Dear Oprah

Having defined the new breed of American-Australians, I now find myself writing for them.

Dear Oprah,

Because, let's face it, if you want to speak to the United States, it's best to begin with Oprah.

Dear Oprah,

We're glad you like our country, we really are. We like it too. And yes, the Australians really are the most unbelievably friendly people you will ever meet. Even if you aren't wealthy enough to buy an 18 bath home while you are here.

We can't blame you for being surprised at how fantastic it is. Or that it is here at all, for that matter. Most of us didn't know Sydney from Melbourne when we got here either.

And we're not going to blame you for comparing us to Disneyworld. (Well, okay, maybe some of us are.) It's okay. You're not only human, and therefore fallible, but you are also American. How can you know that the highest compliment you can pay someone just might NOT be comparing them to America?

You are the best of what America has to offer. You are kind and you care. (Thanks for all those laptop computers by the way, nice work.)  You do good and you mean well.

Which is why we are sure you will share our concerns with the American public, and perhaps even the world.

Australia really does seem like the best place on earth. Newsweek liked it too.

What they don't tell you about is the spiders.

Sure, we got sun.

But did they mention the snakes?

The education system is one of the best in the world. (Sure beats the heck out of the USA.)

But have we mentioned the sharks?

Endless opportunity. Jobs.

But you know that most of the country is desert, right?

Universal health care that works.

And saltwater crocodiles. Good thing about the health care.

A coastline of white sand beaches.

Surrounded by the deadliest jellyfish in the world.

All of which doesn't mean that we don't want your tourism dollars.

Maybe it's best you do think of us as Disneyworld.

Better yet, as Atlantis.

We are a figment of the imagination, Oprah, a happy dream, a charming memory.

We're something nice to reflect upon when the weight of the real world seems too much for American shoulders.

But let us lie quietly, dear Oprah, under the Southern Cross,

Protected by the waves of the Pacific.

And the sharks, dear Oprah, don't forget the sharks.

Flotsam

We've discovered some unexpected flotsam on our trips to the beach here.

Flotsam, as in: 

1.the part of the wreckage of a ship and its cargo found floating on the water. Compare jetsam, lagan.

2. material or refuse floating on water.

3.useless or unimportant items; odds and ends.

4.a vagrant, penniless population: the flotsam of the city slums in medieval Europe

(taken from dictionary.com)

While I don't think of us as useless or unimportant, vagrant population fits and I like that concept of odds and ends.

And it fits better than jetsam, which as it turns out is: goods cast overboard deliberately, as to lighten a vessel or improve its stability in an emergency, which sink where jettisoned or are washed ashore. (also from dictionary.com)

Our being here is chance and good fortune, nothing deliberate about it.

The flotsam that finds its way to us, as kindred spirits with familiar accents, are other American-Australians. (African-American-Australian, Irish-American-Australian, German-American-Australian; the most important part being the Australian.) Turns out we are part of a once-unknown species that may be more prevalent in Australia than previously supposed. It's hard to tell. We're pretty scattered. We breed with the local population. (In fact, that seems to be what got most of us over here in the first place!) But more than that, we love it here so much, that we don't make waves.

If you look closely, you might be able to pick us apart from the other Australians by our goofy grins of disbelief. We just can't believe we're here. We just can't believe how lucky we are and how good we have it. (We're the ones who cry during the national anthem and take pictures of the flag.)

We do tend to cluster in small groups and exchange phone numbers. If you listen closely (and can understand our accent) you'll hear us talk about things other Australians take for granted. ''And the schools, can you believe how good the schools are?'' ''Oh yeah, it's way better for raising kids than back in the U.S.'' (And no, I haven't heard ANY of us refer to it as 'back home.' More like, 'back there'.) And, of course, ''yeah, the Australians are unbelievable. So friendly. So laid back.''

General consensus of this flotsam is that we ended up in the right place.

''Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.''

Who would have thought we'd find the American dream?

Right here in Australia. 

Christmas Greetings - American Style

I've had some complaints from Lori about my recent blogs. Well, not so recent anymore since I wrote this almost three weeks ago – plus quite a few others – and really just haven't had the chance , or perhaps the energy, to get online at night when I finally have the kids down and access to the internet. Contentment seems to be taking away that hard edge. That plus food shopping, malls, parks and beaches on public transport. (The kids are FIT! We have cut our walking time to the train station almost in half!) It's all good, no worries.....and if you don't hear from me for a few weeks – it's just the peace and contentment of finally having found home. I'll rave about the sunshine and the friendliness, the schools and Medicare, the beaches and......


