I realize I haven’t written anything on this page for some time now. Perfectly okay, because I have lived half a lifetime in between them. There was a vacation in the Bavarian Alps with twelve of my wife’s family visiting. That went swell, all things considered. It’s hard not to like the region. Our vacation house was nestled between the mountains and the river, south of Lenggries, 5 km from the Austrian border. That made for a good run in the morning. Every morning I could go home and, with people still waking up, proclaim, “I just ran to Austria”. Of course nobody likes a boastful twit.
That said, it was a great stay. We had everybody stay at a vacation house, a former customs border station rarely visited. We could have packed as many as thirty in there. I wish we had. It turns out the landlord had refurbished the old jailhouse, so that the visitor found two more beds, if needed, behind iron bars. Too bad we never used it.
We took in familiar sites, took the train to Munich at least three times. We visited Dachau, which had quite an effect on our visitors. Germans are more familiar with it by now. Though not done mourning, the younger generations in Germany don’t and can’t cry over it anymore. Fair enough. My grandfather fought on the German side in the second World War, and you can’t help but feel a little rotten about the fortune you inherited, of being born in 1969. No draft now, no full scale wars that cripple entire continents. What has my generation ever had to worry about?
Neuschwanstein, or Disneyland, as I like to call it, came last. Again, I have seen it, but you have to marvel at so many people visiting it and their ensuing reactions to it. It makes you appreciate it even more.
Germany, beautiful though it may be, was secondary. Spartanburg, South Carolina was next, where my son Bash was born. This has nothing to do with world chumpiness - it occupies an entirely separate world of its own. First things first. I had to fly back to Kathmandu after Germany for six more weeks while Liebi left for the States, son in tow (both sons really). I left Kathmandu two weeks before the due date. From Kathmandu I went to Doha, back to Munich, finally on to Washington. Two days wasted on a plane, although the splendor Qatar Air more than made up for it.
Liebi herself was due to give birth, that was apparent when we finally met at the airport in Greenville. We would have the baby induced. On the date we chose, we went to the hospital, Liebi quite normal and eating breakfast and chatty. We checked in and the baby was there in less than an hour. Chalk one up for science. I am sure that people fondly remember going into labor, heavy gasps and all, but that wouldn’t be us. Liebi was tucked into bed, pumped full of dope, and rolled off. I was never nervous before that, not at any time during the pregnancy. We had done this before, so we both felt more confident. I became nervous, though. I had just put on my outfit that made me look like a two bit Halloween doctor at best, hood and cheap plastic blues included. I went to get me a cup of hot tea at the cafeteria and waited.
Finally a nurse called me into the delivery room. These guys were as cool as cucumbers. I later heard they had delivered five babies that day, so this was all in a day’s work. From the speakers came Michael Jackson music. The tune was ‘Beat It’. Jacko had just died a few months ago. The surgeons cut and carved some more. The baby popped out during ’Smooth Criminal’. Wow. Little thing, not as big as we thought, not even eight pounds. Poor kid was tall but skinny. Our first son was a bear, this one positively a bird. He looked a lot like his brother. Back in Liebi’s room, the tea was still warm.
Bash was scurried off to the fishbowl, where routine tests are made, measurements are taken, the whole nine. I had to leave the OR. Liebi was probably still getting some good drugs. In the family waiting room I stared at Baby Bash, my arms folded. There’s my child. Can’t believe it. Number two, and from the looks of it our final issue. At first I felt concern for the little guy. His brother yelled like he had been born with rage. This little boy barely emitted a squawk. Of course like me, Baby Bash is also a second son. This will not get him any special privileges, but I feel for him just the same. Easy to fall under the radar when you’re not number one.
It is three months later now. We are safe and sound back in Kathmadu. The attitude a normal person (those not converted) has after a year in the third world when he gets back to the first is the same. As it is here. My wife and I decided we would eat at McDonald’s, Burger King, Taco Bell, Junk Paradise, whatever. At first this seems like the answer to life’s problems, a Big Mac and fries, cholesterol over culture. This is as good as a quality vacation, but no more. Three weeks pass before you get locked back into the routine of things and become a Westerner again. Time to go, then. Kathmandu by now is our home and will be for another year. And Bash? Bash is an angel, the answer to our prayers after the reign of terror created by his brother in Jordan. He sleeps well and smiles like a movie star.
