Chipiphany

Chip (or Pope's hat?)

I had an epiphanic flashback yesterday; a flashback to an epiphany I experienced while living in Japan. I still remember vividly the day I realized Japanese chip bags open differently than American chip bags. I’d been living in Japan for about 4 months at the time, and was relatively used to swearing at Japanese engineering every time I tried to enjoy the crunchy snack. The damn bags would NOT open. Was I doing something wrong? Was the bag design seriously, catastrophically, failed? I mean, how hard could it be to open a bag of chips? I did have some experience on this front after all...

Traditional chip opening process in the good ol’ U S of A:
Step 1: Firmly grasp either side of the bag near top seam.

Step 2: Gently pull sides of bag apart until the seam opens.

Step 3: Enjoy crunchy, salty goodness.

In Japan the process went more like this:
Step 1: Firmly grasp either side of the bag near top seam.

Step 2: Gently pull sides of bag apart until the seam...

Step 3: Firmly pull sides of bag apart until the seam...

Step 4: Swear.

Step 5: Grab either side of bag in a death grip, jerk, twist and pull apart until the seam...

Step 6: Repeat steps 4 and 5

Step 7: Search for scissors. Swear. You have no scissors.

Step 8: Grab knife. Consider chip homicide.

Step 9: Stab bag until it surrenders inner contents.

Step 10: Enjoy finely smashed pieces of previously crunchy salty goodness.

There must be a better way, I thought. Indeed there was. While eating lunch with a group of Japanese colleagues, one of them pulled out a bag of chips. FINALLY I thought, I would see how the locals convinced these little plastic vaults to release their fried treasures. He grabbed the chip bag at the top corner, twisted the seam and pulled straight down, opening a gap along the side of the bag, not along the top.

Stained glass in Aachen Cathedral, Aachen Germany

It was truly a beautiful moment.

I sat there for a few moments dumbstruck, a quirky smile frozen on my face; lost in this, the perfect metaphor for a foreigner living abroad. 

When we move or travel to a new place, we bring our own cultural “tool-belt” with us. Our definitions, interpretations, assumptions and rationale are always along for the ride. When we encounter something that seems similar, we naturally approach it with the tools we’ve brought with us. Often times to great frustration. Like using a hammer to type this blog post, or a screwdriver to stir my coffee in the morning. It might work, (I got the chip bag open eventually), but there is usually an infinitely easier and more graceful tool for the job, if we just open ourselves to the possibility of discovering it.

This is part of the joy (and pain) of living abroad; the opportunity to add more tools to our belts. If we can stay conscious after bashing our heads against the wall, that is.

Yesterday, I discovered that chip bags in Germany are the same as those in Japan, which led to the recollection above. I enjoyed the chips without incident or trauma, having just the right tool to complete the task. 

What chipiphanies await us here in Germany I wonder...?

Hillary and Jeff

"Sooooo Niiiiiiice."

Three months in Bonn

Church in Beaune

Working amidst people from all over the world can be entertaining, fascinating, and frustrating in equal measure. I’m learning to de-colloquialize my speech, omit slang and enunciate words to be more widely understood.  Not that misunderstandings are without their upsides. A couple weeks ago, I invited a group of colleagues to a local Spanish tapas bar for a few drinks and appetizers. I thought it would be a good chance to get to know each other better. At the time, the tentative and slightly horrified reaction to my invitation was a bit baffling. I found out a week later that everyone thought I was inviting them, not to a tapas bar, but to a “topless” bar. I’m not sure what’s more funny, the misunderstanding, or the fact that everyone still showed up.

January was a good month for the McBrides.  After a relatively sedentary December, we grabbed the “I’m-living-in-Europe bull” by the horns and gave him a good ride. Amongst our sojourns were a day trip to Cochem via train, a weekend road trip to Beaune, France, and a five-day mini-vacation to Rome, Italy. 

Each trip was magical in its own way. Cochem is a quaint, cobblestoned town nestled in the heart of the Mosel River Valley, a destination for regional wine connoisseurs and renown for its beautiful and dramatic vineyards. The vines seem to cling, more than grow on the steep hillsides rising up from the river.  There are certain views in the places I’ve lived that I never grow tired of seeing; that first glimpse of impossibly azure ocean north of Chatan in Okinawa; The aqueducts in Queretaro, Mexico; the old McKenzie highway drive in Oregon. The train ride down the Mosel valley between Koblenz and Cochem will be added to that list.  There’s just something about old castles, repurposed as wineries, perched on hillsides surrounded by vineyards that takes the breath away. Then again, I’ve always been a sucker for anything wine related.

