Posted on by dlockhart · 2 Comments

Absence Makes the Heart Grow…

We’ve been “home,” back in the U.S. for a visit, for 5 weeks now. The reunion with our kids was sweet, the holidays with them poignant and hilarious. Visiting with my mother and extended family was precious. Lunch dates, dinner dates, coffee dates (finally a huge, refilled cup of coffee!), breakfast dates, shopping dates–time with friends was so very special–recharging us, refreshing us as we caught up on lives and families and jobs–and the weight we’d lost when in Luxembourg! Stretchy pants have never been so appealing!

So now we prepare to go home…to a home in Luxembourg, while we’re home in New York, after we made a trip home to West Virginia. Have I betrayed my home where the kids grew up, the home where I grew up, by saying maybe I’m ready to “go home” to  a tiny routine in a tiny apartment in a tiny country in Europe? How on earth do we balance life here with life there? How can we be so very grateful for the decades long friendships we have here, along with our beloved family, yet yearn for the months long friendships we’ve formed in Luxembourg?

Mr. Wonderful and me

What is home? Where is home? My permanent address, my habitat, my sense of belonging are some components in the home construction. Author Verlyn Klinkenborg wrote in Smithsonian Magazine (May 2012)  that home is a way of “organizing space in our minds.” If there’s no place like home, and home is where the heart is, and a house is not a home, and a home is built of love and dreams, and you can feel “at home” yet not be home…I’m wrestling with the organization of that space in my racing mind and my fickle heart.

But here’s what I do know: my home is with my dear husband, my French study buddy, my fellow adventurer, my best friend. We’ve made a home together in a trailer in West Virginia, funeral parlor in New York, a neighborhood in rural Georgia–why not an apartment in Luxembourg City? While we’ve been home, I’ve enjoyed my 24-hour Wegmans and Walmart, large and plentiful parking spaces, hearing English all around, and toting my monstrous dollar coffee from McDonald’s. I’ve cherished the time spent with family and friends.

Yet, we’re anticipating a return to cultural cacophony and feeling at home as we navigate the hurdles in our home across the sea–continuing to learn another language and the public transport system, continuing to forge friendships and connections, continuing to explore the history and beauty of another continent.  My heart is in this transition back to Europe, and yep…it’s true…home is where the heart is.

 

 

Posted on by dlockhart · 2 Comments

In the Market for Christmas!

It’s beginning to feel a lot like Christmas, and it has been since before Halloween! Here in Luxembourg, stores began holiday displays before All Saints Day–maybe because there’s no distracting Thanksgiving celebration in between–but probably because Christmas in Europe is beautiful and the traditions varied, and we’re doing our best to sample them all!

Christmas markets, Marché de Nöel, Weihnachtsmarkt, Christkindlmarkt are lovely little holiday villages that pop up in city centers and villages across Europe during Advent and sometimes beyond. Shoppers stroll about, clutching a glass or ceramic mug of glühwäin in one hand and mettwurscht in the other, the aroma of mulled wine and sausages wafting through the nippy air. Decorated wooden stalls display homemade goods and crafts, Christmas ornaments (some made locally and some, unfortunately, from China), breads, candied nuts, more sausages, chocolates, leather and wooden commodities, chestnuts roasting on an open fire (for real!),  and any form of drink. Christmas music plays–American Christmas tunes, played by brass band, sung by choir or soloists–people are humming along, laughing and talking, oohing and aahing . Mark and I have been to markets in Luxembourg City, Dudeldorf (a very sweet market in a tiny German village), and I’ve traveled in Germany to the markets in Mainz and Weisbaden with the American Women’s Club of Luxembourg. When visiting markets, wandering through the stalls with a warm beverage (you can keep the cup!), it is advisable to keep your bag zippered closed and avoid being jostled–not because of pick pockets, who certainly exist in any gathering–but because one could spill her spiced (and spiked!) eggnog in her fairly new purse. NOTE: Febreeze is not sold in Europe.

