Pancake Dreams

“To dream of eating pancakes, denotes that you will have excellent success in all enterprises undertaken at this time.”

That sounds good.  Overly broad perhaps, but encouraging. 

These are the gluten-free-maple-bacon-pancakes I *would have* made in my dream.

I had to look it up because two nights ago I had a dream about pancakes.  More like a nightmare really.  I wasn’t eating pancakes.  I was trying to make pancakes.  For lots of hungry people.   Every burner in use, every dish in play, and yet unable to produce a single pancake.  It was incredibly stressful and vivid.  And it had never happened on U.S. sheets.  I googled further.

“Making and/or serving pancakes in a dream forecasts an exciting and gratifying increase in social activity. Eating them signifies success in your current undertakings.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah – but what about my dream – the one where I couldn’t get pancake to table.  The one where people like my son and Michelle Obama asked, “I thought this was supposed to be a pancake breakfast?” Apparently this was not a common dream sequence, so I wonder if:

I’ve read “Curious George Makes Pancakes” a few too many times.  Or I’m wishing I had a second pair of hands like George.

I’ve overly complicated pancakes.  Sometimes just adding water is all you need.

The whole world is becoming gluten intolerant, so save the sappy golden goodness of maple syrup for steel cut oats.

Would I have been successful had I had bangs? 

Come on Kate – pancakes are so much easier than crepes or waffles!  Although I was reassured to read that:  

“To dream of eating a waffle indicates that you need to come down from your lofty ideals and approach life from a more pragmatic perspective.” 

Or, as another website offered:

“If the pancakes were made of buckwheat, the augury is of a calm life with slow but steady progress.”

I don’t know if they were made with buckwheat, but I have bought buckwheat in the past and flour was all over my kitchen floor.  Slow and steady progress.  I’ll stick with that.  I can’t figure out everything I need to know, or do, all at once.  I’m not expected to throw a brunch just yet.  I’m getting to know a new place, and a new way of doing things.  And so today, I will walk with my camera and see what I can see – stop for a coffee, say something in French out loud, and buy some croissants for tomorrow’s breakfast.

Owie

We don’t have girls, so we don’t have much “drama”.  Until there’s an injury, and then Lawton can make you believe the sky is falling, the seas are rising and he’s seen a vision of bad Santa. (For those that know Lawton, remember the “swallowing issue”.)  Our first week here, Lawton sustained one of those epic injuries.  Dumb Daddy cut his thumb nail too short.  Trace amounts of blood were taken, a Band-Aid was administered, and Lawton’s hand became immobilized for 36 hours. Bum thumb = no use of left arm.  Not even on the iPad.   We tried to talk about it casually, but repeatedly got the injured hand in our face.   And so we let it go – to “heal” in it’s own sweet time.

As I watched Lawton deal with his phantom injury, it made me wonder if maybe I was doing some of that too.  Everyone knows that moving is one of life’s biggest stresses – even more so when that move is to a foreign country.  I’ve given myself a long rope of grace with this move, but wondered if I too was nursing some of my own unjustified anxieties.  It’s natural to be anxious about new things, but anxieties can render you paralyzed the more you talk about it and the longer you wait on it.

My bum thumb for the first week(s) here was driving.  I was a wreck.  I’m not even a good driver in the US.  But in the US, there are wide roads, few one-way streets, and signs I can read.   Here, there are at least two dozen signs at every intersection.  Every potential point of interest is accounted for.  Each lane has it’s own signs.  Regular lanes turn into bus lanes that then turn into bike lanes that then turn into you’re-screwed-lanes.  Traffic lights are not ubiquitously overhead.   Parallel parking is the ONLY parking.   Luxembourg City is perched high on cliffs that drop into narrow river valleys – and there are only two (hidden) ways down.   Traffic yields to the right – even when you are barreling down a street at lots of km/h.  (I still haven’t worked out the math in my head.) But when there’s a yield sign with a X in it – it means that priority is no longer on the right – so do what finally feels natural. 

There was a lot to be anxious about, but I was anxious as a passenger.  Every time Brett drove, I tried to imagine me navigating the same roads.  I would ask clarifying questions about directions and was always off by 90-180 degrees.  Brett drove with confidence (as all men do), and then accidentally find himself in the bus lane.  And Dumb Daddy thought I could do this!

Finally on our ninth day here, I ripped the band-aid off.  I got behind the wheel the morning of New Year’s Day.  While people were home nursing hang overs, I took to the empty streets.  With “Betty” (our GPS system) as my companion, I found my way to the kid’s school.  Ahh.  I was a mother that could get my children to school.  I made it home and parallel parked in front of my building.  Happy with my inaugural effort, Betty coaxed me into doing more.  So we headed for the empty mall and I visualized parking in a sea of cars with pedestrian walkways and way too many no entry signs.  I did it.  There were no accidental detours onto bus lanes or motorways, and my yielding to imaginary cars was par excellent.  It really wasn’t near as hard as I thought (and you all knew) it would be.  But often, we just need to take the first step to get over our proverbial bump in the road.  And I had done it on New Year’s Day.

