I am leaving beautiful Berlin, and will soon be back home again in Indiana. As my visit comes to a close, I find myself wondering once more why my ancestors ever chose to leave such a magnificent place. Make no mistake, I love the United States and am proud and thankful to be an American, but three hundred years ago, things were different. It’s hard to imagine what my grandparents were thinking when they left family, community, and traditions behind and set sail for the unknown.
As far as I can tell, they were not suffering from religious persecution, or particularly difficult times. Their village, which is still in existence today, was rich with history and tradition. But I guess they wanted something more. Maybe they simply longed for adventure. Maybe there was a falling out in the family. Or maybe they instinctively knew that if they made the hard choices, their descendants would be better off.
Three centuries later, here I am in Germany, enjoying the festivals, foods, and traditions, and listening intently to a language I would love to speak. Three of my four immediate grandparents were of German descent. One of them was still able to speak the language, but unfortunately, he did not pass it on. He did, however, pass on a love for fried potatoes and all things pork!
Last weekend, hubby and I attended the annual Berliner Bierfestival. Eighty-six countries and three hundred breweries were represented in the mile long event. No one was being asked for ID; you just picked up your beer mug at the beginning and worked your way down the street. I didn’t see anyone getting drunk, and there were no fights breaking out. The Polka music was the grandest I have ever heard, and the food was beyond amazing. All of the dishes I fell in love with at the German Christmas market two years ago, were present at this festival. Hubby and I feasted on fried potatoes, sausages, fish, pickles, pastries, breads, roasted cashews, mushrooms, cheeses, and these amazing little pancakes covered in butter, orange liqueur, and powdered sugar. The only item that got two thumbs down was a tasty looking slice of bread covered in what we thought were nuts and thick, gooey icing. Actually, it was topped with lard and pork cracklins. In order to give it a fair chance, I took two bites before discarding it, and then promptly washed it down with whatever beer was handy.
We were served by beautiful German barmaids in traditional dress, and entertained by lively Polka bands wearing lederhosen. We attended two evenings in a row, and on the third day we took our kids so they could experience this little slice of culture. As an added bonus, the Guinness Book of World Records was on hand to record the event as the world’s largest biergarten. My son gets the latest edition of Guinness World Records for Christmas each year, so we are all anxious to see the new entry and proclaim, “We were there!”
I know it seems as though our trips are all fun and games, but the fact is, hubby has to work. He works ten hours per day, and to keep spending at a minimum, I do a lot of cooking. And here is the downside of living in Germany. Walking seven blocks to the nearest grocery store, trying to find familiar ingredients in large quantities, and then lugging everything back to the apartment and up to the 8th floor. I have the option of taking the bus, but with the stroller, groceries, and a wandering five-year-old, boarding a crowded bus is unappealing.
I don’t understand the concept of going to the grocery store every day, but with small refrigerators, small shopping carts, and relatively small families, that is what they do. When I made spaghetti, I had to buy six tiny jars of sauce in order to have enough to feed our crew. The day I took my giant purple suitcase so I could lug home enough food for two days, I thought the cashier would have a heart attack. When I asked for the entire tray of ground beef from the meat counter, the butcher called two other people over to have a look at me. They were doubly shocked when I returned the next day for more.
When I finally get back to the apartment, I am tired, wet from the rain, and really don’t want to cook on the freaky little stove with the miniature pots and pans. My enthusiasm for German life begins to wane, and I begin to understand why my ancestors left this place. I think they foresaw a future that included five pound packages of ground beef, #10 cans of nacho cheese, and a large, roomy American-made vehicle in which to haul it all home.
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