A post about snow and sub-zero temperatures.

I returned home to Germany in the middle of a cold front. -10C in the morning, -20C at night. They said it was the coldest it had ever dropped in eighteen years, and the girl from Hawaii was there to feel it all.

The next day, it started to snow. It snowed all night and the morning thereafter, which is a sight that always brings a peace to my soul. You couldn't pull me away from the window at times like those.

The trees dropped their leaves and grew crystals in their places, like perfect science experiments that involve sugar and jars and water and solid crystal formations that you can eat. When the sun came up, the world sparkled and I felt new.

The fields, as vast as usual, were were suffocated in white. They stretched out until they reached the sun and when it didn't look like a desert, it looked like the sea. "I've never seen anything like it before," I whispered upon windows, the secret of my ignorance puffed across its pane. I wiped my sleeve across it.

It was important that we took advantage of the snow. It was everywhere and it lasted for days, piling up against curbs and compacting beneath feet. We grabbed our sleds and went to the lake.

There are few things that terrify me, and it wasn't until I moved to Germany that I realized that walking on lakes was one of them. Winter, in fact, scares me in the same way that fresh water does. My only explanation is that I was raised on an island that has an over-abundant supply of salt water and a yearly average of 72.2 degrees F (23.3 degrees C). In every regard, I am not in my element.

So when The Parents ran out onto the lake with The Kids on sleds trailing behind, you could bet that the little Asian girl you saw creeping at an awkward angle away from the shore was me. I didn't confess the extent of my terror until the afternoon when we were indoors and warm, sipping hot chocolate. It's not likely that I'll do it again.

It took about a half hour for me to resume walking like my homies, the homoerectus, but after that it was more like a rollercoaster ride; thrilling, but only because my brain expected me to die.

Exiting the lake was an absolute nightmare as the ice before the dock was melted. We're talking bonafide slush to the point where my feet sank and my body rejected all commands of movement. In fact, my brain did not even grant me the gift of watching my life flash before my eyes, which is source of deep and continual resentment. Eventually, The Parents ordered me to continue walking or I would literally sink and be doomed to never write another post again. After passionately kissing dry land, I noticed a plethora of paper printouts that read, "Aufenthalt vor dem See," or "Stay off the lake."

The following day, we replaced sleds with ice skates and headed to the local ice skating arena. The five of us were a sight. The Mom had never been on ice skates, The Dad hadn't been skating in twenty years, and the meek au pair who grew up on a tropical island was strangely better than either of them. Still, with our powers combined, we took two kids on laps upon 30-minute-long laps. It was slow and messy going, but I relished the blue skies that looked down upon me. I was in the open air, looking at the trees and the sun and gliding along on layers of frozen water.



After a few hours, the kids were exhausted and we took it as an opportunity to transition to our next activity. In a few minutes we were at the door of a log cabin imported from Russia to visit a family friend. What mysteriously unfolded is an event that I like to refer to as, "redneck sledding."

In the backyard of this Russian cabin is a tractor, and mounted to this tractor is a baby seat. Hitched behind the tractor is a wagon, and propped on top the wagon is a bench, and trailing behind the wagon are two ropes that are attached to two sleds which would later carry two five year old boys through he town of Wickberg.

The most ridiculous event by far.

ps. The Russian Cabin is a house of death. I've never seen so much taxidermy in my life.

The frustrations of obtaining German language courses

The day I discovered that I would be moving to Germany was the day that I began researching ways on how to obtain free versions of Rosetta Stone and Pilmsleur (expensive, computer-based and audio programs that help you to learn another language). One of the greatest benefits to living abroad is the gift of total immersion. Language and my ability to learn it would affect the quality of life in that country. In itself, this would encourage me to absorb all that I could, resulting in a hopeful fluency.

So I was rather disappointed to learn that I had arrived in Germany in the middle of the language semester, and would have to wait until the new year for my class to begin. I managed, and time flew by to accommodate my impatience. In January, the plan was to take morning classes in Neuss, a city in which the kids go to school. And yet as great plans go, this one failed. My German class didn't have enough registered students which caused the school to retract the program and refund our fees.

