What made us giggle today

What we thought we said vs. what we really said

Alex made a self-deprecating comment about something that was driving me crazy.
What I thought I was saying: I agree!/ Estoy de acuerda!
What I really said: Me acuesto!/ I'm going to bed!

Anna needed to use the facilities before we left the restaurant.
What Jack thought he was saying: Esperamos afuera. / We'll wait outside.
What Jack really said: Esperamos afuego. / We'll wait in the fire.

We headed off to Retiro to collect more conkers.
What Anna thought she was saying: Let's go collect more chestnuts.
What Anna really said: Let's go collect more coconuts.
She was speaking in English, so it wasn't a translation problem.
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Aside: Which reminds me of last week when Jack and I were late for Spanish class so we jumped in a cab instead of walking. I started talking to Jack about something or other when Jack wispered to me, "We should be practicing our Spanish with the driver!" Jack, the master of small talk with strangers, says to the cabby, "Donde estas?" Which means, Where are you? I chuckled knowing that what he was really trying to say was, Where are you from? (De donde eres?) The cabby was a little perplexed. So I jumped in and made the correction for Jack. Once the driver understood what had happened he started kidding Jack. "I'm in the taxi. Where are you?"
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How many times does the man have to say no?

We tried three times to ask the docent at the train museum if he had an explanation of how a steam engine worked to accompany the most excellent cut away engine on display. It was such a fantastic and elaborate exhibit that it was hard to believe they hadn't provided documentation.


I think the guy was about to kill us by the time Jack wandered over and used his bad Spanish. He must have been thinking: "It was no the first time when the woman asked. It was no the second time when the kid asked. And it's still no! And it's really painful to listen to you guys asking. Go away!" Maybe he even said that. We probably couldn't have understood him.
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What's that guy having?


Between the train museum and the Retiro, we had a great Ecuadorean dinner. Everything on the tables around us looked great, so we just asked "what is that guy having, and how about that woman over there, and how about him?" When it all arrived, I was the one with tripe this time. Two bites. That's all I could do. And only because I was egged on by Jack who knows I can't stand looking like a wimp.

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To celebrate finding the humor in it all, we decided to visit our favorite gelato shop. It's hard to beat that gelato.

Really, we're trying with the Spanish! It's just coming along slowly.

Conkers

At first I had a little bit of a bad attitude about going to Parque del Retiro. It’s a big old park in Madrid which is kind of nice, but, I think overrated. However, it’s a good location for PW (see La Piscina), so when Ann said she wanted to go, I was only slightly discouraging. We did, in fact, have a lovely time at Retiro enjoying drinks near the pseudo-lake (see The Boating Situation in Madrid), watching a great street performer, and checking out a number of living statues.
But the real gem in Retiro is the debris from the chestnut trees. Charlie and Ann are Brits, and they had something to teach us about conkers. We collected dozens of fallen chestnuts from the ground in preparation for playing conkers. Charlie and Ann tell us that back where they come from, every kid plays conkers, so we better learn how.

Basic conker preparation involves threading a string through a hole in a chestnut. More advanced preparations can involve oven-drying your conker, or even soaking your conker in vinegar and then oven-drying it. There are probably lots of other tightly-held secret methods of conker prep. The point here is to make your conker as hard and indestructible as possible. Because you want your conker to destroy as many opponent conkers as possible.


Charlie found some sort of tool in the ancient tool box in our apartment to make holes in our chestnuts. Then we trekked out to the ferretaria to buy some string. We made up a whole slew of conkers for a conker tournament, and we set out on the terraza to learn how to play conkers.


From the look on Ann’s face when she plays conkers, I’d say she must have been the playground champion at her school. She looks vicious as she winds up to take a crack at your conker. It seems like a boy’s game, but there is no doubt that Ann has lots of experience.

To play conkers, one player dangles his conker at the end of its string, holding it for a shot from the other player’s conker. The other player gets to whack away until he misses or until the opponent’s conker breaks off the string. The players change rolls, back and forth until one conker destroys the other.


The victor, on its first win, is labeled a oner. If it is able to destroy another, it earns the title of twoer. And so on. Charlie says that it is not uncommon for a young lad who has done a great deal of prep work on his conker to wrack up enough victories to be a twentier or thirtier, though I’m dubious. I don’t see how they could possibly hold up that long.

