A Day in the Life: Naughty Cats and Rebellious Chickens

My mother-in-law, Nayfa, with her sister-in-law, Hannan

Today was a pretty typical day here in Thahryieh, filled with the necessary daily chores, a few visitors, and the occasional flurry of something unexpected. The morning begins early with the Athan blasting out of various minarets at dawn. At the Mosque closest to us, a young boy is allowed to recite the Athan, so this boy, so proudly remembering the lines, wakes me. My boys are also now awake and are completing their all-important wardrobe selection which consists of choosing the color of clothes that look most like the super hero they want to pretend to be that day. We venture downstairs to find Raed’s mother, Nayfa, or Umm Raed (mother of Raed) as she is called out of respect here) cooking breakfast, my favorite meal of the day here. There is freshly made hummus, sliced cucumbers and bell peppers, fresh olives, stewed tomatoes, Zatar (dried oregano and sesame seeds), and best of all, the fresh flat bread that she makes daily.

After breakfast the sun is beating on the rooftops of the town, and the day heats up quickly despite the continuous breeze. We sit and drink the obligatory after-breakfast cup of sugary hot tea with fresh mint before beginning the barrage of clean-up that inevitably awaits. After breakfast, the women busy themselves with whatever chores need doing that day such as laundry, preparing for the evening meal, cleaning, etc., and it seems the men always have some errand to run in a nearby town, which serves as a nice excuse to get out of the house for a bit, I suppose. Bucker and Zak are long gone to the homes of Raed’s Aunts that line the street. They roam freely from house to house visiting and playing with the kids at each house, and most likely getting contraband sweets along the way.

The day was turning out to be pretty calm and quiet until Bucker, who happens to have a great obsession with the wild cats running around the neighborhood, starts bragging that he has "locked a cat up to be his pet." Judging from the amount of excitement in his voice, I deem it best to go see the situation for myself. Sure enough, he has lured one of the pitifully skinny stray cats behind a door and locked him inside. The only problem is that the area in which Bucker chose to imprison the cat is also where Um Raed keeps her live chickens! The terrified cat is poking his snout through the holes in the metal door trying to escape in vain and squalling in that mournful, deep-throated meow that only cats experiencing the highest degree of terror can produce. I then decide it’s best to try a rescue attempt, so I go inside with the cat, which only serves to scare the cat more and send him darting toward the chickens. The cat traverses the wall that keeps the chickens contained and lands in a flurry of very angry, clucking and fluttering chickens who manage to scare him up into the window above where he sits, refusing to budge.

At this point, I’m dumbfounded. I’m not for sure, but I think cats can eat chickens, so I know I can’t leave the cat in the window above the chickens, but I have no idea how to get him out without sending him back down into the mosh pit of chickens below, and I’m not about to touch the mangy looking creature, who looks wild-eyed and ready to sink his claws into anything that gets within a five-foot radius. Finally, I swallow my pride and reluctantly concede that it’s time to admit my dilemma to Um Raed.

Without missing a beat, she marches over and swings open the heavy metal door to the chicken area, grabs a broom, and heads toward the cat. She shoos both Bucker and me out of the room, so I don’t exactly see what happens, but I hear loud meows,  vigorous clucking, and some Arabic words that I’m guessing one reserves for moments like these. Shortly thereafter, a streak of white and tan shoots past us and out the door, followed by Um Raed, holding her head high and her broom in her hand. “Khalas” she says, which means “that’s it”, and she then returns to her work as if nothing had happened, victorious and unfazed. That’s my mother-in-law.

The day continues in a much less eventful fashion, except for a rogue chicken that attempted escape the blade and flew across the street and into Raed’s Aunt Hanan's sitting room. As evening fell, we ate Mulheyiah, which is one of my favorites, and is made from a green plant that is then chopped up beyond recognition and served as a soup poured over rice and baked lemon and garlic flavored chicken. Because the food is filling, and usually accompanied by large amounts of bread and salad, we only eat two meals per day, and the later meal is typically in the late afternoon, so evenings are usually free to visit or to entertain guests. 