''Glad you're happy and all, but do you mind toning it down a bit? You DO realize that it's snowing here, right?!'' (This from Lori quite a few weeks ago already.)

So that this seems like the perfect time to finally post my American Christmas Greeting, a spoof of those once-a-year updates you get letting you know just how perfect everyone else's life seems to be going while you're still wondering WHERE yours is going.

I wrote it last Christmas just for kicks but then didn't post it because I was scared that people who WERE sending me cards would feel I was mocking them and stop sending them.

DON'T stop sending the cards. I love them and live off of them all year. Now if only I would send you all my address – check on facebook this week! I'll post photos and...no...we don't mind receiving belated Christmas cards in 2011!

This is for you Lori. And for Babette – who sends fantastic Christmas photos of the kids scuba diving and snow skiing every year, but doesn't rub it in – and who thinks I'm witty and is therefore brilliant! (Keep those cards coming folks, I really DO like to hear how brilliant your lives are!)

(It's taken me over an hour just to force something I've already written online - forgive me, I miss you, I just lose any and all good will fighting with the internet.  The kids ALL start school on January 22.  I'll be in touch then!)

Merry Christmas!!!   ENJOY!

DISCLAIMER:ALL PERSONS AND EVENTS ARE ENTIRELY FICTIONAL. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO PERSONS IN MY PRESENT, PAST, OR FUTURE IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL. THIS IS MEANT TO BE A TONGUE-IN-CHEEK SATIRE OF AN AMERICAN CUSTOM AND NOT MEANT TO CRITICIZE, CONDEMN OR OFFEND. OF COURSE, IF I HAVE TO EXPLAIN. ALL OF WHICH MEANS, PLEASE KEEP YOUR CHRISTMAS CARDS COMING. I DO LOVE HEARING FROM YOU. AND WHEN I GET THIS RATHER BAD HUMOR OUT OF THE WAY, I HOPE IT MAKES ROOM IN MY HEART FOR SOMETHING TRULY BEAUTIFUL. I PROMISE, I'M WORKING ON IT!



An American Christmas Greeting


Merry Christmas friends and family,

Another year has come and gone in which none of us has had the time to visit, phone, email or even twitter. Check us out on Facebook if you get a chance.

And so we'd like to share news of our family with the 400 of you who are closest in our hearts during this joyous holiday season.

All of the kids are, of course, in the gifted program at school, the school being the best in the entire country. Our son is the star of the soccer, baseball, and basketball teams and is training for his black belt in karate, the youngest ever to do so at the age of seven. He also plays a Stradavarius. Our ten year old daughter is travelling to New York City on the weekends to dance ballet professionally. And weren't we surprised when NASA called to ask her opinion about the latest space station. All of which somehow led to a modelling gig. She'll also be in the Olympics next year for stadium jumping. We've enclosed the photo of her on her new Thoroughbred. My husband meanwhile is never home, business (which obviously is booming) taking him to Shang-hai, Syndey, Berlin, Moscow and Paris this year alone. And yet he somehow finds time to coach the soccer team, sing in the church choir, travel with the cub scouts and volunteer at the local homeless shelter.

I am not doing much, still busy with homeschooling the youngest two before they enter preschool. They are trilingual now, at the age of three, but having some dificulty reading the French. I've repainted all the bedrooms in our six bedroom home (photo also enclosed) and made curtains to match. In between preparing organic vegan home-cooked meals for the entire family (grown in our own garden) and sewing all of our clothes, I have found time to open my own silk-screening business, currently bringing in $40,000 a month, in addition to continuing to work as a cardiologist at the local hospital.

Wishing you and yours a blessed and holy holiday season. (The Connors)

I LOVE YOU GUYS!   MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM RAINY (BUT NOT SNOWY!) QUEENSLAND!

Third Grade Math: Far From Over

Ryan finally brought home a test result I could smile at this week.

In fact, I laughed out loud, embraced her with tears of mirth streaming down my face, and did a little happy dance of disbelief around the kitchen.

I'm not sure that helped her self esteem any.