As it happened, there was another school about a thirty minute bus ride away in a town called Erkelenz. The classes would start at 7:30pm and finish at 9, which cuts into the last minutes of dinner, but was still something we could accommodate. I showed up on the first day of class and left feeling gigantically defeated. I was sitting in with students who had already taken four semesters of German studies. My peers were fluent and I was in the wrong class.

Thankfully there existed a beginning level which would start at 6pm. This meant that I would be missing out on dinner entirely as well as part of the play time that I had with my kids. There couldn’t have been a more inconvenient time slot, but it was all that was left and we were out of ideas. Under the Au Pair visa, German law states that it is mandatory for the Au Pair to enroll in a German language class. We really did have no other choice.

So, I abandoned my kids at 5:20 and paid €2.90 for bus fare each way, listened to an hour and a half of German and walked away feeling ridiculous. Not only was I the farthest behind (I had to join the second semester class) but I was learning my German with a Russian accent. I think you can guess where my teacher was from.

It was irony who decided that as soon as we got things settled, we'd get the news that I'd have to leave. I dropped out of language school.

Video Postcards for Mom and Dad

This is a video assemblage of my winter travels in ode and thanks to my family.

I'd also like to thank the dozens of new friends and strangers who indulged my peculiar requests and consented to be uploaded onto YouTube. You made this trip (and this video) more important and memorable to me than we ever realized at the time.

(Don't forget to watch in high quality!)

If you can't view the video, click here!

The Shift

The sad news of the day is written within this post. Though daunting and sudden, we are all trying to be optimistic and supportive towards everyone's losses. Indeed, we all have lost something.

I am moving. Not now, not tomorrow, but soon. It's as unexpected as it is shocking, and our hearts are all the more broken for it. The news was delivered to us on Wednesday. I was in the kitchen eating raisins, waiting for The Mom to return home with the gift of promised pizza. The garage went up, her car pulled in, she opened the door and said, "Nicole, we have to talk."

The truth is that the economic crisis in the US has managed to indirectly affect me here in Germany. The Mom's sister lost her job last week, leaving her with no alternative to pay for her Manhattan apartment. With no one to work for and no other family to take her in, The Mom's sister phoned Wassenberg and asked for refuge.

When it comes to family, nothing else comes first. In essence, I've simply been displaced.

I cried. Not because I, too, was losing my job, but because I was leaving my family. Hong, my backbone; Kate, my best friend; Vincent and Gracie, the two souls that taught me patience and encouraged me to love. Just yesterday I was walking down the stairs thinking, "this is my home." I am leaving that as well.

But faith has never left, and when everything in front of me falls away, something larger comes into view from the debris. New experiences, valuable lessons, chances to grow in different directions. I am adopting a new setting, that's all. Chin up, heart strong, breath deeply.

Nix is moving again, and she's aiming for Italy

Kicking off Ireland

December 30, 2008

They wanted to know what I had written in my notebook. Oh, that little black book had become more valuable to me than gold, sitting in my back pocket while holding my secrets of the past two weeks. Every question I had, every song I heard, every new thing that I had learned was kept filed away in its pages. Snug, compacted, loved, protected.

I looked up and Devlin's family was staring back expectantly. There were so many faces that I didn't recognize yet, and the kitchen seemed to close in on me. It was halfway through my first day in Ireland and I had scribbled incessantly within the pages of my moleskin. Now it was time to share the things that I had mindlessly jotted down. "Alright," I said, and flipped the cover open. Devlin was already smiling.

"Guinness before breakfast," I started. They laughed. It was the first thing we did when we got into Dublin: We found a pub and suckled on the lifeblood of Ireland. "With a splash of blackberry currant," I added, as it was the miracle additive that turned Guinness, that heavy midnight beer, into the juice of gods. The ladies smiled.

"Trinity College and then an Irish breakfast on O' Connells Street." I saw chops licking and mouths salivating at the mention of it. Toast, eggs, bangers, tomato, black pudding, white sausage, baked beans and tea. What a meal, I remembered it clearly, and that lingering feeling of lethargy and laziness and yet, immense and total satisfaction.