As darkness falls, a handful of relatives meander up the road to visit, and the tea and coffee rounds begin as we share stories of the day and perhaps a bit of harmless gossip. We sit on embroidered covered mattresses on the floor, which makes for pretty comfortable and relaxed seating. These visits can run pretty late, but no one really seems to mind or to be concerned with work or school the following day. Typically, after the visits are over, the immediate family sits and continues the discussions until they fall asleep where they lie or surrender and decide to go to bed. 

The night breeze is cool, and blows continuously over the quiet hillsides. For now, peace and calm blanket the house...at least until the dawn Athan!

The Border Crossings

The Borders: An Exercise in Patience and Persistence

Outside the Israeli border crossing building with the infamous "tour" buses 

Sleep in the Arab world is a relative thing. If you are a deep sleeper, you’re in luck. If not, don’t expect to get much of it. Unfortunately, I’m natured like the latter of the two, and around 5 a.m. the “Athan” or call to prayer begins blasting from the tall Minarets that dot the hillsides of Amman. Since the announcer is so loud, and since there are so many Mosques, the announcements seem to run together as if they’re competing to see who can be the most compelling to draw the sleeping devout from their slumbers. Unfortunately, the devout one in our crowd snores right through the Athan, while I lie awake listening. Despite the volume, there is a unique beauty to the call and what it represents.  After a noble attempt to fall back asleep, I decide the day needs to begin, and we drag ourselves out of bed and go downstairs to breakfast on a patio under some deliciously fragrant lemon trees.  The breakfast of leban (yogurt), Zataar (oregano and sesame), fresh olives and olive oil with hearty bread is a delicious way to start our day, which promises to be a long one.

Entrance to the Jordanian side of the border crossing

We leave the hotel in another economy-sized sedan taxi but do miraculously manage to fit everything in. We wind our way down the continuously descending highway to what feels like the center of the earth. The temperature steadily rises and the vegetation becomes increasingly sparse during the descent. We near the Dead Sea, but unfortunately our day will be spent not enjoying its wonders, but at the border crossing from Jordan to the West Bank of Palestine. We pass the baptism site of John the Baptist and the Sycamore tree that Zakkius made so famous. I find it amazing that we so casually cruise past these landmarks of the Christian faith in such a desolate place. We enter Jericho, the lowest point on earth and supposedly the oldest city in world as they sun seems to bake everything in sight. The small, dusty town has a sole main street filled with small restaurants and stores selling cheap Asian-made household items. The only redeeming quality I seem to find in this ancient city is the beautiful row of giant palm trees growing in the dry, hot ground.

Jericho

 The taxi driver, or “Amo” (uncle) as Raed directs the boys to refer to him, takes us as far as he can to the barbed wire-clad, trash ridden, dilapidated entrance to the border crossing. The flies are swarming as the temperature seems to increase with every minute of the sun’s ascent to midday. Since I’ve done this twice before, I now know what to expect. I know how I will feel, angry and dumbfounded by the ridiculous process. I try to keep these feelings in check, and I try to remain positive, though I’m not convinced I’ll succeed. Thankfully, the lines aren’t very long, and we’re only shuffled to three or four different desks for passport checks and security stops. This is the easy part of the journey, I know.

One of the many desks we're shuffled to and from at the Jordanian border crossing

After obtaining our Jordanian stamps, we then board a dilapidated bus that offers a feeble attempt at lukewarm air conditioning. The bus takes a while to fill up, and we wait on every single seat to be filled before we can depart. We drive approximately two minutes to a large checkpoint before we are able to enter the Israeli checkpoint on their side of the border. We must leave our belongings on the bus, valuables and all, and stand outside it while two Israeli guards armed with M16’s draped across their chests board the bus to inspect it. It seems we pass the inspection as we were able to again board the bus. We then drive about one more minute into the gate of the Israeli border check point. We must sit and wait on the bus until it is our turn to disembark. We wait approximately two hours inside the sweltering bus, but thankfully I had brought some water and bread for the boys just in case something like this happened.