Charlie and Ann are so good at aiming and smacking your conker, that you simply can’t believe they haven’t been at it daily for the last 60-something years. But they swear they haven’t been serious since childhood. Though Ann admits to playing at her last job occasionally.

Jack and the kids are pretty good off the bat, hitting the opponent often enough to be decent contestants. At first not only can I not hit another conker, but I keep hitting myself and getting hurt. Not good form. And a little embarrassing. We play on the terraza until it is too dark to see then come in for dinner. But I think we are all hooked. It’s pretty fun. We have a couple twoers, but most of our Retiro-born conkers are weak and cannot withstand more than one or two battles. We have started a round robin tournament that must wait until later to complete.


The tournament continues the next day after school. We head over to the park in the plaza across from the Palacio Real (The Royal Palace) where there are lots of street performers. So we pack a picnic lunch along with our bag of conkers and head out.

We put our picnic blanket down and pull out our bocadillos to stoke up on before the competition. Next to us, a living angel statue who we have seen before is unpacking her dirty white gown, disheveled white wig, and torn, bent angel wings. As we finish our lunch and begin tournament play, the angel’s devilish boyfriend bawls her out in some Slavic language.


Meanwhile, I am finally getting the hang of this conking with conkers. And I have started to win. Repeatedly. I have myself a oner, twoer, on and on until I have beaten someone else’s threer and have a sixer, a sevener. There is an occasional conker from the bag that survives to enjoy being a twoer or threer for a few rounds, until eventually my conker beats them all and I have the victorious tener of the tournament before the rain starts, and we decide to call it a day on the conker field.


I was rooting for the poor angel, wishing she would come and grab a conker from our bag and whack her bad boyfriend in the head. But she didn’t. When we left, Ann dropped some coins in her box, and we wished that she could be as lucky as we were to enjoy a day out in the park, playing conkers with dear friends, rather than working hard, standing as still as can be for spare change and a boyfriend who should have stayed in Romania.

Picked

Last week we were on the Metro with our friends Charlie and Ann who were visiting. We were wrapped up in a conversation when some sort of scuffle broke out next to Charlie, and he let out a, “Hey!”when he felt someone pushing into him. The train doors opened, out went the two young men next to us, and along with them all the cash in Charlie’s pocket. The whole thing was so quick and smooth that he wasn’t even sure he’d been pickpocketed until we were at the next stop when he’d completed a thorough inventory. Luckily he didn’t lose his phone, keys or documents, “just” €30. Bummer.

We’ve been going over and over it in an effort to learn what to do to prevent another thieving event. Don’t stand right near the train door, if possible. Thieves seem to choose targets close to the doors, time a little scuffle so that you are distracted for the moments right before the doors open, they nab your stuff and make their escape while you are on your way to the next station. Don’t carry valuables in your back pocket. Make sure purse zippers are closed. This sort of thing. Mainly: Beware.

We have been making plans for what to do in case we are targets again. Alex and I are talking about using a Jujitsu move, or maybe just a backhand whack. We’ll scream, “Thief!!” (We still need to look that up in Spanish.) We’ll chase those bad guys down the platform until they are forced to exit and pass the security guys who will catch them and throw them into jail. In our plans, we always win, the bad guys always get caught, and our posessions are never stolen.

So it was that we found ourselves a mere five days after Charlie got ripped off, on the train coming home from a lovely evening out. We had positioned ourselves defensively, as we now do, protecting our pockets, purses, etc.

And it turns out, Jack was positioned perfectly to catch a rat sticking his hands in someone else’s pocket. Same old routine, a couple of guys got on the train together, the first one faked a stall, blocking the victim, the pickpocketer bumped into the target and slipped his hand into the pocket and was about to grab his wallet when Jack yelled, “Hey!” Which, it turns out, worked this time (even though it isn’t Spanish).

The crook was stopped in the act. The target didn’t even know anything had happened. Jack followed him down the train to tell him to check his pocket. The wallet was still there, and he was grateful for the save (after a little confusion and quick translating by a bystander). Meanwhile, I was watching from across the train where the rat was still trapped in the moving train. I stared him down and was glad that I could at least make him nervous enough to keep his hands shaking until the little band of thieves escaped at the next station.

The other passengers were thoroughly confused by the whole event, as it was so quick and Jack’s eyewitness account was in unintelligible Spanish and was never public. In fact, I’d guess the would-be victim assumed Jack was part of the scheme when Jack approached him. Who knows what the train load full of people thought about us weird Americanos.