That said, it was a great stay. We had everybody stay at a vacation house, a former customs border station rarely visited. We could have packed as many as thirty in there. I wish we had. It turns out the landlord had refurbished the old jailhouse, so that the visitor found two more beds, if needed, behind iron bars. Too bad we never used it.
We took in familiar sites, took the train to Munich at least three times. We visited Dachau, which had quite an effect on our visitors. Germans are more familiar with it by now. Though not done mourning, the younger generations in Germany don’t and can’t cry over it anymore. Fair enough. My grandfather fought on the German side in the second World War, and you can’t help but feel a little rotten about the fortune you inherited, of being born in 1969. No draft now, no full scale wars that cripple entire continents. What has my generation ever had to worry about?
Neuschwanstein, or Disneyland, as I like to call it, came last. Again, I have seen it, but you have to marvel at so many people visiting it and their ensuing reactions to it. It makes you appreciate it even more.
Germany, beautiful though it may be, was secondary. Spartanburg, South Carolina was next, where my son Bash was born. This has nothing to do with world chumpiness - it occupies an entirely separate world of its own. First things first. I had to fly back to Kathmandu after Germany for six more weeks while Liebi left for the States, son in tow (both sons really). I left Kathmandu two weeks before the due date. From Kathmandu I went to Doha, back to Munich, finally on to Washington. Two days wasted on a plane, although the splendor Qatar Air more than made up for it.
Liebi herself was due to give birth, that was apparent when we finally met at the airport in Greenville. We would have the baby induced. On the date we chose, we went to the hospital, Liebi quite normal and eating breakfast and chatty. We checked in and the baby was there in less than an hour. Chalk one up for science. I am sure that people fondly remember going into labor, heavy gasps and all, but that wouldn’t be us. Liebi was tucked into bed, pumped full of dope, and rolled off. I was never nervous before that, not at any time during the pregnancy. We had done this before, so we both felt more confident. I became nervous, though. I had just put on my outfit that made me look like a two bit Halloween doctor at best, hood and cheap plastic blues included. I went to get me a cup of hot tea at the cafeteria and waited.
Finally a nurse called me into the delivery room. These guys were as cool as cucumbers. I later heard they had delivered five babies that day, so this was all in a day’s work. From the speakers came Michael Jackson music. The tune was ‘Beat It’. Jacko had just died a few months ago. The surgeons cut and carved some more. The baby popped out during ’Smooth Criminal’. Wow. Little thing, not as big as we thought, not even eight pounds. Poor kid was tall but skinny. Our first son was a bear, this one positively a bird. He looked a lot like his brother. Back in Liebi’s room, the tea was still warm.
Bash was scurried off to the fishbowl, where routine tests are made, measurements are taken, the whole nine. I had to leave the OR. Liebi was probably still getting some good drugs. In the family waiting room I stared at Baby Bash, my arms folded. There’s my child. Can’t believe it. Number two, and from the looks of it our final issue. At first I felt concern for the little guy. His brother yelled like he had been born with rage. This little boy barely emitted a squawk. Of course like me, Baby Bash is also a second son. This will not get him any special privileges, but I feel for him just the same. Easy to fall under the radar when you’re not number one.
It is three months later now. We are safe and sound back in Kathmadu. The attitude a normal person (those not converted) has after a year in the third world when he gets back to the first is the same. As it is here. My wife and I decided we would eat at McDonald’s, Burger King, Taco Bell, Junk Paradise, whatever. At first this seems like the answer to life’s problems, a Big Mac and fries, cholesterol over culture. This is as good as a quality vacation, but no more. Three weeks pass before you get locked back into the routine of things and become a Westerner again. Time to go, then. Kathmandu by now is our home and will be for another year. And Bash? Bash is an angel, the answer to our prayers after the reign of terror created by his brother in Jordan. He sleeps well and smiles like a movie star.
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