Patience is wearing thin

Faces are wet with sweat and indignation as they wait to be checked by an occupying force to see if they are able to enter their own country. The men are mostly wearing suits, most ill-fitted and too large, and some even made of wool, but no one will remove his coat. The dignity of these people is humbling. The women are mostly clad in long Jilbabs (coats) that cover their clothing, and one or two layers of scarfs on their heads. I feel I have no right to complain of the heat after looking at these women. While we wait, the boys have fun as we speak with some fellow passengers. The boys are surprisingly patient, and introduce everyone to their beloved stuffed creatures, Lyda, the stuffed Ikea mouse, and “Hami” the stuffed hamster from Berlin.

About an hour and a half into our wait, a bus full of Orthodox Christian pilgrims has been allowed to bypass our place in the bus line and go ahead of us, so our wait is extended, but finally we are able to leave the sweltering bus and stand in a sweltering line with our luggage in order to have our passports checked to see if we are allowed inside the building.

The long, hot wait to enter the building at the Israeli border crossing--note the M16 on the guy in plain clothes!

 At this point, tempers are flaring and people are getting impatient. Young men attempt to break the line as others restrain them and yell curses at them in Arabic. After the pushing and shoving subsides, we make our way to yet another armed guard, who allows us inside. Our luggage is taken to be searched, and we are escorted to the metal detection area where we all pass through, finally. We then have to wait in line to have our passports stamped in order to enter Palestine, which is always sticky since I have an American passport, but Raed and the boys have both an American and a Palestinian passport. I was issued a visa to travel anywhere in Israel (including the area outside of the West Bank), but despite having an American passport, Raed and the boys are denied that “privilege” because they hold a Palestinian passport as well.

I'm not sure what the poster at the Jordanian border crossing is urging me to "think twice" about (the smoking sign below??), but the featured noose is encouragement enough for me to behave!

The guard who checks our passports is unapologetically rude, and rattles off things to her counterpart in Hebrew as we stand there. There’s eye rolling and gestures in our direction, but I figure it’s probably for the best that we aren’t able to understand. I receive my visa on a small piece of paper because so many people refuse to have an Israeli stamp in their passports due to travel restrictions to other countries. With an Israeli stamp in a passport, most Arab countries deny entry, so the Israelis have apparently resorted to issuing stamps on a separate piece of paper. During this ordeal, the boys are alternating between whining about the heat and hunger and doing acrobatics on the railings near the counter. Finally, we’re able to pass, and we head to the baggage claim area. This entails giving our passports to the guard and sitting in a holding area waiting for them to call our name to see if our bags are subject to “extensive” searching. Luckily ours are not, and we miraculously receive all of our bags.

The line at the Palestinian border crossing

But, the journey doesn’t end there. Then we must put your bags through another x-ray machine, one by one, before you can exit the building, despite the fact that they’ve already been checked minutes ago. We then have to haul our bags to another, yes another, sweltering tour-like bus. After waiting, again, for the bus to fill up, we are driven out of the Israeli check point area to the Palestinian authority checkpoint, which takes about two more minutes. We shuffle out of the bus and into another area to line up and have our passports stamped again by the Palestinian authority. After receiving the final stamp, by the third country in less than a two-mile radius, we can finally enter the West Bank of Palestine. We find a taxi headed toward Hebron, which is about 15 miles from Raed’s town of Thahryieh, and sit again for half an hour or so waiting for more passengers. Finally, the taxi is full and we can leave. We begin the steady ascent out of the Jordan River Valley toward the villages and through the rocky hillsides of Palestine.

The ascent from the Jordan River Valley into Palestine. It's a little steep!