Of course, we’ve done hours of debriefing on this event, too. What should we have done? Chased them down and accused them? At least Jack saved one guy from a big headache. And we’re still on the lookout -- defending ourselves, our pockets, and maybe even someone else’s.

As our neighbor Angela in Virginia always told us, “Be safe. And be concerned.” (But I’m not going to do a Jujitsu move after all.)

Quick rating update

Anna rates today a 9 on a scale of 0-10 - for all those who are following her happiness in school progress.

Alex, on the other hand, seems to have been enrolled in the level C class for non-academic subjects. As a classmate summed it up: "A is for the smart kids. B is for the normal kids. C is for the dummies." It appears the misfits as well, which is problematic for Alex, who doesn't like rule breakers. We'll keep you updated as the situation evolves.

A new day, a new adventure....

Every day an adventure

Anna and Alex debriefing each other on their walk home

Anna update
The morning started out rough, and I wondered if we'd be able to get Anna to school at all today. But she forged ahead. On the 0-10 scale, yesterday was a .1 she reported (she only gave me the .1 because I told her she had to have a black eye to have a 0 day). Today she reported a rating of 3. I think it was actually better than that.

Alex's first day at school
Alex reported that the one hour assembly for new students, which comprised the entire first day of school, went pretty much like this:

Blah, blah, blah, blah es prohibido, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah,blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah es prohibido,blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, es prohibito. Blah es prohibido, blah es prohibido. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah es prohibido.

Now, it's could be because he doesn't understand much Spanish that it sounded that way, but he is probably pretty accurate in his report. Same as any first day in middle school anywhere.

He has a strategy for dealing with committing any of those prohibidos that he didn't quite catch: smile and say, "No entiendo. Lo siento." (I don't understand, sorry."

All in all, he had an acceptable first day.

Meanwhile...
In the mean time, I thought I'd go have a coffee while waiting for Alex. I strategically picked a cafe that looked like I could manage it by myself without embarrassment. I ordered a delightful cafe con leche (for some reason we can't pull off a decent cup of coffee at home and I've been despirate for a good cup of joe) and Anna's favorite breakfast food tostada con tomate. Delightful. Delicious. And then it was time to flag the waiter down, get the check and dash out to meet Alex. That's when I realized that my wallet was in my other purse. I had visions of omnipresent security guys chasing me down the street as I insisted that I must go get my son who is being released in minutes from his first day in Spanish school. I am sweating profusely, mortified that I have to tell the waiter I have no money. I try to remember enough Spanish to explain that mi dinero es en mi otro bolso. I rummage through the bag I have and try to select an item to leave as collateral that is valuable enough that they will believe me but not too risky to lose. I decide on my reading glasses. Yeah, right. The guy thought I was insane trying to force my glasses on him. I was in luck. No es problema. I told him I'd be back in an hour, and I was. No es problema. But I didn't get out of the situation meeting my primary mission - which was a simple cup of coffee by myself without any moments of embarrassment. Oh well.

Anna first day of Spanish school

Today was Anna's first day of school. When Anna walked in just after I took these pictures, we saw that one of her teachers was holding her hand. There are nine students in her class with two teachers. All the students are foreign students who are learning Spanish. It was a little hard today. She doesn't really want to go back tomorrow.

Matriculation - at last!

Alex's school

Anna's school

We have finally crossed an enormous threshold – Alex and Anna are both enrolled in school. School starts next week, and both kids are expected in their respective classrooms. This was an enormous accomplishment and required the assistance of countless friends, acquaintances, and strangers. This was the purpose of most of our interactions with government bureaucracy. We delivered the final documents today. At both schools, teachers and administrators were exceptionally kind and welcoming. This was evident even when we could not understand all of what was said. Though both kids are experiencing some trepidation about arriving in a classroom with limited Spanish, we are confident that they will be fine. I feel a huge relief.

Across the street from Alex's school, we find the following sign posted as a cautionary tale to rebellious students.

In this building were located the supreme council and tribunal of the Inquisition from the 1780s until its extinction in 1820.

Jack’s first little bird

"I'm not on Survivor Man, so I'm not going to eat it." - Jack

Years ago, in 1990 to be exact, Jack and I went on a rock climbing trip to the south of France with our friends Charlie and Ann. I had had two miserable years of French in high school and two even more miserable years of it in college. But they were of almost no use. Every time I thought I knew what I was ordering for dinner, I was wrong. I was usually unpleasantly surprised by what showed up on my plate. For a string of several days I ended up with little birds every night. On the last night of this streak, I was desperate to have a filling meal and was certain that I was ordering a hunk of lamb. Alas, a tiny little bird arrived once again, and I almost broke down in tears.