And those pretty little Christmas table decorations? The wooden, tiered scenes with the candles that make the blades on top  go around? Well, Saint Nicholas, since today is your day–I’d really like one of those German Christmas Pyramids in my huge stinky shoe. I’m might be a day late, but maybe Saint Mark, mon marie extrodinaire, could put a light under someone’s, well…

christmas-pyramid

There’s no doubt that Christmas in Europe is magical, whimsical, remarkable, but there’s no place like you-know-where for the holidays.

 

 

 

Posted on by dlockhart · 6 Comments

What doesn’t kill you: expat epiphanies

I’m not a weenie, a wuss, a weak-minded woman. I’ve survived – even thrived – in some fairly adverse circumstances. But, quite honestly, being an expat, a “trailing” spouse, a foreigner– can be precarious in the best of times. As the holiday season begins, as families consider going over the river and through the woods…well…for this expat, it’s all downhill from there!

I’m sure the weather here in Luxembourg (rain, rain, and more rain) doesn’t lift my spirits, nor did my husband’s extended-at-the-last-minute trip to the U.S. last week. Being alone in another country continent is plain odd. I’ve lived places in the past besides my home town, but it was with my husband AND children, so that when Mark traveled, I had the kids keeping me spinning, paired with the comfort of their “I know, Mom,” mantras. Then, as the kids (mostly) grew up and left us, I had the routine of my job, the camaraderie of coworkers, and the congregation of my church to keep time flying. Now the days are long, daylight is short, and my heart is a bit cold in relation to being away from my…relations.

Thanksgiving is drawing nigh. In the United States. There is no Thanksgiving holiday in Luxembourg, though a smattering of celebrations can be found. Here, turkeys must be ordered (and may not fit in the small ovens), canned pumpkin is nowhere in sight, and Thursday is just another day at the office (or home alone in the apartment)! There will be no kiddos stumbling downstairs and into the kitchen, no offspring sniffing the air and asking “what time are we eating?” There will be no Scattergories or Settlers of Catan or Macy’s parade while I prep and cook and watch the family fun. There is, however, a rehearsing of gratitude, a chorus of gratefulness. My dear husband and I have a strong, affectionate marriage–we enjoy each other’s company. We have four (our dear daughter-in-law makes 5!) children who are accomplished, kind, funny people. We have the cutest grandson in the world, who is learning integrity and compassion from his parents. I survived sepsis, the illnesses of and death of a parent and parent-in-law,  breast cancer, an exile to Georgia (the state), and vacuuming around dead people in a funeral home–our home–for over 2 years. We’ve (Mark is a willing and wise participant) stumbled through all this and more, regained our footing, and continued to wait on that “peace that transcends all understanding.”

This is a wonderful place to live, a once-in-a-lifetime-experience to garner. BUT it’s not easy–to live/work/drive/shop here, to be away from our kids and extended family, to work in an environment where English is spoken only when necessary, to have no friends (yet) who know us deeply and love us anyway. BUT again–we thank our God every time we remember you. In all our prayers for all of you, we always pray with joy. Thus says the Apostle Paul in Philippians. This Thanksgiving, I’m sticking with him.

 

 

Posted on by dlockhart · 6 Comments

Coffee Klatsch

Coffee. I miss meeting a friend in a coffee shop, warming my hands around a LARGE steaming mug of the aromatic, dark drink, chatting without end as the waitress brings the pot to “top off” my cup. I miss being asked, “Cream and sugar?” so I can respond, “No thanks, I take it black and bitter!” Last week, I had a wonderful conversation with a new friend over coffee for me, tea for her. The company was great, the cup was small–not even the width of my hand, and there were no refills, free or otherwise…

Like all of us, this beautiful beverage has a history, dark and bold. In the 16 century, a shepherd noticed his little goats bouncing off the Ethiopian plateau after eating the berries from a certain tree. The shepherd took those berries and reported his observations to a local monastery. The monks devised a brew from the beans and drank it to keep themselves from dozing during dusk devotions. The pep-producing beverage gained a reputation which spread quickly, along with the beans (www.ncausa.org). By the 17th century, coffee had spilled across Europe, replacing the usual breakfast drink of champions–wine or beer. Apparently, replacing the dawn draft with coffee invigorated workers, assisting their energy and effectiveness (according to the National Coffee Association of the USA). Hmpff…truly, critical thinking, powered by mocha, at its finest!