She'd hit the jackpot, though, an incredible NONE CORRECT on the entire one-hour test. "Well, Mom, " she quietly said "Frau Danzinger did give me partial credit on the first question." (She was cowering behind the kitchen cabinets, not quite sure if my war whoops and insane laughter were a good sign or a bad one.) Yeah, because Ryan had managed to write a correct word into a completely incorrect sentence, and Frau Danzinger really has been doing her darndest to give Ryan whatever points she can. She gave up after that first one though.

What do you say to something like that?

I was curious, and so I called the teacher. "So, how about that weather, huh?" Frau Danzinger was not at all fooled. "Fine then, how about that test result?" She didn't have an answer. "It's okay. I'm not angry. In fact, I laughed." That loosened her up a bit. She guesses we still need to work with Ryan on some things. You think?! I am grateful that she didn't yell at Ryan - although she did write on the test that she thought Ryan could do better than this? Really? CAN she do better than this?

We discussed it once again. "Do you still honestly believe that this child has no learning "weakness"?" I asked her. (It's a nicer word than disability and, since they still don't believe there is anything wrong, also less insistent.)

What Frau Danzinger is trying to reassure me is that Ryan is a lovely child, that she just needs time to mature. She keeps reminding me of the IQ results. (They were good.) She is a pleasure in the classroom and never causes trouble or disruptions. Which is why she will never be looked at in this system. If she were a typical ADD child - male, loud, unruly and disruptive - they would have listened to me four years ago already.

And she gets what they consider average grades. 3s to 4s. Consistently. (C's in the American equivalent).

I just can't believe they don't look closer - especially with a parent hounding them for four years. Her math tests recently for example. The first half - dealing with fairly complicated multiplication and long division - rote math - is ENTIRELY CORRECT. The second half - dealing with application of the concept - ENTIRELY FALSE. For months now.

Ryan has ADD. I'm sure of it.

I'm also sure she will never get the help she needs here in Germany.

I finally had my mom ask Marie, our family's guidance fairy and a trained psychologist, what she thought about Ryan's symptoms. She sent me to a website, learningdisabilities.about.com/od/glossar1/g/abstractreason.htm that in turn led me to another website, www.ncgiadd.org., and piles of information.

She has also been reading my blogs, and....go ahead and read all those essays on Third Grade Math yourself again if you are interested. Ryan has almost every classical symptom of ADD, except the hyperactivity. It's a quieter, dreamy form more common to girls. And most often overlooked. I've been documenting it for a year without knowing it.

What bothers me is that the school here didn't even try, doesn't even really care.

I'm learning a lot. I'm giving up the guilt. (Don't Shoot The Dog: THIS IS NOT YOUR FAULT.) And I'm reading about the Individuals with Disabilities Acts, the U.S federal law requiring public schools to serve children with specific learning disabilites by developing an Individual Education Program (IEP), including individualized learning goals and A TEAM OF EDUCATORS, PSYCHOLOGISTS AND HEALTH PROFESSIONALS, for EACH student with a disability.

German websites don't even mention Ryan's form of ADD. The school has no health care professional, no psychologist, and noone trained to handle special needs education.

I think we all know what the Germans do when someone doesn't fit into their system.

FIghting For The Short Bus

Americans know the "short bus." In a country where kids are bussed to school on large, long yellow school busses, the "short bus" is the yellow bus that picks up the "special ed" kids. Short yellow buses are also used on long rural routes with few kids, but....the stigma remains. The kids coming off the short bus are the kids whose limbs flop awkwardly from wheelchairs, who wear helmets and crooked smiles, who are...let's face it....just thrilled to be able to attend public school at all.

There is actually a short bus in my area of Germany. It picks up the kids with severe debilitating ADD and slight learning delays and brings them to a special school nearby with class sizes of 6 - 10 and one class where the teacher's dog joins the class daily. We also have a child with Down Syndrome in our kindergarten and a blind child in the local grade school.

So, I guess what I may be fighting for isn't exactly "special ed." I don't actually know the status of special ed here since none of my children fits into the category. I don't see it, I don't hear about it, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist or isn't excellent. I do know anyone with a physical handicap requiring a wheelchair or other walking aid would have to be carried up and down the stairs of the elementary school. (I know this, as well as the impossibility of using any public buildings, such as the gym and Rathaus, because I was unable to navigate them with a double stroller, since they have no ramps, no elevators, and are therefore wheelchair - and double stroller - inaccessible.)