"Go on," someone said, pulling my attention from memories of food to the next bullet point. "A pint of Guinness at Toners." That would mean I had breakfast sandwiched in between two pints. I already felt at one with Ireland. "And then a walk over the Ha'Penny Bridge and a stroll through St. Stephen's Greens." We were only accomplishing so much because we had met up with one of Devlin's friends, Mark, who was a native Dubliner. He pulled out the stops to show a new girl around, and we efficiently traversed between one landmark to another, usually with a beer in between.

"We had an Irish coffee in Bewley's." Bewley's on Grafton Street is a Dublin landmark, known for being not only the longest established cafe in Ireland, but one of the biggest as well. "And then another pint of Guinness in Temple Bar." That would be the fourth drink of the day, not to be confused with night. Laughter. Rapid Irish/English was throw around the kitchen, and jokes were made about me being tossed right into the midst of Irish culture. I blushed.

Although it was dinner by the time Devlin and I had arrived in Arklow, and despite feeling as if I had already lived a full day, we were hardly halfway through. I would have been awake for a full 24 hours before I fell asleep, but I had no idea such events were in store. So, when invited to go out for yet another pint in a small town pub, I willingly agreed and was swept away into the inner workings of an equally small town lifestyle.

Although we left the kitchen community, we were happily joined by Alan and Carol, Devlin's cousin and girlfriend respectively. I ordered a bottle of Bulmers Cider to mix things up, and secretly nursed on it for a few hours. I had a foreboding fear of the intensity in which the Irish were presumed to drink, and I was determined to stay above it.

The pub was small and mostly empty, probably because new years eve was the following day and the citizens of Arklow were on reserve. As one would expect in a small town, each person knew the other in an intimate way and I was sticking out like a sore thumb on a crustacean. At one point, when all my comrades were out for a smoke, a man stumbled by and stopped at my empty table. He stared at me in a way where I knew he was trying to figure out just what made the scene before him so unfamiliar. New curtains? Different chairs? Better lighting? As soon as he realized that it was me who was the surprise new addition, he cracked a large drunken smile, pointed in my direction and said, "Woaaaaahhhh!" I blinked and looked around and then back at the man who was gawking at me. Except, he was done, arm down and stumbling away. Devlin came back and I was still trying to figure out what had just happened.

Soon we were joined by John, Devlin's uncle, who took my hand and kissed it upon his arrival. I looked around for answers to his behavior, but everyone was simply looking up and smiling. I didn't get it then, but it was just a show of Irish humor. I sat down perplexed, sipping away at my drink and straining to understand what everyone was saying.

At one point, after everyone had a few beers, Devlin caught on to the fact that I was only half way done with my cider. As soon as this was announced, I knew I was in trouble. It took about sixty seconds for a shot of Baby Guinness to appear before my face, John grinning and Devlin looking satisfied. Suddenly, everyone began singing Happy Birthday. For the third time that night, I looked around for answers to the absurd behavior that surrounded me. It wasn't my birthday. Not knowing what else to do, I took the shot and the table cheered.

It's funny what a little bit of alcohol can do to a persons outlook. I went from being the only sober person within a two mile radius to the happiest girl on the block. I even began to understand the Irish chatter that a half hour before was entirely nonsensical. My innocent mistake was that I announced this, and with great amusement, I was brought out another Baby Guinness. Suddenly, not only my friends were singing Happy Birthday, but the entire pub as well. Two shots in thirty minutes and a total of three merry unbirthdays to me. What was going on?

By this time, it was well known that I was the new kid in town and everyone was sauced enough to openly inquire where from. My meek, "Hawaii," was always responded with a drunken, "HAWAII 5 O!!!" Which was followed by pantomimed surfing that would last until they stumbled, fell, crashed or just forgot what they were doing in the first place. It was around this time that I learned the commonly used word, "Craic," or the Gaelic equivalent to having a good time.

Eventually, the old drunk guy who had pointed at me earlier stumbled by and introduced himself. Carol said he was a great poet, and he took that as an invitation to swoon me. The poet-god pulled up a chair and steadied his gaze, staring me in the eyes. The table grew quiet and he recited:

"Allow my eyes to close

and leave my dreams untouched

to cradle my tomorrow

and for the moment that is now.