And now, as Mark and I find ourselves in the heart of Europe, I’m missing my American-get-a-large-for-a-buck coffee from McDonald’s. Though I do love my java black, espresso is not my thing (there’s not enough in a shot for lingering). And poor Mark, who loves half and half in his brew…coffee with milk after breakfast is frowned upon, and we can’t find dairy which translates as the whitener Mark prefers. So we smile as we swill a cup o’ joe down to the last dune of sludge in the mug and ponder the differences in caffeine culture (that’s not what keeps us up at night!), drinking in the antioxidants and the European world around us.

 

 

 

Posted on by dlockhart · 4 Comments

Vacation Day in Gnomemansland

We had to get out of the apartment–the sky was clear, the temperature perfect, the day free from work. As usual, we hadn’t planned ahead, pretending we’re spontaneous rather than procrastinators, so Mark and I each grabbed our iPads, searching “things to see near me.”Ever since the ginger-haired Irishman at Café Belair suggested we try a frothy beverage other than the usual Bofferding or Diekirch, Chouffe beer has been our favorite occasional brew: McChouffe for Mark, a darker ale, and the blond LaChouffe for me. Packaging for this drink is playful–a little elf in a red hat brightens the bottles. We heard the brewhouse was close by and fun to visit.  There was gnome more discussion–we were off to the Belgian Ardennes, to the town of Houffalize, less than an hour’s drive.

We arrived at the brasserie to find it hopping.  Who thought so many families would be interested in suds? It was, as always, difficult to find a place to park, until…an older, well-dressed gentleman who had been facing the trees at the end of the parking lot, zipped his pants, turned to us and signaled he would be freeing up a parking space. Mark and I looked at each other–that man had been Euro-peeing!! Lest I begin a steady stream of rants regarding such a practice–yes, we’ve seen it (not the tinkle, just the stance) several times–on busy streets, in McDonald’s _arking lot, in the _ark–all of these _laces with water closets nearby! _lease kee_ the _EE out of the _ublic!!

We had a great parking space, but we didn’t make the cut for the tour of the brewery–so much for spontaneity! A walk around the grounds was glorious, a lunch at the tavern tasty, a look at the Chouffe shop short. So here’s to blue skies and big adventures, tender love and untamed laughter,  hard work and halcyon days. May your glass ever be full and your bladder empty! Santé!

 

 

Posted on by dlockhart · 8 Comments

Round and About

I’m writing this as I sit on a…wait for it, because it was 10 minutes late…a bus! I’m on my way to meet some ladies for a cinema matinee. My hope was that an American movie would provide for me the inspiration and motivation I needed to hop on the bus. Returning home to our almost cozy apartment will give me the guts to get back on! As I waited for the bus, a pretty, older woman who was also waiting asked me a question, in French, of course. I understood! I was able to tell her, in French, that this would be my premiere bus ride, that indeed, but number deux cent vingt deux  was en retard; we had a short dialogue all in French. We communicated, and just like that, one of the cultural limitations here was conquered (or at least encountered without my stammering “Je suis Americaine,” and running away). A second chain of culture was bent when I stepped up on the bus. These two little things truly bolstered my confidence and my courage.

Yesterday, Mark suggested I drive him to work, since I had my (first) hair appointment and the need to have a document notarized. As we were making our way toward Mark’s office early yesterday morning, seeing the sign, “Belgique 8 min” amazed me all over again. When I drove to the other side of the city, I saw the sign pointing to Germany. And we’ve been to France a few times since we arrived. So there was something special to me about arranging my errand for the notary, since I had to go to the US Embassy. What I was expecting when I saw the American flag waving on the property behind the barriers was maybe a warm welcome, a bit of small talk, a little “where are you from?” and “how about Donald and Hillary?” As my bag was being searched and I was escorted by uniformed men who were not American, I realized the folly of my fantasy. However, kindness was indeed employed on both sides, and, for a large fee of 50 US dollars,  my document was notarized. In one day, I drove solo through the narrow, busy streets of the city, drove on the highway, went through many roundabouts, paid for parking in a lot and parking on the street, prayed (as my hair was processing) my car wouldn’t be towed due to an expired parking pass, and visited a tiny little bit of my country.

