Secrets of the Ostsee

Let's say you live in Germany. For years. How do you know when you've integrated?

Is it when you learn to order a beer and a bratwurst? When you wear socks with your Birkenstocks. Or when you decide to go north in the summer, instead of the south?

Yes, we spent a week on the Baltic coast, and it was swell. Sure, it was cold and windy, but we didn't wear socks with our sandals. Though, the thought crossed my mind, so maybe I'm progressing level by level toward integration.

But being cold and windy doesn't ruin it. It makes it better.

We pulled up our pants and ran knee-deep into the cold Baltic blue, and then ran back out. And then back in.

We dug and played in the smooth, white Ostsee sand.

And when we needed to immerse ourselves in water without shivering, the hotel pool was always there... during family-designated hours from 10-12 and 2-4. Also, I should note, a very sensibly German structure.

We ate pizza on a patio by the sea, braving wind, rain and the sun, which we weren’t altogether prepared for.

How did we get there? You probably didn't ask, but I'm going to tell you anyway.

We used our Deutschland tickets – that subsidized godsend that allows you to travel on any bus, tram, or train in Germany (except for the fancy bullet trains).

We cruised in on local trains until a little spot called Bad Doberan, then we switched to a narrow-gauge steam train, which, after nine weeks (due to my slothful blog writing), the 3-year-old is still raving about.

And when we're there, and this is why it feels like we've integrated, the Ostsee resort towns have a great vibe. It’s not a party place or crowded with tourists.  

It's relaxed and chill. And filled with Germans, like locals, and foreigners like us, who’ve gotten it. An example: Our friendly Greek waiter spent a few years in Berlin, but quit the big city for work on the Ostsee and hasn’t left.

And it's almost a secret. Because who but people who live here would know that you’re supposed to go north during the summer.

Tempelhof: The joy of wasted space

 

My son has fallen in love with riding his bike as fast as he can down the runways at the old Tempelhof Airport.

Imagine it. Wide open, flat space. No cars. No stop signs or traffic lights. Just the wind running through his helmeted hair. And it's always windy, so the headwind can be a struggle, but the tailwind makes it seem like he's flying. 

Not long after planes stopped flying from it, the City of Berlin turned the old airport into a public park  

And it's a big park. It's 360 hectares, and it's flat and wide open. It's like stepping onto a prairie, well, a small one, but you get the idea. 

Rain or shine, there are people strolling, running, riding bikes, grilling, picnicking, canoodling, and flying kites.

In a city where any building can be a club, making an old airport into a park for everyone captures the Take-What-You-Got-And-Make-it-Fun spirit of Berlin.

But a big open space in the middle of the city must be torture for property developers. What a waste of space! Think of the condos that could go here. The retail space. The revenue.

So, every now and then, a developer tries to get the park rezoned. And people, normal people, push back and stop it.

Because an open space isn't wasted space for a six-year-old discovering the freedom of high speeds on a bike or for the 40-year-old father struggling to keep up with him. It's something we all need. 

Back to school, German style

If you spent some time in Germany over the last few weeks, you probably saw children walking the streets with giant cardboard cones. 

They might have been wearing backpacks large enough to fit another child inside. 

Their parents might've been dressed to the nines. 

You might've even been invited to an Einschulungsfeier, which is a party celebrating the first day of Grade 1.

It's back-to-school time in Germany, and like most things that Germans love, it's taken very seriously here.

And like most things that are taken very seriously here, I was very unprepared for it. 

My own Canadian experience with starting school was modest. I got some new clothes, a backpack, and a brown bag lunch. Maybe a photo was snapped before the school bus took me to school. No party. No body bag backpack. 

In Germany, it has been taken to the next level. There's a big ceremony at the school the weekend before the first day. Parents throw parties. All the kids' parents buy the same type of (expensive) backpack. The kids receive a cardboard cone filled with school supplies, sweets, and whatever else can be crammed into it.

It probably wasn't always this way. The kids are anxious and excited for this next step, so a ceremony at the school is a smart move. Gifting school supplies? Also, a smart move. But the rest can take on a feeling of an overly commercialized affair that's developed its own Enschulungs-Industrial Complex, making the whole thing futile to resist.

In the midst of all this, it's easy to lose sight of the most important thing: a six-year-old growing a little older and entering a new phase in their life. 

Riding to the first day of school