I have been mostly over the driving angst since then – I even pass trucks on the motorway going 140 k/ph! – and I love me some roundabouts.  I still wait a few seconds too long on the yields and hold my breath on the parking garages, but basically I’m finding my way around.  But, I was almost undone again when I got an email from my landlord two days ago.

It turns out, there ARE cameras in the parking garage.  He asked me if I was parking in space #16 because that is not our space (I knew that) and could I please park in space #32 (our assigned space, which I also knew.)  That would be possible if not for the permanent car in space #31 and the pole on the other side of space #32.  And I reasoned, I have never seen a car in space #16, or #15, or #14, or #13 – basically the whole other freakin side of the garage.  Instead, we are all bunched together around this very dangerous pole.  I emailed him back to a) confess, b) say sorry, and c) ask for another parking space.  He didn’t respond right away, so I did the next best thing.  I got in my car, took a deep breath, and attempted to back into space #32.  (It should be noted that though Betty is excellent in many ways, she does not have a rear view camera.)  Putting aside my past encounters with poles, parked cars, and medians – I decided that if I could back into this space, I would easily be able to get out this space.  Slowly, carefully in reverse I went.  Yes!   I landed in the lines and without side swiping the car-that-does-not-move or the pole.  And then I did it again – faster (but not too fast.)   And then I emailed my landlord back and told him that space #32 was just fine.

Lawton’s hand is fully functional again now too.  Although, we had a bit of a setback yesterday with some frost nip accompanied by visions of Frosty chasing him down a fiery pit.   It took only about twenty minutes this time to thaw his hands (and stop the drama) – at which time I noticed that his nails were crazy long. But then I thought mischievously, Dumb Daddy is home tomorrow.  I’ll tell him I’ll park the car while he takes over grooming duties.

There will be good days and there will be today...

(written by Brett)

I got on a bus at 6:20 AM that changed its number mid-way thru the route.  Started as the #3, then voila, the #4.

Nonstop, energy-arms, Lawton laid on the couch (no, wait, futon, the couch isn’t here yet) for 30 minutes motionless saying “I want to go home.”

Kate got accused of shoplifting.  Bread.  In Luxembourg, the second wealthiest country in the world – with the lowest crime rate.

You need to buy two cases of toilet paper to get the special price.  You get a loud scolding in Luxembourgish if you don’t. 

Luxembourgish sounds like German, until it doesn’t.

“Just take anything going in that direction” doesn’t apply to trains in Germany. 

There’s a reason the express costs more. 

I missed a train in Koblenz and got on two locals returning from Bonn.  So really that’s a large chunk of central Germany on the “the local.”

Who knew there were so many towns along the Rhine.  And Mosel.

Informed that our rent wasn’t paid.  Strange.  We paid it on January 1. 

Learned there was a typo in the routing info.

Worried that we sent A LOT of Euros to some random person and they’d now had it for 13 days.

No wait, there actually wasn’t a typo.  Landlord helpfully says “either one will work” – or the French equivalent.

Learned that the nice confirmation forms the bank sends you for each transaction only arrive via Post when they DON’T go thru.

“Transaction” means transaction. “a echoue” means failed.

“Compte bloque’”means account blocked.

$%&&#@! means why is my account blocked.

Android phones don’t roam like iPhones.

There’s a reason I’d never heard of Tango Wireless.

Keeping your US cell phone number is a security blanket.  Made of gold.

Has never been so happy to see the green mermaid.  Except maybe in Mannheim two weeks ago.

Wondered if 20 years from now, Americans in Europe will disdain Starbucks like I now loathe a McDonalds in the Hauptbanhof.

Learned to dread 4 PM.  (Ask anyone who works for a west coast-based company working in Europe).

     Remembered that tomorrow will be another day.          

Happy Birthday Quinn

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Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Messieur.
Messieur who?
Miss your face.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Croissant?
Croissant who?
No, croissant with the accent.
Crossiant with the accent who?
Oui could sing you Happy Birthday but sortie thought this was more fun.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Chocolat.
Chocolat who?
Bon! Bon!
Knock, knock.
I’m NON home.
C’est bien that way.
(Pause)
KNOCK, KNOCK. I can s’il vous plait you.
Do you have a chocolat croissant?
Oui, oui.
Please not at my front door.
J’adore you Quinn and miss you on your 15th birthday!