I think I've crossed the Rubicon

as there are few moments in any given day

that I don't catch a fleeting glimpse
of you passing my minds eye.
You may have sown the seeds
of all that you will ever wish to reap
within the gardens of my heart."

And with applause and pub-wide cheer, he got up and walked away. Joe, the poet-god, the gawker, the drunk, just created a poem for me. I looked up at Devlin and I began to think that that mischievous smile hadn't left his face the whole day.

Inspired by this spontaneous bout of poetry and fueled by the rumor of me being an avid writer, John came over and asked me to create something. Intimidated by the natural talent around me, I declined while he insisted. "What do you see around you, right now?" He asked, and my heart panicked at the thought of instant literature. "Family!" I shouted, as it was the first thing that came to mind. "Good," he said, "I want three lines when I come back from my smoke." I don't do quick poetry, in fact, I don't do poetry. As much as I wanted to ignore this game, I also felt like I would be missing out on something larger if I didn't at least attempt to humor him. Understanding that participating was part of my experience, I scribbled the following onto a clean page in my notebook, "Family. Small town living, it's like nothing I've ever experienced. I've seen cathedrals and distinguished monuments, stood in places of great historical events, and yet none of that compares to the feeling of instant family." John came back as I doodled in the final period. He held out his hand, I ripped out the page, and he put it in his pocket. The anxiety of having my thoughts scrutinized in front of me was eliminated, and I felt instantly glad that he had such honest words hidden away in a place he'll soon forget. I imagined him stumbling upon it in the morning, sober and residually fuzzy, and it would make him smile or laugh or gag, and that would be that.

The juke box swept itself into my head, putting forth incredible songs that eased my tension and caused the pub to sing along. John, a renowned singer and musician in his own right, was even having his songs played back over the speakers. Confused, yet again, I leaned over to Alan and asked, "is he famous?" He laughed out loud. No one takes me seriously.

Eventually, as all good times go, it was time to leave. The pub was closing and the barman was coaxing us out. The atmosphere had changed into something more unified, and the table that was once occupied by four had become an island that housed many. The juke box was unplugged, but John and the rest sang songs with no bass line or drums or steady rhythm. It was the sound of soulful, Irish song in the heart of an empty Irish pub. This would later be described to me as a session in the midst of a lock in. I was told later that I wouldn't have had this experience were I not in a small town as a friend of a local family. I felt a surge of gratitude for such a personal and once in a lifetime experience.

After an hour or two of singing and drinking past closing, it really was time to go. Devlin, Alan, Carol and I drank what was left of our pints and walked home. Here, we drank yet some more, listening to music and lounging on couches. At one point, near 4am, Carol walked in with four cups filled with a swallow of something that visually resembled vodka. "Don't smell it, just drink it," Alan said, and after a slurred "Slàinte," (Gaelic for "Cheers") we drank something known as Poitín, a traditional Irish spirit that is among the strongest alcoholic beverages in the world. Had I known what I was drinking at the time, I would have found an excuse to evade the poisoning of my liver. And yet, I imbibed and survived to tell the story of Irish Moonshine. Let's just say we all fell asleep shortly after and didn't wake up till noon.

My first day in Ireland would set the tone for the rest of my stay, drinking for lunch until breakfast and sleeping whatever time in between. Guinness, more Guinness and a lifetime of inebriation.

Torchlight Procession

The Torchlight Procession kicks off the New Years festivities (called Hogmanay) in Edinburgh, Scotland. I managed to catch this opening act and my heart will forever be fulfilled by the experience of it.

Celebration, community, extravagance, beauty; it was the most spectacular thing I had seen during my holiday travels. I remember feeling so moved by it all, by the over-abundance of people and their unspoken synchronicity, by the fire that blazed through the streets and the hills that it set aflame. It was the largest procession Edinburgh has ever seen, and I walked as part of it.

Not knowing what to expect or how things would turn out, I made recordings throughout the night to help depict the grandeur of what unfolded before me. Although this video will do it no justice, I hope that it can at least put the desire in your heart to see it for yourself.

