Dashiell's Travels: September 2010

Hello all,

I am nearing my 1,400th hour here in Frankfurt, and that can only mean one thing: time for another update. This one is a doozy, so pour yourself a cup of joe, grab a snickerdoodle, and settle in for a bit.

I guess I should start with the family. It's unbelievable to think that when my last email went out I had yet to meet my host family, and now I cannot envision my life here without them. They have been so warm and welcoming, and made my adjustment in this foreign land a cinch.

As a reminder, I am looking after three boys: Nick (4), Julius (7), and Ben (10). Nickie is loud, rambunctious, wildly unpredictable, and cute as a button***. Oddly, his English is the best of the bunch, though still imperfect. He likes pirates, cooking, and pretending to be a little cat that is "fünf-millione meters sick" (his words, not mine). Juli is the prototypical middle-child...mature, aloof, cautious, considerate. He returns home each day and diligently completes his homework, he rationally and methodically settles disputes among his siblings, and while he is a proud self-proclaimed vegetarian, he eats virtually no vegetables and rarely strays from his two primary food groups: pasta and chocolate. His older brother, Ben, is far more excitable, manipulative, and temperamental. He loves cars, comics, and Nutella, and listens exclusively to "HR Info" on the radio (think: NPR news with less pizzazz). All of the kids are rail-thin and small for their ages, though quite gifted intellectually. And while they can all get moody at times and tend to have daily meltdowns, I've discovered the universal solution to a discontented child: pick him up by his feet. Something about being suspended upside down and swung around the room solves any problem, anytime. They just cannot keep from giggling.

[***One of my favorite things about Nickie is his bathroom routine. He is fully potty trained but still at an age where the urge to go seems to arrive at the last minute. One second he’s fine, the next, his bladder is about to explode ("Dashiell, I want to draw you a picture so you can . . . . . I NEED TO USE THE TOILET!!"). So I’ll accompany him as he tears down the hallway towards the bathroom, arms flailing at his sides. He doesn’t need my help, but still likes to have a supervisor. The sense of immediacy is palpable as he dances around to keep from wetting himself, trying desperately but unsuccessfully to undo the button on his pants. And when I try to help, he scornfully pushes my hand away, too proud that he can do it - eventually - all by himself. Once he finally mounts the toilet just in the knick of time, the floodgates release. He looks like a balloon deflating, his entire body going ever so slightly limp with satisfaction and relief. Then he hops off, buttons his pants, forgets to zip his fly, and races back into childhood. Cracks me up every time.]

My host-mom/boss, Katja, is a warm, nurturing mother that has more on her plate than anyone I know, and still manages to do it all with grace. She is proud and assertive in typical German fashion, and despite a diet that could nauseate a neanderthal, she maintains a figure that would make some high-school cheerleaders jealous. She is married to a jovial but quiet man named Johannes who peers through small round glasses on the tip of his nose, giving him an overall appearance and demeanor not unlike Joe Robinson, for those of you who knew him. Johannes works long hours and returns home after I leave for the day, so only seldom do our paths cross. But from what I can gather, he is a determined individual and a good father, and would likely have a much more involved position in child-rearing if his profession at a local firm would allow it. Since he is away during the children's waking hours, Katja is more or less a single mother, but not without her fair share of hired help: housecleaner, housekeeper (apparently there is a difference requiring two separate employees), full-time au pair (me), and two part-time babysitters. While the sheer number of domestic assistants employed by Katja surprised me at first, I have since found that such an army of paid workers is not at all uncommon here among those who can afford it.

On the whole, I would say I am paired with a fairly "normal" family, if such a statement can even be made. There is laughter and there are tears. There is homework and there are bedtimes. There are bumps and scrapes and boo-boos and owwies. And boy, are there tantrums. But most of all, there are activities, schedules, events! I work about six hours each weekday afternoon, and I find that a great bulk of each day is devoted to preparing for and driving to any number of social commitments: soccer, tennis, hockey, parties, school meetings, music lessons, swimming, golf, yoga (yes, in case you were wondering, this family is loaded - when I cannot shuttle them around for whatever reason, they hire a personal chauffeur to cruise the kiddos to and fro in a Mercedes-Benz S Class). In addition to picking the kids up from school and providing transportation, I find myself supervising homework, running errands for Katja, helping with music, preparing and cleaning up after meals, tidying bedrooms, or just goofing off with the kids. The more I learn about other au pairs, to more I realize how untraditional my set-up is in terms of work hours, living situation, expectations, and responsibilities. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

So how might I learn about other au pairs, you may ask? Good question! I happened to stumble upon one American au pair here in Frankfurt, and in turn she introduced me to a whole slew of au pair comrades. They hail from all over the world - North Carolina, Virginia, Canada, Albania, Sweden, New Zealand - and have personalities, accents and backgrounds to match. It is wonderful to have a circle of friends that share so much in common, yet are simultaneously so diverse. Except for one thing...they are all female. It has been extremely hard on me being the only guy in a group of young, attractive, single women, but somehow I manage to drag myself out of bed each morning.