What I'm fighting for is the kids in the middle, the kids with mild speech impediments, or slight hearing loss or just slightly slower abilities to learn than average. I'm fighting for the "less-than-average" and let's face it, less than average sounds a lot worse than "special."

"Special" kids in Germany are quick, bright, and again, let's be honest, often blonde. Or at least from your traditional German family. To make it as an immigrant, you have to not only be very very special, but also able to assimilate into the traditional German view of what a scholar is.

Oh. Yeah. And do it before the age of ten.

Everybody agrees that the current system is absolutely stupid and unfair. And also that it will take decades to change it. (Put in your own comment on the pace of change in Europe; I can't even begin to go there right now.)

Right now the kids are filtered into three separate school systems beginning in fifth grade. (Some rare cities such as Berlin are beginning to do this later, in seventh grade.) The smart kids go to the Gymnasium, basically highschool, with ages from 10 thourgh 18. From there they are expected to go to college. (Decided, once again, at the age of 10.) The average kids go to Realschule where they are prepared for very respectable careers as bank tellers, office staff and kindergarten teachers. (No kidding, the FIRST teachers your kids have in Germany aren't even considered good enough to go to college.) The dumb kids - and immigrants - go to Hauptschule, whose name has now been changed to Werkrealschule to make people feel better about it. And, although everyone keeps trying to tell me that Hauptschule is fine, that the kids are just slow starters, and that they can work their way up from there, the fact remains that noone knows what to do with these kids in the future.

Hauptschul kids officially graduate in 9th grade. Ready for a job as a bricklayer or prostitute. And there aren't a lot of jobs open for bricklayers right now.

Okay - the official line is that these kids mature and feed into the Realschule, in exceptional cases even into the Gymnasium and then into college. The system is supposed to be flexible, meeting the individual needs of each individual child.

But in reality, Germany has labelled and cut their losses on an overwhelming two-thirds of their kids. By the age of 10. Turns out I am too American to accept this. Instead of "no child left behind" they voluntarily weed out the kids to leave behind, and leave them behind early. "Make a sprint for college, son, and don't look back at all the dumb friends you have to run over to get there." I'm sorry. It's just so typically German.

Don't get me wrong. The American system is far from perfect too. But at least there is debate and change. At least we are fighting for the right of EVERY CHILD to learn. At least the theory works, even if the reality is still ugly and messy.

The top third of ANY education system are going to do fine. Those are the third you only need to place a book in front of and they sop it up. It's really really hard to mess up with those. (Believe me, I know, I have one of those too.) The sign of a really superior education system would be its ability to help those who can't learn on their own, its success rate with those that actually need HELP learning. I mean, isn't that what teaching is all about?!

So, yeah, I guess in the end I'm just fighting for the same old thing that parents everywhere should be fighting for. More money for teacher's aides, for reading programs, for special education classes.

I'm still trying to convince the school Ryan even HAS a learning problem. (Shouldn't they have picked this up by now? Or is it easier just to filter them out than it is to teach them. More cost-effective in the short-term, I guess.)

Funny isn't it? All those years you spend laughing at the kids on the short bus. Until you become a parent and realize how "special" every member of society is, and how they all should have access to the same opportunities.

Travelling Light (Things of Value)

If someone gave you $300 to prioritize what in your luggage is of most value to you, you'd do it pretty quickly. I had five minutes to open up my suitcase and make it ten pounds lighter or I would be charged that much in overweight fees. From 60 pounds down to 50 pounds, with a line forming behind me and the plane already at the gate. Piece of cake. I'd been through worse than this before.

The toiletry bag was on top. Heavy but not heavy enough. Books for the kids - I could carry them in my arms if I had to. Grandma's sweaters. I could wear a couple and wrap one or two around my waist. Sandals would be tougher. More books. I was underweight. Sandals back in.

I have a hard time getting rid of things I might be able to use again. But the $300 made it a no-brainer as I chucked face soap and tonic, an almost empty jar of moisturizer, a full bottle of hair gel that I never ever ever ever use, a five year old tube of sunscreen and the half-full bottle of contact solution in the trash on the way to security. I hoped they'd let me keep my perfume. I really like it.

But honestly, hair gel I never use and an almost empty bottle of face cream. What the hell am I thinking?

I happily tucked the children's books into the now almost-empty toiletry bag, threw on one of Grandma's sweaters, wrapped two more around my waist and marched contentedly through security.