We arrive at Raed’s home at last, and we’re greeted warmly, as always, by his large family. Our arrival is soon followed by steaming platters of Maklouba, which is a dish of rice, vegetables, and chicken that just happens to be Raed’s favorite. We settle in for the night, and finally feel the cool night breeze blowing through the house as we exhale in relief, for our journey is complete. 

Chicken Maklouba

The Journey

Trip Two: Weddings and Wild-Eyed Children, August 2011

The second trip to Palestine was in August of 2011. Zak and Bucker were along for the ride, and they were ages 2 and 4 at the time. The trip was a recipe for disaster from the beginning as we had just moved from the U.S. to Berlin three weeks prior, and we were still reeling from mountains of unpacked boxes and the shock of moving overseas. I hadn’t even finished unpacking when it was time to pack again for Palestine. It wasn’t an opportune time to visit, but two of Raed’s brothers were getting married, and we really wanted to be there for them. I won’t go into great detail about this trip, because although it was great to see everyone, it was a boot camp of weddings (which last about 3 nights each and run late into the night), heat, and too many people, all of which led to a lot of chaos. The kids and I were in survival mode, which meant no set bedtimes for the kids and mountains of sweets and even the occasional caffeinated beverage they slipped by me (mother of the year award for me, I know). We actually have video of Bucker nodding off in his chair at one of the wedding celebrations! We didn’t travel out of Thahryieh, Raed’s hometown, and mainly stayed around to help with wedding festivities. 

Trip Three From Berlin: A Veteran, May 2013

Ok, so this obviously isn't us, but it's not far off...

 The Berlin afternoon is cloudless and sunny as we scurry down the stairs to meet our taxi driver who was waiting patiently outside our apartment building. The trip begins like most trips do with excitement and high spirits as we wind our way North to Tegal airport. The conversation is the usual with Raed asking the tan-faced taxi driver about where he was “from” even if he’s lived in Berlin for his entire life. The driver is a Turkish Muslim, as many taxi drivers are in Berlin, and he offers us the “brudder” (brother) price for our fare, which is 10 euros cheaper than it would be otherwise since he and Raed find common ground in the fact that they’re both Muslim. Following proper decorum for such a transaction, Raed then insists on an overly generous tip, which makes up for the “brudder” discount and everything evens out. At the airport, our gate is conspicuously full of hijab-clad women and lots of children, a definite indication that we’re headed to the Arab world.

Immediately upon boarding the plane, the difference in the mannerisms of the people strikes me. The flight attendants play with Bucker and Zak’s hair and quickly win their affection. Later in the trip, Bucker insists on heading to the back of the plane to tell one of the attendants that he wants to be her friend. He returns with the flight attendant ten minutes later proclaiming that he’s going to marry her, and that we need to buy her jewelry in Palestine (the common gift from a groom to his bride). The only problem was that he “loves” the other flight attendant as well, so he decides that he will simply marry both of them. They get a good laugh out of the whole scene, and they play along well.  

Upon our arrival in Amman’s newly renovated Queen Alia Airport with expansive baggage claim areas and sparkling clean tile floors, I notice two baggage handlers standing side by side facing a large window praying the evening prayer. We then find our bags and find a cab. In typical Arab fashion, the driver insists that his economy four-door sedan has plenty of room to accommodate our four giant suitcases and all four of us. “Welcome, welcome,” he beckons. After some debate, we end up with two suitcases strapped on top and the rest of us pile inside. The car has certainly seen its better days, and has suffered the effects of a chain smoking driver, but we’re happy to be headed to our hotel nonetheless, and start out on the desert road toward downtown Amman.

Highway near the Dead Sea

Darkness has already fallen as we drive down the highway with a bright moon and clear stars overhead. Raed is chatting with the driver, and (of course) discovers that he’s originally from a neighboring town in Palestine. We pull over at one of the roadside stands with neon lights flashing advertising strong coffee with no sugar, “Seder” style. I find it humorous that the driver thinks nothing of this pit stop and how unusual it would be in Germany or the States. After taking a moment for a smoke and arguing with Raed over who would pay for the coffee (they were both insisting), we resume our journey with invigorating coffee in hand and a mysterious purple juice that the kids seem to love. As we enter into downtown Amman, the city is alive, despite the late hour. Even at 10 p.m. there are small children and families sitting outside enjoying coffee or dinner, and scarf-clad women smoke water pipes in crowded cafes. We finally arrive at our hotel exhausted, and relieved to have come this far. 