Thoughts on Edinburgh, Scotland

Imagine the following: You get off an early morning flight to jump on a bus into a city you have never heard of in a country you have never been. Although you have a friend by your side, you are glued to the window as you would be in any new place. Transfixed by the green of the grass, you stare out wistfully, wanting only to be surrounded by authentic Scottish air versus alloyed Scottish steel. Then, as the bus rounds the corner, something greater, more magnificent than emerald dirt catches your eye.

There's a hill that rises majestically from the center of the city, and atop this mound is the most commanding castle you have ever seen. It sits above every building and rooftop, making use of its position of infinite surveillance. It steals your breath.

Then, before you have a chance to inhale, you see a gothic city skyline made of stone. The buildings jut up into the sky from the floor of an empty loch, reaching up like urban crags.

Welcome, friends, to Edinburgh, Scotland.

December 23, 2008
I woke up at 4:30 in the morning to the sound of London hustling by outside my window. Scotland, I remembered, I was going to Scotland.

Officially 23 and just short of hung over, I floated from England to Edinburgh in a daze. Here I found Ben, an old friend who had long ago shoved my NIX Welcome to Scotland sign into his jacket pocket. It seems I maintain my tropical island pace no matter where I am in the world.

We went to his place where I dropped off my tumor of a backpack and settled in to watch an episode of Top Gear - like, the best British show in the world. Do I like cars? No. Will I ever? No. Can I watch a show comprised of a silly men, vehicles and insane challenges? Yes. On with the show.

When that was done, we headed off into town where I got acquainted with The Royal Mile. The Royal Mile is just longer than an actual mile by 107 yards, starting at the gates of Holyrood Palace and ending at the stone walls of Edinburgh Castle. The Royal Mile is lined with shops and museums, churches, courtyards and breweries, and provides the perfect environment for a leisurely stroll.

We walked up to Edinburgh Castle and though cold as it was, I stood there for as long as possible. I was in the presence of gradure and power and history, and all I could do was take a photo.

Still in awe, we walked down a side street to Frankensteins - a Frankenstein themed church-turned-pub with the pulpit as the DJ station. I couldn't believe such a place existed. Eccentric and yet full of a soul that wasn't pretentious. I was already falling in love with Edinburgh.

Following a pint of Bulmers cider, Ben and I headed next door to the Elephant House, a place that prides itself for being the birthplace of the infamous Harry Potter. Indeed, it was in this cafe that JK Rowling sat by a bookshelf writing The Sorcerer's Stone and The Chamber of Secrets. Newly divorced and unbelievably poor, Rowling calculated that it was cheaper to sit in The Elephant House with a cup of coffee than it was to heat her apartment (ironically, she is now more wealthy that the literal Queen of England). It was here, next to JK Rowlings table, that I ordered my first meal in Scotland.

December 24, 2008
Christmas Eve on my second day in Edinburgh. What better activity to do than a free walking tour of the city? We hit main sights such as St. Giles' Cathedral, The Heart of Midlothian (the dirtiest spot in all of Edinburgh as all Scots spit on it as they walk past), Greyfriars Kirkyard (graveyard), Grassmarket, and the inspiration for 'Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.'

Along with these sights, we heard stories that I wasn't expecting to hear. Turns out that there was a real citizen of Edinburgh who's life story inspired the creation of the infamous Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde!

After the tour, Ben and I roamed the Scottish version of the German Christmas Market, and then wandered over to The Standing Order for a few pints and a basket of curry chips (french fries with curry on top). The beer was amazing, the chips a little less so.

December 25, 2008
Merry Christmas from Scotland! It would be my first Christmas away from home and though I missed my family, I was also very excited to be spending it abroad. Ben and I got ready and headed over to Tim and Rebekah's house (two of Ben's friends) where there was a grand Christmas feast waiting. I was absolutely delighted to be invited, considering that I really did appear out of no where. Through their generosity, the spirit of Christmas ebbed on.

The meal was absolutely fabulous with the desert a perfect finish. We then settled down to watch The Queen on TV. And I mean, The Queen. Apparently, The Queen always makes a short speech on Christmas that gets broadcast over the airwaves. It was cute!