That was yesterday. Today? Good thing I got that conversation and bus thing going, because I’m going to have to do it all again next Friday–I was a week early for the movie!

 

 

Posted on by dlockhart · 5 Comments

The Wheels on the Bus

I’m in possession of a little card that’s burning a hole in my pocket. It’s not a credit card or a gift card, but is as good as cash–Euros, that is. The value of the card is not the factor causing my tight grip. Nope, my grip is activated by fear–fear of making a mistake, fear of getting lost, fear of appearing stupid when I don’t know how to use that little card and the system it represents.

It’s no secret that public transportation is prevalent, necessary, and encouraged in Europe. Roads are teeny tiny, parking is limited, fuel is expensive. We’re a one-car-family here in Luxembourg. My husband takes the car to work and I walk. I walk to the grocery store (1.1 kilometers away) and buy what I can carry home. I walk to the American Women’s Club of Luxembourg, or my friend Karen takes pity on me and picks me up on her way! Mark and I walk to our language classes near the City Centre, then walk to dinner in the City Centre, then walk home again (nearly 4.5 kilometers).

Walking has been good for me. The waistband of my pants is a little less painful, my skin is glowing (from sweat or hot flashes), and I’ve got a bit more zipadee in my doodah–whatever that means! Alas, the weather will soon be cooler and wet, and perhaps I’ll want to purchase more than I can carry for a distance. It’s time for the next big step, the one that gets me on the bus. I have a handy-dandy bus card, filled and ready for 10 trips–even more if trips are within a two hour window! I’ve studied the maps, memorized the stops, plotted my journeys. Yep–it’s time to screw my courage to the sticking point and hear the driver say “move on back,” en français, of course!

 

Posted on by dlockhart · 3 Comments

Watch your language!

Duolingo only goes so far. In French, I now know how to refer to a black cat, the red dress, and to identify men who are rich and calm. The bells and pings associated with correct responses on the app are incredibly rewarding, and when that bubble pops up saying I’m 15 percent fluent in French–oo la la! At that point, I’m positive I can have a meaningful conversation with all of French-speaking Luxembourg! And then…I’m in DelHaize in the checkout line with my little pull along basket instead of the bigger “chariot.” A friendly associate approaches me in the busy store, français flying, and I attempt to decipher her words, expression, and gestures. She doesn’t understand why I don’t understand, and just like that, we’re in a language stand-off. I’m defeated again, as the sweet cashier takes pity on me. That’s right…this has happened before…

Now my dear husband and I spend two evenings a week in a classroom. Our beginning French class includes students from Norway, Romania, Poland, Portugal, Germany, Russia, and Australia. Mark and I are the oldest in the class by 30 years, we’re the only Americans, the only ones who speak only one language. The teacher is young, kind and encouraging, speaking French alone all class, as she directs us to dialogue with each other. After four classes, our confidence is growing. Just last weekend, as Mark waited for me at IKEA, he phoned and made reservations at a restaurant–EN FRANÇAIS!! Last night as we were dining with friends and were introduced to the owner of the restaurant, he asked if I spoke French. I replied in my most practiced, “Je parle un peu de français.” His comic response, with his Luxembourgish accent was, “Sounds to me like you speak a little American!”

Truly, the people in Luxembourg have been warm and welcoming. The language barrier makes us more uncomfortable than it does them. Mark and I will most likely never be fluent in French, and we’re okay with that. We would appreciate, however, being able to skipper this European adventure in a more manageable way, without language blowing us off course!  In the meantime, I’ll be practicing…les robes sont rouges…la femme mange une pomme…and using Google Translate.

Posted on by dlockhart · 6 Comments

Punks and Apologies

We were excited for our long weekend in Barcelona. Mark and I researched what to see and do when we met up with family from the US in Spain. High on the list was the Picasso Museum, tapas and sangria, the Gaudi architecture, sangria and paella, the Mediterranean Sea, sangria and tapas, the Magic Fountain, paella and…well…Besides those anticipated highlights, I’d been told by two separate acquaintances of purse snatching in Barcelona–both had lost phones, money, credit cards, and passports–pickpockets have mastered their trades in the city. All advice pointed to keeping passports in the hotel safe and carry copies, wearing cross-body bags with all zippers zipped, putting wallets in front pockets while keeping your own hand in that pocket (minimizing room for an additional hand!). Beware, we were told, of busy intersections, distractions. and the biggest attractions.