And most mornings when I am free of childcare duties, I head straight to German class. Despite the lowly reputation of the school (essentially the German equivalent of a Community College) I have been more than pleased with the quality of education I am receiving. The pace is slow, but the commitment is considerable: three hours per class, three times per week. My fellow students are from all corners of the world - every continent except Antarctica is represented - and thus our only common language is German. It's hard to hold a conversation with your peers when all you know how to say is "Good day. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. Red, blue, orange." But with a little creativity and an abundance of wild gesticulation, we manage to get by. As with learning any language, my comprehension is far outpacing my production, so conversations with locals tend to be one-sided. I understand much of what is being said to me, but my reply is a mish-mash of preliminary vocabulary and poor grammatical choices, leading inevitably to my standby response for any situation: a stupid grin and a nod. I must seem like the happiest foreigner in Frankfurt. It does help that my boys often forget English words, thereby forcing me to learn the German equivalent ("Dashiell, look! I'm fahring the car!").

Speaking of driving, it's different here. The little things stand out first, like how the streets are a virtual canvas of stripes/lines/symbols/marks/arrows, and how most of the signs are completely unintelligible. But once the basics are in place, it's not so bad. I've heard horror stories about German drivers, but I'm finding them to be quite pleasant; the moment I put my blinker on, no matter how busy the road, you can bet the seas will part and an opening in traffic will all but usher me into my lane of choice. Parking is also completely lax, and I've discovered that emergency flashers are the secret to ticketless parking anywhere, anytime. Curbs are merely a suggestion, and often regarded as an extension of the road, so drivers will use them as a spare lane, or just pull up onto them and park for a while. This may be completely illegal and cause considerable disruption to the flow of traffic, but German drivers can't be bothered, simply going around and continuing on their way, no big deal. Stop signs are also different. They are truly few and far between here, and judging by drivers' reactions to them, they seem to be in place primarily for decoration. And lastly, a big one: no right turn on red. Ever. I found this out the hard way, getting pulled over during my first week of driving. Expecting the worst from German Law Enforcement (the phrase itself gives me the creeps), I was floored to find the police officer not only spoke near-perfect English, but was extremely polite and understanding, letting me off without even so much as a warning. Close call.

In more recent news, I just returned from a quick trip to Amsterdam last weekend to visit my friend, Amanda, who is an au pair there. Like countless other European cities, Amsterdam gushes history, culture, and beauty with every bend in the road. Never before have I witnessed as many canals, bicycles, radical changes in weather patterns, outdoor public urinals, cheese varieties, tall people, or prostitutes in a single day. The Dutch language seems like a mixture of Danish, French, German and Spanish, with perhaps some Croatian and Czech thrown in for good measure, and the spelling system appears to be English written by a six-year-old..."Hold your card here" is written "Houd uw kaart hier". Cute. While throngs of tourists flock to the city center and obscure the local vibe, filing into the ubiquitous "Coffee Shops" (a universally-accepted euphemism for Weed Vendor) or pre-ordering their tickets for one of the many sex shows, Amanda was able to take me off the beaten path and help me uncover some of Holland's best offerings - I refer to, of course, food. Smeerkaas, FEBO, Speculoos, pannenkoeken, vishandel, ijs, Space Cake, stroopwafel... We ate our way through Amsterdam, and I couldn't have asked for a better introduction to the local culture and cuisine (if you are unfamiliar with any of the aforementioned Dutch delicacies, I foresee a trip to Wikipedia in your near future). It was a whirlwind of a weekend trip flanked by an 8-hour bus ride each way, but well worth it.

So now it's back to the grind. Back to afternoon play-dates. Back to bike-riding in the sunshine. Back to my own apartment and my own rules. Back home.

It's a hard life, but somebody's gotta live it.

As always, do keep in touch if you have any questions or comments, or just feel like dropping me a line. I'd love to hear from you.

Tschüß -

Dashiell

P.S. - More photos, as promised...

The bridges of the Main River are illuminated every night, creating a lovely foreground to Frankfurt's impressive skyline.

Why Americans even bother with regular tow trucks, I'll never know. The German's simply use a mini-crane to hoist the entire vehicle onto the truck. Piece of cake.