My need for stuff, for almost-empty toiletries and hair gel that I might just one day decide to use, is a need for security. I want to be sure I have it, that I don't need to run out and get it again. I do the same things with the children's art supplies, or with the medicine cabinet. As if the walls will crumble if I don't have enough sparkly glue or glitter on hand on any given day. As if I'm not going to go to the doctor for a prescription anyway if the kids have anything serious enough to warrant me bothering with any sort of medication.

Like many of us, I fear the future. I want to be prepared, to be in control and ready in the event of...well, frankly, in the event of the future.

This has to stop now.

We've all heard that we can't take it with us. Not even if we pay $300. And yet we still hold onto it, out of fear, out of insecurity, out of a need to define ourselves by the things we surround ourselves with.

Of course it's all an illusion anyway, as demonstrated by the millions of Americans who have lost their homes and their retirement savings in the last two years. As depicted even more graphically by the Haitians who have lost everything they had in the earthquake. Really puts my half-empty toiletries or glitter glue supplies in perspective doesn't it?

We're planning a pretty big move, to another continent, in a few months. The mantra has been ''If it ain't worth the cost of freight, then its time to say good-bye.'' It is easier said than done, especially when it comes to children's things. We want to give them everything. What happens if we get rid of the bikes and then can't afford new ones right away when we get over there? What happens if we can't give our children everything?

What happens if we give up everything we have and start over?

I'm terrified, I really am. Not of a new continent, but of going over there with nothing.

As a Peace Corps volunteer in Haiti fifteen years ago, I would pack a small sundress, two pairs of underwear, some sunscreen, bugspray, water and a flashlight and head off into town for an extended weekend. I didn't need things to know who I was.

As I buried myself under children and the possessions that accumulate with them, I lost sight of that. I traded adventure for security. I gave away the moment for the future.

I don't need $300 to know what's important to me. It's time to rid myself of empty baggage and travel light. When you think about people who really have lost everything, you realize that what's really important doesn't fit in a suitcase.

Coming Home

''There you are.'' Grandma greets me at the door. I'd flown out of a blizzard in Germany, catching the last flight out into Paris. From there, I'd flown into a snowstorm blanketing most of the United States, spending an extra twenty-four hours stranded at the Atlanta airport. Logistically, I had no right to be where I was. And yet here I was.

Home. I'd been having a hard time finding out where that really was. Despite all of the introspection, or maybe because of it, I'd been missing the point entirely. Home isn't about where I am from, but about who I am from.

There are bits of me all over Grandma's house. I see myself in the five shampoo bottles she has lined up on the shelf next to the shower in the yellow guest bathroom. They are remnants of what my family brings with them on visits, but declines to take home. The Freeman Botanical Hawaiian Ginger has been there close to twenty years. I have a hard time getting rid of things I might be able to use again too. Especially if I can line them up neatly on a shelf instead.

My mother wouldn't understand this.

I see myself in the piles of newspapers she has lying next to her favorite recliner, the one she bought for Grandpa before he died. She'll get to them later. And in the unfinished hookrug she is making for cousin Lisa's baby.

''Can you believe I have all this stuff to sort through?'' She apologizes for the basket on the floor next to the newspapers. It's full of old magazines, advertisements, Christmas cards, some free socks and a bottle of hand lotion. Believe it? I am it. What a relief. Here I am.

Grandma's kids, my mother and her siblings, want to know if I think Grandma's losing her mind. She does forget what's in the refrigerator two minutes after you've told her, and she can't hear her alarm in the morning, but other than that she seems to be fine. The alarm is waking me up early enough to greet the Florida sunrise and there's always sure to be fresh fruit lying forgotten in the refrigerator. I am pleased. I tell them I don't think she's losing her mind any more than I am. Which doesn't seem to reassure them.

''Hello? Mom?'' Aunt Diane calls to see how we are. ''Nope, it's Christine.'' I reply. ''My goodness. You sound exactly like her.'' she says. I am her. But Aunt Diane wouldn't understand about the shampoo bottles either.

My mother tells me Grandma has a hard time understanding that my sister's cell phone isn't a landline. Grandma doesn't seem to get it that she can call my mother's cell phone just as easily as Laura's when she is out there to visit. I laugh. The next day I look up Laura's number in Arizona and call her on her cell. Trying to reach my mother. Who's laughing now?!