Exploring with my dear cousin, Laura, and her husband was such a treat! We enjoyed each others’ company so much, and appreciated Craig’s fluent Spanish to help us along the tapas trail from the Picasso Museum to the Sagrada Familia. As our quartet approached the structure (still incomplete after 100 years!), we sang our “watch your pockets” chorus, checking the position of belongings, going into high alert mode. We walked around the funky, beautiful church, looking up and admiring both the modern and the gothic side, taking pictures, chatting about the history of Sagrada Familia and the architect who designed it.  As in many parts of the city, hawkers of trinkets spread their cheap (imported–not even handmade!) wares on a cloth on the sidewalk. As we talked, I noticed a young man setting up shop near us.

Moments later, I was snapped out of the conversation with a yelp (Mark called it a girly scream) as someone stomped on my foot, and I teetered as I was shoved, nearly losing my balance! My first instinct was to grab my purse and look around to alert my family–I was afraid this was an attempted theft. Yet, as I turned to speak, a policía passed in a blur, tackling the young man I saw running with his bundle of goods. We all looked at each other–our eyes huge–as Mark and Laura and Craig made sure I was in one piece. As the policía walked back toward us, holding the kiddo by the scruff of the neck, we tried to move out of the way to allow their passage. Instead, the officer walked right up to me, holding onto the boy, speaking to him in Spanish. Then the boy looked at me and spoke–I had no idea what the words were, but I knew he was saying he was sorry for hurting me. The surprise of that nearly rendered me speechless, as I muttered, “Thank you, I appreciate your apology.” As they walked away, Craig said the policeman said to the young man, “For 4 Euros you hurt this lady?”

I was not badly hurt–my foot remains a bit sore. At the time, a “bit” of sangria and tapas removed the pain and fear! We told and re-told the story, laughing, exaggerating, musing what consequences awaited the kid. The remnants of my surprise, however, are at the manner in which the police handled this situation. The conversation Craig relayed to us reminded me of a father speaking to his son, of a parent teaching a child to ask for forgiveness and to count the cost of his actions. The lesson for me is to remember who has forgiven me all and taught me to forgive in return. The example is deep, the practice endless–on both sides of forgiveness.

 

 

 

Posted on by dlockhart · 3 Comments

This little piggy

Convenience:  anything that saves or simplifies work, adds to one’s ease or comfort,etc., according to Dictionary.com.

From this definition, there are different categories of convenience–an electric mixer or having laundry facilities close by definitely saves work! I wanted to make chocolate mousse last week, but having only a whisk and flabby old arms…well, I made brownies instead. Having a vehicle to use definitely adds to our ease of getting out and about, that is, until we encounter minuscule parking spaces and the need to exit the car through the rear hatch because the doors won’t open wide enough for the body matching those arms! And how this hot-flashing woman longs for the comfort of air conditioning, or screens on the windows…

This weekend, Mark and I had planned to go to the grocery store on Saturday. Not a big deal, you may say. BUT!  Stores here are open until 6:00 some evenings, 8:00 others. We had a very full day Saturday video-chatting with family (it’s not convenient to do so during the week, due to the 6 hour time difference). We tidied up, chatted with one family member, then another, then another… and before we knew it–7:30 pm. No time for the grocery store! (We still had coffee, wine, and cheese, thank God!). Plan B: DelHaize closes at 1 pm on Sunday, swing by after church and buy the toilet paper and water and laundry detergent and milk and bread…Needless to say, whisk a loquacious pastor into the mix, and this little piggy did not get to market!

The good thing is, Mark and I are learning to plan ahead–for shopping, for dining, for traffic and filling up the gas tank. Our tummies are syncing with the restaurant timetables (no early bird dinners!). Our fridge compensates the small quantities in which foods are sold here. While I waffle (we’re very close to Belgium, you know) on the reasoning behind such a way of life here, it does remind me of a simpler life, of a better balance between work and leisure,  rushing and resting.  In the meantime? This little piggy’s running to DelHaize to get some roast beef!