Downtown Amman at night (Courtesy of www.jordaniantimes.com)

Beginnings...

The First Trip: Shock and Awe: July 2004

A farmer harvests wheat in a field near Raed's home town. 

I first visited the West Bank of Palestine in July 2004. It was my first trip here, and it was pre-kiddos, which was good considering the amount of culture shock I experienced. It was a trip full of firsts for me, and I’d like to think I handled myself gracefully most of the time, but I remember being overwhelmed, lost, teary-eyed, and utterly exhausted for a good bit of the trip. The trip began with a 12-hour trans-Atlantic journey on the airplane, but as I found out later, that was the easy part. The border crossing into the West Bank was a grueling, blisteringly hot 22 hour sleepless marathon, full of armed soldiers, long lines, swarming flies, and overflowing with the desperation and anger that ensues when rightful citizens of a country are systematically subjugated and barely allowed a painful re-entry to their own land.

The Long Road Home: The steep, winding road leading to Thahryieh

After clearing the border crossing,  we finally crawled up the last stretch of sandy road leading to Raed’s home in Thahryieh, and the house was full of relatives waiting to greet us. I’d never seen so many people I had never met who were so happy to meet me. It was full-on cultural immersion, which at the time was pretty much like being dropped onto another planet for me.

As days passed, relatives and friends visited in an endless stream, and I was drowned in an ocean of unfamiliar Arabic. We sat in room after room, divided by gender, fueled by glasses of tea and strong coffee, and greeted and kissed cheek after cheek until it was all a blurry muddle of confusion. There was even one unfortunate incident where I nearly kissed an Uncle in the two cheek fashion that I’m supposed to reserve for the women. It was a near miss, but nevertheless left me red faced, and a good laugh ensued around the circle of relatives.

Arabic coffee: My best friend at late night gatherings

We were served Mansef, the unofficial national dish of Palestine, which is lamb cooked in a yogurt sauce over rice. The food was delicious, but at every house we were served the same dish because that’s what people serve an honored guest, so by the end of the trip, I couldn't bring myself to even think about eating more lamb!

Mansef

 All in all, I was received with open arms, by the most generous, most graceful people I’d ever met. As culturally shocking as it was to me, I was equally as different to them, and they received me as one of their own, never questioning me or demanding anything of me other than that I relax and eat lots of Mansef. During our visit, we navigated through Israeli checkpoints in order to travel to Bethlehem, Hebron, Ramallah, and Jerusalem and saw historical sites such as the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, Al-Aqsa Mosque, and we climbed the Mount of Olives overlooking Jerusalem. I saw things that put my life up until that point into great perspective. Seeing such places where people have lived for thousands of years was a humbling experience as I contemplated the brevity of life in the grand scheme of the world. It changed the way I viewed the world and myself forever. I had broken free from the bubble I had existed in until that point, and there was no going back.

Overlooking a valley in the West Bank

Outside the Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem

I know this blog is supposed to be about life in Berlin, BUT....

Palestine: A Journey

April 30-May 20, 2013

Two kids, three continents, and 15 years later, here we are looking over the rugged beauty of the Palestinian landscape.

The Adventure Begins: May 5, 1998

When I met my husband, Raed, 15 years ago on May 5, 1998, he told me he was from Palestine. Embarrassed, I asked, “Where’s that?” I was in college at the time, and I was certainly no geography or political buff, so I hadn't the slightest idea where Palestine might be. The only thing I vaguely remembered was seeing images of young men throwing rocks with black and white checked scarves on their heads in the late 80’s. That was my Palestine.