By the time we returned home, I was stuffed and exhausted, the nights wine and festivities encouraging me to slumber. I said my Christmas prayers and didn't wake up till noon.

December 26, 2008
Boxing Day. I have never participated in Boxing Day, or been aware of it for that matter, until this trip to Scotland. Boxing Day is also known as the "Day of Goodwill," which is based off the tradition of giving gifts to the less fortunate (ie. your service workers). Of course, being the consumers that we are, Boxing Day has evolved into a shopping holiday in which we spurge on post-Christmas sales. Go figure.

Instead of buying into consumerism, Tim played the bagpipes for me and gave both Ben and I a miniature (and dare I say, failed) lesson. Come on, you didn't think I was going to leave Scotland without playing around with their defining instrument, now did you? And you got to admit, it kind of looks like I know what I'm doing.

We then proceeded to climb up Authors Seat - an extinct volcano sitting on the edge of the city. The trek wasn't as gruesome as one might imagine a volcanic hike to be, and in fact, it was rather pleasant. The entire walk up took about half an hour, and once on top, the sweat was instantly worth it. There, before my eyes, was a panoramic and breathtaking view of Edinburgh.

Up here, above it all, we flew kites and had a picnic until our appendages begged for warmth. Glad for a reason to imbibe, we headed down to the nearest pub and had a pint. The rest of the night was spent curled up on a couch, watching Top Gear. :)

December 27, 2008
It was a beautiful day, again, for it seems God likes to grant these moments of spacial purity simply because he knows it makes me happy. I try my hardest to take advantage of his generosity.

So, it was a day out alone in the city for me, wandering around in the way that I do, discovering how this road is actually and mysteriously also connected to that road. Surprise.

I walked the Royal mile again, people watching and sight seeing, enjoying the fleeting feeling of sun against skin. I allowed myself to indulge in street performers and tourists shops, cafes and monuments. Eventually, I wandered around to the National Museum of Scotland (where entrance is free), and spent the rest of my day learning about Scottish history.

December 28, 2008
Ben took me on a brief walking tour of Leith, the port of Edinburgh that has had a reputation for inspiring such works of fiction as Trainspotting - a movie with an ongoing theme of heroin addiction and drug escapades. Ironically, Leith took on a whole new appeal for me after I found this out, being that Trainspotting had actually turned out to be a fairly good film (starring Ewan McGregor and his penis, if I remember correctly).

Of course, Leith isn't the same as it was back in 1996, so our morning walk was done safely and soudly. The harbor was gentle and the bridges serene, the boats were in their docks and the sea gulls were annoying as usual. Eventually, Ben and I entered Cameo Bar to have a light brunch by Scottish standards (which wasn't light at all).

Upon returning home, we played a heated game of Monopoly with Ben's friend, Silje, who had just flown in from Norway the night before. I will only fight to the death while playing RISK (the game of world domination) and so I gladly handed what was left of my winnings to the losing player (Silje) and resigned myself to my book.

December 29, 2008
This would be my last night in Edinburgh, and I refused to let it go without a fight. Silje, Ben and I ate haggis for lunch, which was a better dish than expected, and headed home to prepare for the nights activities.

Although Ben and Silje would be going over to Tim and Rebekah's house for another Christmas dinner, I would be heading into the city to participate in Edinburgh's torchlight procession. December 29th is the start of Hogmanay (the Scots word for the last day of the year), a festival that celebrates the coming of a new year. Little did I know when I planned my trip, but Edinburgh is host to some of the largest new years celebrations around. You want to watch a ball drop in New York City? I'd rather watch a hilltop in Scotland blaze.

The Torchlight Procession was the most amazing experience of my trip, an unexpected event that moved me to tears from the extravagance and beauty of it all. So incredible was this night that it deserves it's own post. Fear not, it won't take me another two weeks to update, but the footage I have will be well worth the wait.

When the procession ended, I dragged my feet home knowing that my time in Scotland was coming to an end. The city itself had helped to feed my imagination. History and preservation, culture and ambiance, all the things that I have never seen captivated in one place before. Though I flew off to Ireland early the next morning, I new that between then and the rest of my life, Edinburgh and I would meet again. It's one of those places, those few few places that captures your heart and begs you to return.