File under: What was I thinking?

I went on a job interview last week for which I was supremely qualified. However, I am also supremely pregnant, and I think they were a wee bit surprised to see my belly announce itself prior to my entrance to the conference room. I believe that is when the job requirements included fluency in German and knowledge of Chinese — you know, for an English-language journalism position on an English-language magazine, for an international company whose office language is English.

But, in their defense, not even in the U.S. would an 8-month pregnant woman be hired for a job starting 3 weeks before her due date — but here, where women are afforded a 3-year maternity leave (with the first year at 2/3rd’s pay) — it was especially stupid to think that anyone would hire me, just to have me, in their minds, take 3 years off.

I tried to explain that I already had a nanny lined up — but the nanny concept hasn’t really taken off here. Of course, people have the occasional baby-sitter and what not, but the idea of having a full- or part-time nanny so that a woman can work is so foreign as to be unbelievable. (Of course, wealthy women, who do not work, have nannies. It would be as if I told them that I had hired an English governess — who could talk to woodland creatures, dance on the ceiling and use an umbrella as personal aircraft).

Swimming upstream

I recently started swimming again — and by that, I mean I went to the large indoor pool, twice, a few weeks ago.  But it’s a start, considering that I haven’t seen the inside of a regulation sized pool in 15 years.  There are some very nice public pools here, and like a lot of things here, are very modern but housed in these beautiful old turn-of-the-last-century buildings with columns and wide lawns and everything. 

Since I am a housewife, I go in the afternoons, where it’s just me and the retirees.  And here I witness something which continues to confuse and amaze me.  I’m always surprised at how the generally very orderly Germans cannot que up to save their lives, which translates into a bunch of older ladies darting all over the pool, while I try to bob and weave.   The indoor pool has no lanes dividers, and it’s every man for himself in there.  

Now, I like a flowered bathing cap as much as the next gal, but to seem them coming at you sitting on top of a face full of make-up and announced by a pair of torpedo boobs is disconcerting.  It’s impossible to get out of the way, since there is no “way” — just a bunch of ladies fighting for water space, and I’m in now way ready to win that fight club.  First, I’ll need that flowered bathing cap. 

Does anybody really know what time it is?

Yes, they do, because the Germans use military time.  Like, you have an appointment at 14 O’Clock or the movie starts at 20 O’Clock.  Funnily enough, the half-hour is noted on regular time — you can meet someone at “half 7″, meaning 6:30 p.m., rather than at 18.30.  And hilarity ensues.

But, the benefit is that you never set your alarm clock for p.m. instead of a.m. (and thus can never use that time-honored American excuse) since 7 a.m. is always the number 7 and 7 p.m. is 19.00.  You can, of course, still snooze for two hours after the alarm goes off, as is my want, but only until 9 a.m. and not until 21.00.

Weather permitting

It’s amazing how good weather, and you know, having friends and speaking the language can really effect your ability to enjoy a new country.  

I’m also getting a kick out of the German spring/summer wardrobe.  While they can definitely rock the well-knotted scarf in the winter, the relative freedom of summer styling seems to confuse them (just like the subject of relative freedom of, oh, the individual… which is a topic for another day).  Of course, there are lots of pretty girls in summer dresses, but many of them — even very young girls — cock up the whole outfit with pantyhose. PANTYHOSE! Nude, shiny, pantyhose.  With open toed shoes! Or worse — with shorts.  Shorts and PANTYHOSE.  I half expect a Laura Ashley dress to make an appearance.  

I don’t understand how a country so close to Italy and France can have such a poor fashion sense.  How many baggy and poop colored dresses does one need? Of course, if you’re a 20-year old 6-foot tall blond, you have the legs to pull off the L’eggs.  But just barely.

Hauling Oats

I had a very housewifey day today. I generally have housewifey days every day, seeing as that I am now a housewife, but since I’m on “spring break” from my German class (three whole days! the Germans are very serious about condensing their fun for efficiency), I could waste the entire day hauling heavy things up four flights of stairs, instead of the usual few hours.

First haul: a borrowed travel bed for my 2-year old niece who is visiting this weekend.

Second Haul: a full basket and several bags of groceries for said niece (and her parents) since Friday is Labor Day here in Europe and no-one, especially not grocery stores, will be laboring. By the time I got to the butcher (that’s right, I go to several specialty markets with my little basket, like some kind of giant red-riding hood) at 1:30, there was a line out the door as if a hurricane was coming and we all needed to stock up on sausages and batteries.

Third Haul: just my self from a quick shopping trip for a bedroom vanity. I’ve always wanted one and now we finally have room — but really, am I going to brush my tresses to a warm glow with 100 strokes each night as I lounge in my dressing gown? Maybe I will… if I just had a vanity. And a tufted stool. And one of those three-way-mirrors. And a time-machine.

Best Haul: a vintage Vivienne Westwood velvet jacket for 3 Euro which a woman was selling directly in front of my door this afternoon. Now that I have the time, maybe I’ll be the new Rachel Ashwell (the Shabby Chic lady whose brand of flowsy is now going out of business) and comb German garage sales and flea markets. I assume they are probably be very well-organized, with only the politest of haggling. Although, how many black turtlenecks does one need? I won’t let that Dieter me, though. HA!

I know why the caged bird sings

I have a guess. Is it: living in a provincial European capital with a superiority complex, with no job, no husband (half the week) and the pressure to OHMIGOD enjoy this time, you’re never going to get it back, isn’t living in Europe SO WONDERFUL you can walk everywhere, and look, there’s even a subway? A subway! These Europeans are so clever with their innovative underground tubes and jauntily-tied scarves and what not.

As if there’s nowhere else where scarves and subways can co-exist peacefully where, perhaps, the conservatism wasn’t so palatable, and the idea of a woman Working While Parenting (WWP) wouldn’t get you pulled over by the Society for Creative Re-enactments of Time Gone By. (Oh those career gals with their crazy idea of suffrage — its so cute how they want to use their educations at the same time as their uteri. Don’t they know the two are mutually exclusive?)

For example: I am actually watching a woman yodel on television now. Wearing a dirndl. Surrounded by a trio of lederhosen-clad musicians. The kind with shorts. And accordions. During prime time. Unironically.

In the four months we’ve been here, I haven’t quite acclimated. I didn’t realize how much having a job — even a horribly stressful one which gave me grey hair and dandruff like snow in a Chicago winter — made me feel like a person. And how much being a hausfrau makes me feel like Virginia Woolf. Probably because being a hausfrau here is still considered a valid role for women (also, apparently, Prime Minister. Get your gender roles shit together, Germans).

(God, more dirndls. And a polka. What AM I watching?)

Oh, New York, how I miss your cramped apartments, your long work hours, your sticky summers and your frigid winters, your diversity, your open-mindedness, your warmth, your sense of possibility, your vitality, your creativity, your pulse, your subways and your jauntily-tied scarves.