In the years since, I've tried to eradicate my ignorance of most everything Palestinian or Middle Eastern for that matter, and I've recognized and worked to change my own skewed and prejudiced misconceptions of the region and its people. Sure, it’s not perfect, but Palestine is so much more than some seemingly crazy rock-throwing teenage boys who only want conflict as I used to think.

I won’t bore you with an elaborate history lesson, nor do I want to pursue a political agenda through writing this. I simply want to write honestly about what I've learned and experienced here on this trip to Palestine, and through my previous two visits over the past nine years. I hope to record some of my impressions to share with my children one day and to share with my family and friends who might be interested in learning more about this part of the world.

A New Beginning: The Breaking Away 

"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end."

 --Seneca, (Roman philosopher, mid-1st century AD)

He marches toward me hand-in-hand with his pint-sized peers. They emerge out of the enormous building, built to house my son as he learns and grows over the next thirteen or so years of his life, but right now, that building looks so big, and he looks so small. As they come closer, our eyes meet. His body tenses up and he jumps in the air, squealing, "Mommmyyy!". "Don't break away from the line," I say to myself, over and over, but I know him too well, and I know he will do just that. He jerks his hand away from his walking partner and runs in my direction. With apologetic eyes, I look at the teacher, who nods in my direction that "it's ok", and I'm then embraced by 40-odd pounds of energetic, full-blown boy.

This was the first day of school, "real" school, as he calls it, for my four-year-old son. In Berlin, children typically enter what's called "grade one" the year they turn six, but because my son attends a German/American school, the John. F. Kennedy School, they have what they call an entrance class, which children attend the year they turn  five. My son happens to have a November birthday, so he's still four, which makes him one of the youngest in the class. The difference in age, coupled with his natural "spirit" and energy, created a storm of epic worry and doubt in my mind as I reluctantly agreed to send him to the school. 

Small boy, big school!

I had heard such wonderful praises of the school and all it has to offer, not just in academics, but in the music, arts, and sports departments as well, and one of the best parts is that the school is free to attend. Also, the school is well-established as was started in 1960 for children of the U.S. military and foreign service workers. Even so, when I received word that he had been admitted, I didn't jump all at once. After all, attending that school meant that we would have to move across the city, completely to the opposite corner of it. We'd be starting over by making new friends, getting to know a new area, and facing the daunting task of finding a new apartment and making the move. I stalled and waited, and looked at all of the other options, none of which seemed to be a good fit for Bucker. He's been attending a kita, which is basically a preschool, and he's very resistant to speaking German and hasn't adjusted like I hoped he would. He seems set on moving back to North Carolina and living there for the foreseeable future. So, I hoped the German/American school would be a good compromise. He'll be around other Americans who speak English, but since the school is bilingual, he'll be introduced to German as well, but at a slower pace than in an all-German setting.

I made every preparation I could in advance. I attended the requisite parents' evening, compiled his necessary supplies, filled his backpack, and laid out his clothing the night before the first day. I could hardly sleep that night, and I was a bundle of nerves on the way to the school. I tried to hide it so my son wouldn't sense my angst and become even more nervous himself. We arrived about 20 minutes early so I would have time to take every picture imaginable of him on his first day, and then the moment came for him to go to his teacher and stand with his class.

A piece of the Berlin Wall at the school

He was so excited, he could barely hug me goodbye, and he ran off, his dinosaur backpack jostling around on his tiny back during his sprint. He joined his class, and I waved to him. My throat began to tighten as tears came closer to the surface, and I knew I had to leave right then, or I'd be a sobbing mess of a mother who couldn't hold it together long enough until her son was out of sight. As he turned to walk inside with his class, I knew he had made a sort of "breaking away" from me then, which will be the first of many to come, but in spite of it all, I left with minimal crying and fairly emotionally in-tact, because I felt like he was in a good place, and I saw that I needed to let him go this time. I was proud of him, and of how strong he's been over the last year, and I know he'll be entering into a new, exciting world as he tackles challenges, makes new friends, and learns a new language. I hope sending him to this school was the right decision, and I suppose time will tell, but for now, things are looking up!

