You could be forgiven for thinking I had run off, since my last blog post, and drowned in a sea of Vegemite toast and back to back episodes of My Kitchen Rules. But you’ll be pleased to know, it’s quite the opposite. Except for the My Kitchen Rules part, which I am not ashamed of. That show is like balm to my soul, as were this year’s Mt Isa contestants Jac and Shaz. Their upward inflection was like a warm Aussie hug, 447 times an episode.
There is no solution for homesickness, including going home. I’ve actually tried that, back in 2012. I abandoned ship, left SG at the helm down in Bayern, and took myself back to Sydney. It was wonderful – except for having my boyfriend on the other side of the world – but, spoiler alert, I came back. I came back because I missed my German, and German life, and the little niche I had carved out for myself over here. So, moral of the story; when you make a bed, you must lie in it.
With no proven cure, one must simply ride out these bouts. Comfort can be found in those also in your boat; it helps to mope around with someone who knows the colour and the weight of the mope, to get it out of your system with another soul whose life story reads ‘and then I wound up in Germany.’ Brisk walks also help, as does wandering into a new part of the city. And wine. Homesickness, like hormonal spells, ebb and flow. The main thing is you know, at some point, the fog clears.
Mother’s Day here is a similar affair to Mother’s Day everywhere. The florists make a killing, the bakery lines are long, the Kuchen flowing. Ours culminated in much the same way most of Kiel’ did – with a stroll down by the water. We didn’t bargain on the annual rubber ducky race having just occurred, nor the final day of the annual Kids Festival. No one loves a festival like the Germans.
Father’s Day, by the way, is a different kettle of fish. It is curiously amalgamated with Ascension Day (Christi Himmelfahrt … Christ’s Sky Drive … gets me every time) which I suppose is rather fitting. One can easily justify celebrating fathers and Jesus driving up to see his, in one fell swoop. However, it must be noted that Father’s Day in Germany also goes by the name Männer Tag/Man’s Day, and this is where it starts to lose me a bit. Tradition dictates that on Father’s Day/Man’s Day/Ascension Day, men gather together and walk around pulling a little cart of alcohol behind them, descending into inebriation with each step. Whether you are a father or not is completely immaterial. So, in summation, the day is essentially a giant celebration of men (Jesus included) and grog. My question is, why can’t Mother’s Day entail gaggles of women roaming the streets pulling carts of alcohol behind them and getting pissed?