One day last month Alex ordered French fries for seconds after lunch when he was still hungry. Potatas fritas. Seems simple enough. When the order arrived it was potato chips, and we all laughed at the shocked look on his face. “You got a little bird!” I told him. Since then, we’ve been keeping track of all the little birds that arrive at our tables as we travel and dine out. We’ve even started leaving behind a little origami crane folded from a napkin to mark each occasion.

Today, Jack got his first little bird. He thought he was getting veal and potato casserole. Instead, a dish of something strange in tomato sauce arrived. He poked, he prodded, he tasted. Finally he announced, “I think this is tripe.” “Your first little bird!” He was due. The rest of us have had several.

The waiter confirmed the pronouncement and told Jack that “hombres comen todos!” Men eat everything, whether it is ears, or snout, or stomach or hooves. I can’t give you the whole thing in Spanish, because the parts were acted out in sign language – and the meaning was absolutely clear.

He did a pretty good job with that plate of food which he said tasted like tripe in Chef Boy-ar-dee sauce. When he offered me some, I had to answer, “No puedo.” Same as the locksmith who ruined our key back in week one of our adventure. Sorry, Jack. No puedo. I can’t help you with this one.

Bolsa Caca

When I was a kid there was one Spanish word I knew from the playground - caca - it always provoked a giggle. So imagine my surprise to see the Bolsa Caca campaign cropping up all over Madrid.

bolsa (feminine noun)
1. bag

caca (feminine noun)
1. poo (informal) (excremento) poop (United States)
2. nasty or dirty thing (cosa sucia)
3. garbage (United States)



It's all part of an effort to reduce the number of plastic bags used in Spain.

Artzheim, Germany

We rolled into Artzheim with an hour to spare on the way to the Frankfurt airport in a quest for some photographs to share with Ann of her father’s home village. And a small village at that. The current population is roughly 1200, and we can see that the historic core is a very small portion of the community. Again we find a historic village which clearly has been rebuilt.

Jack’s grandfather Stefan left here 103 years ago on a journey to New York. He was one of 10 siblings. We head for the village church and then to the local cemetery in hopes that we’ll find some evidence of the family name Kranz. As I dash among headstones searching for possible relatives, Jack strikes up a conversation with the groundskeeper. There is one tombstone with the Kranz name, and as I take a photo of it, the groundskeeper tells Jack that he knows this man’s wife, and he can take us to meet her. He’s so enthusiastic that we can’t refuse him. We jump into the car and follow him.


We drive right back near the church we just left where our guide pops out of the car and knocks on a door. There is no answer, but our new friend is not discouraged, he knows where the son lives as well. Back in the car, we wind through the tiny streets of the old village and pass into a newer neighborhood. Before we know it, the groundskeeper is once again knocking on a door, and this time meets success. As we sheepishly get out of our rental car, our friend is telling the man in the doorway that someone named Kranz is here from America looking for his family. Jack starts to explain in his halting German that his grandfather lived here in Arzheim. The surprised man in the doorway knows exactly who Jack is talking about, “Stefan,” he confirms. Stefan was this man’s great uncle. It appears that Jack and this man, Claus Kranz, are some degree of cousins.

Claus and his surprised but gracious wife invite us in for a cool drink. Claus excuses himself, only to reappear with a yellowing family document listing his great grandfather and all his children – including Jack’s grandfather Stefan and Claus’ grandfather Robert. Claus has already made a copy of the document for Jack.

And then, we are on our way.

Stefan left this tiny village at the beginning of the last century and over a hundred years later his grandson returns. A long wait for news of the lost son.

Würzburg, Germany

In 1906, Jack’s grandfather, Stefan Kranz, left Artzheim, Germany. He left behind 9 siblings. Stefan, like his father and all of his brothers, was an iron worker. He arrived on the ship Amerika and passed through Ellis Island on his way to New York.

In the 1920s Jack’s grandmother, Carolina “Lina” Schebendach, left Würzburg, Germany headed for the United States. She, too, left behind many brothers and sisters on her way to New York.

Stefan and Lina met each other in New York and married.

Then there was the terrible war.

