats.

5.  Provide some challenges.

Part of traveling is pushing the borders of your comfort zone.  Whether it's trying new foods or a new experience, travel is the best way to broaden your horizons.  Some people are more open to this aspect than others, but everyone should have the chance to experience the thrill of trying something new.  As a guide it's important to make sure your guests have a few challenges.  Give them the opportunity to eat local delicacies, encourage them to take in a sight or go shopping on their own so they can interact with locals and see the place for themselves.  Of course, don't abandon them altogether, but a little push for adventure opens the door for them to have memories that are all their own.

So, whether you live a few states over or on the other side of the globe, those are 5 things to keep in mind when you are playing tour guide for your visitors.  But, no matter what you do or where you go, the most important thing is for everyone to enjoy themselves.  While they are getting the chance to see new places, you have the chance to spend time with special people who bring a little bit of home with them.

Mr. Black Died Six Days Ago

I was just thinking about him, just talking about him actually.  I think Hemingway got me thinking about Mr. Black.  Hemingway and Black don't have anything in common,  except maybe the white beard, but there was something someone said about Hemingway that got me thinking about Black.  I don't even remember what it was now.  I was also thinking about Black because I'm reading poetry and fiction more than usual, which over the last few years had been not at all.  It takes a long time for the rigors and mindsets of academia to leave the system.  

Mr. Black taught me about perspective, texture, Dadaism, that colored pencil drawings need to pop and for them to pop you have to put your back into it.  I made one of my favorite pen and ink drawings under his tutelage.  My mother had it framed and it's still hanging on the wall in their back hall.  Mr. Black was one of the old guard and he tended to intimidate most of the students who encountered him.  He still lived in the pre Post Modern world.  His style hearkened back to ads you see in Time Magazines from the 1950's.  He didn't get in on fads.  He rarely gave out A+'s.  He grunted if you had questions.  He positively yelled at those who wasted his time or, worse, were wasting theirs.  He was a grumpy second generation German-American.  He was so much more than that.

He told me I had potential.  I could really create some great things.  But.  But.  I was holding myself back.  I needed to give into the creative side more.  I was too concerned with structure and rules to really realize what I was capable of.  So, he lent me fiction.  It was fiction they didn't have in the school library.  Eduction at that school went only so far and would stop abruptly before it would offend any sensitivities.  I don't think you could even find Hemingway on those shelves.  The books he lent weren't very good by literature standards.  He knew that.  The school would not have been pleased he was loaning them out.  He knew that too.  The point of the books was for inspiration, a tap to access the right brain, to introduce a young artist's mind to images and worlds outside the strict Doric boundaries of a private, religious education system.

Mr. Black was an ally in a soulless place.  He knew the darkness inside those of us who inhabited that school on the fringes.  In his own gruff way he taught some of us that contrary to what we're learning in the other 90 minute sessions, a little darkness is just fine.  They kept him up on the second floor in the back corner where they thought he couldn't cause too much trouble.  He still did, quietly under the radar.  In a realm of black and white rules, with a Victorian sense of morality laced with hypocrisy, with a collective soul as dark and putrid as the world that it judges, there was an art teacher who kept generations of outcasts, teen philosophers, dreamers, and timid artists sane.   He died six days ago.  He lives in countless doodles, sketches, water colors, sculptures, screen prints, oil paintings, and photos created by those generations.