And so it begins...

Mom and Dad Take Berlin!

Mom and Dad Take Berlin

There I was, waiting in the Berlin Tegal airport awkwardly holding a too-big bunch of roses and wrestling with knots in my stomach. I was nervous...sick-to-your-stomach nervous. I was over an hour early, dressed "to the nines", and pacing in front of the arrival gate. I had checked and double checked the flight status and the bus route to get to the airport. I had precisely calculated how long the bus ride would take to the airport so that I would arrive well in advance of the flight. I contemplated having a coffee, but decided it would do nothing to calm my nerves. While packing, I noticed that the flight had been delayed half an hour. This, too, did nothing to calm my nerves.

Was I preparing for a reunion with a long-lost friend, meeting my husband after a long time apart, prepping for a job interview, meeting the Pope? Nope. Nothing of the sort. My parents were coming to visit. (Insert "dun dun DUNnnnnn" here!)

After a nearly a year of living in Berlin, Mom and Dad had made the trip overseas from North Carolina to Berlin to visit me and my family. I had been looking forward to this day for months, and I had imagined them being in Berlin so many times. I had planned things for us to do, and prepared a short list of things I'd like to show them. What I did not plan for, however, were my nerves. I was surprised at how nervous I was before their arrival, and looking back, I know I just wanted their approval, and I hoped so desperately that they would love our life and the city that we now call home. I wanted to hear "well done" and "you've made a good choice", and to be reassured that all of the struggles and efforts of the past year were worthwhile.

After the eternity of waiting, they finally arrived, and I saw them through the glass that divides the newly arrived from the rest of the airport world, and I was astounded to see them looking put together, and dare I say, rested? I expected them to be a mess, a falling apart, exhausted mess of matted hair and bad breath and waxy skin and floating-on-the-surface emotion that I always am after an international flight. Instead, they looked down right perky and ready to tackle Berlin. After hugs and welcomes (and no, no one cried) we boarded a taxi together to head to our neighborhood. The feeling was surreal. My parents were a part of my world at "home" in North Carolina, and seeing them in Berlin took some getting used to.

I was ready to draw maps for them from their hotel three blocks down the road to my apartment. I was ready to hold hands and coax them from place to place. I was ready to explain things to them like people do when they talk a bit too loudly to someone who they know speaks another language, in hopes it might help. But I had to do nothing of the sort. After their overnight flight, they went to their hotel room, and I expected to get a call several hours later, hearing complaints of jet lag and exhaustion. Instead, one short hour passed, and my doorbell rang. They had walked down to my apartment and were ready to see what there was to see.

Mom and Dad in front of the Brandenburg Gate

Over the next two weeks, we traveled around Berlin, saw the tourist sites, ate traditional German food, but most importantly, I showed my parents my everyday life here. They figured out the bus system without difficulty, made trips to the grocery store, traveled alone, took the boys to school and picked them up with ease. Now, the trip wasn't completely without a few fun mishaps, including Mom ordering not one, but three bowls of ice in a restaurant, much to the amusement of the other diners, and Dad getting a bit overly paranoid about the gypsies roaming around Alexanderplatz..."look, there's one...look, isn't that one??!" But overall, I learned that I have a lot to look forward to.

My parents weaved themselves seamlessly into the fabric of Berlin, complete with its diversity and history and cultural hang-ups. They arrived with open arms and open minds, and they tasted Berlin at its finest. I was so proud of them, and I can only hope that when my children are grown, I can visit them in another country with the same attitude and unquenchable thirst for adventure and experience that  my parents showed here. My nerves calmed, and in end the end, I realized maybe I didn't need their approval as much as I thought. I really just wanted to see them experience some of what I have experienced, and to have a great time while doing so. Mission accomplished!

In front of Berliner Dom

Yeah, I've got some big shoes to fill!