On March 16, 1945, just before the end of the war, the British troops fire bombed Würzburg. In 25 minutes the centuries-old city was destroyed and fire consumed the rubble, as well as thousands of its citizens. Lina’s family survived the initial attack. However, her brother Conrad died of smoke inhalation a month later. While the city was burning and most of its citizens sought refuge from the flames in the river Main, Conrad went to the cathedral to help rescue the bishop and important church artifacts.

During the years that followed the end of the war Lina’s family, like most of Germany, was in dire need of food and basic living supplies. For years Lina sent monthly care packages from New York to her family in Würzburg, while at home, she and Stefan raised their twin daughters, Ann and Mary. Those packages were a godsend to the family in Germany.

Lina’s daughter Ann is Jack’s mother. And by the time Jack came along in the 50s, the family in Germany was doing fine. But the memory of those packages in the years of need stayed fresh in their minds. For years, even after Lina’s death, her siblings and their children sent a special Christmas package to Jack’s house every Christmas filled with German Christmas treats. Jack has always remembered these boxes filled with Germany delights as a special part of his family’s holidays. The story of the packages to family back in the Old Country and later the Christmas packages of gratitude are an important part of the family lore.

In 1975, when Jack was a teenager, one of the Ann’s cousins – Lina’s brother Beno’s son Bernard – came to visit Jack’s family in New York. Bernard (Bernd) and his wife Elizabeth (Li) were newlyweds and on a grand adventure. Bernd had grown up in Würzburg hearing tales of the boxes of supplies from America, and he came across the ocean to meet these long lost relatives. Bernd and Li met Lina’s twin daughters, Ann and Mary, as well as all of their children – seven in all.

Ann and Jack have had sporadic communication with Bernd and Li over the years, but certainly not a sustained correspondence.

Then came our escape from the heat of Spain last month. On a moment’s notice, we purchased tickets to Frankfurt and planned a couple days in the Rhine River Valley with the thought that we’d make up the rest of the trip as we went. In the back of Jack’s mind was his mother’s cousin and his wife – the affable couple who visited his family over 30 years ago.

With some hesitation, Jack decided to phone Bernd and Li in Würzburg and see if they would be available for lunch. To our delight, they invited us to their home for dinner and even to stay for the night. I must admit that those of us who had not been a part of this long family story were a little shy about the impending visit.

That’s the easy part of the story to tell. Because the next day and a half were amazing. Filled with fun and laughter and stories of Jack’s family and the history of Würzburg. There’s so much to tell and remember from our visit, that it’s difficult to summarize.

Li is a Montessori teacher who among her many, many talents has a strong background in her community’s history. Her guided tour of Würzburg included fascinating and poignant tales of the city – from Medieval times up through today, with many stories about the war. Most of the city has been rebuilt on the foundations that remained after the bombing. So though it is an ancient town, many buildings are reconstructed replicas.





In an exhibit at the Rathaus (town hall) Bernd showed us a pre-war photo of where his father and Lina and their family lived along the river Main. Then we walked along those streets imaging Lina as a young girl here before the bombing.



We walked through the Cathedral, pondering the difficult choices the community made when integrating the ruins with contemporary art and architecture as they rebuilt this important edifice. At the main entrance a menorah stands to remind all who visit that Judaism is the root of Christianity. Its presence is both powerful and chilling. The nave hosts sculpture from as long ago as he 1400s, as well as a strikingly contemporary tabernacle that feels strangely out of place. According to Li, many of the most important items in rebuilt churches are built in a contemporary style.



We saw this and much much, more of Würzberg: the best bratworst in town, the Rocco church, the castle with its tower and many tales, the Residence of the Prince Bishop, the historic crane on the river powered by a interior human sized hamster wheel, etc. But the real treat was just being with Li and Bernd, seeing their love of each other, their children, and their community. Their home is a treasury of their own art and their passion for life. Several walls are filled with Li’s etchings of the same buildings and landmarks we walked around earlier in the day. Windows and doors and light fixtures are stained glass works by Bernd. Their rooms are decorated with fascinating collections demonstrating the family’s interests and sense of fun. Everywhere there are clever, interesting solutions for living efficiently and compactly. Bernd fed us fabulous home cooked meals and shared his home made raspberry wine with us.





And when we left, we were happy to have found not just long lost family, but we hope more importantly long time friends. When we left, Li invited us all back and told Anna and Alex that they were always welcome in Bernd and Li’s home in Germany – even if the next time they come is when they are all grown up.



Next: Arzheim