Wine tasting in the caves in Beaune

Inspired by the beauty of Cochem, we decided to see what other locations we could reach on a weekend trip.  The options were...staggering. Especially for us Americans, used to driving 12-14 hours to visit family, only to turn around a few days later and drive back.  This type of “marathon” driving seems to stun people from most other countries. The British seem particularly horrified by the idea of driving for longer than two hours at a time. Distance is relative it would seem ;) 

Amsterdam? Liege? Paris? Champagne? Basel? Vienna? Berlin? After reviewing the long list of options, we decided two things. One, we would take a weekend trip to Beaune and Dijon France, heart of the Burgundy wine region (about 6 hours away). Two, we definitely needed to buy a car. Soon. 

Despite our “free” upgrade from Avis, a gutless monstrosity of a French minivan called a Berlingo, we had an excellent road trip. We drove through three countries before noon, a new experience, and found Beaune to be beautiful. Again, I have a hard time seeing anything wrong with a town thats “raison d’etre” is wine. Wine growing. Wine tasting. Wine aging. Under the cobblestone streets of the partially-walled city, 5 million bottles of wine age in miles and miles of subterranean caves. We spent 10 euros a piece to enter part of the caves and self-taste 15 selected wines. The tour began and ended in a 12th century church where we met Laurent, the lovely and rather bored house sommelier.  As January is off season, and we were the only visitors at the time, he invited us to his private wine library for some additional tasting. Gee....OK.

St. Peters Basilica at night

We spent a small, very delicious fortune on French wine that day and have an open invitation to come back and visit Laurent anytime. Who wants to join us? One thing of note to mention, I was always confused when I saw French wines in the wine shop because they rarely mention the type of wine on the bottle. What we learned was that French wines are very regional. So, if you are a drinking a white wine from Burgundy, it is always Chardonnay and if you are drinking a red wine from Burgundy, it is always Pinot Noir. They further classify the wines by the town where the grapes are grown.

Three days after returning to Bonn from Beaune, we took off for Rome. At this point we were feeling a bit glutinous with our traveling excess. Like a kid in a candy shop who gets two peanut clusters, a jawbreaker AND a pound of gummy bears. It’s hard to limit yourself with how comparatively close everything is and how comparatively cheap it is to get there. Regardless, Rome was no less amazing for all our recent traveling.

St. Peters Basilica, inside looking up

All I can say about Rome is, wow. It’s almost an embarrassment of riches. That one town houses the Parthenon, the Coliseum, Trevi fountain, and a whole ‘nother little country, is impressive to say the least. And I haven’t even talked about the food yet. The cheese, and the pizza, and the gelato, and the suppli, and the pasta, and the wine. I don’t know how those people are not all morbidly obese, but if they walk even a quarter of what we did each day, that might be the answer.  If we weren’t eating and drinking, we were walking.  That about sums up Rome. Walk. Eat. Drink. Walk. Dodge Chinese tour group. Walk. Walk. Eat. Drink. Walk. Walk. Plug ears as endless sirens wail by. Walk. Walk. Eat. Drink. Drink. Drink. Sleep. Repeat.

One morning, while sipping a cappuccino and watching the morning market spring to life in the Campo di Fiori, we watched as a truck slightly nudged one of the vendors boxes of produce. The vendor immediately erupted into frantic gesticulations and rapid-fire Italian with a lot of “EHHH’s!!!!!” and “OHHH’s!!!!’ a la Silvio and Pauli in the Sopranos. Immediately the other vendors joined in with a chorus of “EHHH’s” and “OHHH’s” ringing through the plaza. In Italy, you never have to complain alone. Your indignation will always find an echo. 

We will always remember Rome with two simple words: "Soooo niiiiice" spoken as if you were currently receiving a delicious massage. We heard these words from one of the many men lined along the street trying to make a living by selling various plastic pieces of crap to the tourists tramping to and from the coliseum. Strangely enough, this particular tout was selling a gelatinous ball that spats flat when thrown to the ground, makes the sound of a kitten being run over by a car, and then slowly metastasizes back to its original ball-shaped form. "Sooooo niiiiiiice."

We’ve been back in Bonn now for a week, getting settled in for a bit before our next trip (destination TBD). Yesterday, we test drove a lovely dark blue Audi A3.  Watching Jeff as he pulled onto the autobahn and shifted into 6th gear was hilarious.  Giddy is the only word that suffices.  Boys and their toys.  It goes without saying, there will be more road trips in our near future.

Love to you all.