Which isn't to say that Grandma and I are exactly alike. ''How old are you again?'' she asks. I didn't fold the sheets down on the bed correctly. ''When I'm with you Grandma, I'm about seven or eight.'' I reply. Later, I grab a plum out of the kitchen and eat it. ''Oh. I hope you washed that.'' she says. ''Of course I did Grandma. Sure I did.'' She sighs. Some things never change.

Home is Grandma. As a kid growing up in Germany, I couldn't wait to spend the summers with her in Connecticut. It was a magical place. She and Grandpa lived in a sprawling two-story colonial with rose bushes out front and a couple of wild acres out back behind the in-ground pool. There were treasures in the attic and mysteries in the basement. It was the house of my dreams.

It almost broke my heart, and hers too, when she and Grandpa moved to Florida when I was fourteen. How could she leave that house? It was weird to visit her in a two-bedroom bungalow, where everything was new and had its proper place.

Twenty-five years later this is still the new house to me. But it's no longer strange. This is where I find Grandma. This is where I call home.

''Here I am, Grandma.'' Here, I am.

Friendly

I gotta be honest here; coming back from Florida SUCKED. I had two weeks with Grandma, in my own bed, in my own room, with Grandma's caretaker (Jenny!) making meals for us. I ran on the beach. I went to a nature reserve with Uncle Doug. (And a gun shop - but that's another essay!) I went shopping with Aunt Joan. (I really love Walmart and Bells.) I went sailing with Ray and Patty. And I got to sail. I bought a Netbook and figured it out myself. I wrote. Or not. Whatever I wanted, when I wanted.

Oh yeah - there was also the sun (although it was cool, it was still sunny and nothing compared to winter in Germany.), the beach, the wildlife, the nature, and all of the friendly Americans. I'd forgotten about that. Do they ever stop smiling or asking you how you are? Where you are from, what you are doing here, and the rest of your life story as if they really care about you? What about all those polite people in the stores helping you out with a smile, anticipating your needs, acting as if they really wanted to be there, with you, helping you shop? And everyone holding open doors for eachother? And looking eachother in the eyes? Direct eye contact and friendliness. Really really nice.

So that I was less than thrilled to have to come back to reality.

I'm making a point to notice the friendliness over here too. Okay, it is definitely more isolated, certainly NOT a cultural phenomenon, but it exists and we need to notice it exists so that we can nurture that small spark into a larger flame.

One interesting thing is that Germans are friendlier in America than they are here. So that not noticing that other people exist around you is not a genetic deficiency inherent to those of German descent. (And, let's face it, a large part of Americans are of German descent.) America's friendliness infects them too. I not only had eye contact and conversation with a German man in his thirties at the departure terminal in Atlanta, he kept it up well into the flight, his sparkling blue eyes glancing a few rows back at me every few minutes to confirm that the two of us did, indeed, both have an entire row to ourselves. He just kept winking and smiling.

I also helped an elderly German woman who had been visiting her friend in Florida for a month. And heard all about her grandkids and her home in Munich.

Then there's the older gentleman who I passed as he was coming out to get his morning paper. HE greeted ME and then commented on the chilliness of the weather. (For those who don't know; this is how strangers pass eachother in America; it's hard for us NOT to make a connection with someone.) When I replied that this was nothing compared to Germany he delightedly replied that he was German too. Then proceeded to tell me about his first business in Canada, a relocation to California and how his daughter now lives on the neighboring island with her two kids, ages 2 and 4. Within thirty seconds.

Okay, this last guy wasn't German anymore; that's what you call an American who was born in Germany.

Or Michael at the DAZ, who I called up today for some brief information and who I ended chatting with for ten minutes. He spent three years at Cornell, most recently three years in El Paso Texas, has worked as a journalist, has two children and was most impressed that I had a "real" job as a veterinarian, even thought I am currently not practicing. What a nice guy. German. Although obviously an odd one! (Which is obviously meant as a compliment!)

It's not easy here. It is cold and it is gray and everyone is huddled up in their own misery.

But not everyone. The check-out ladies at Real in Stern Center are mostly really nice. And that guy I literally almost ran into coming through the door - we were in hysterics together.

Okay - he wasn't German. And the checkout ladies might not be either. But Michael is. And the little old lady from Munich. And my winking guy on the airplane.

But it really shouldn't matter. Nice people come in all sexes, shapes, sizes, colors, religions and nationalities.

We aren't going to notice them unless we look.