Bus drivers, Beer Gardens, and Baby Blues

I’ve been on enough blogs of Americans who live in Germany to know that they miss their native country. I would miss many things from here as well should we move back to Germany (which Mr. H, my American, dreams about). For one, Seattle is breathtaking, particularly when the sun is willing to shine – which is unfortunately not often enough for me. And people are incredibly friendly here. And have I mentioned our Seattle bus drivers yet? Oh my, never in my life have I met nicer ones. And then there are the little things, like getting lots of ice in my coke when I actually feel like having one. Or all the different flavored coffees. Hmm…And nobody looks at you if you’re from Mars if you order a decaf. Imagine, they don’t even have decaf in German Starbucks?! Oh, oh, and all the burgers! I love hamburgers. Always did. Oh, yes, there will be plenty to miss.

But I also miss my home country. I do. I miss the old stone-built towns with their cobblestone streets and their pedestrian passages with their mix of stores, apartments, and restaurants. I miss the million bakeries with their sunflower and pumpkin seeds breads. I miss the plaza cafes in which people have nothing better to do than to do people watching. And they do it for a long, long time. I miss German beer gardens, real gardens under big old chestnut trees where people come to socialize and have a good time (while, of course, having a beer or two, or -in my case- some wine). Believe it or not, but kids are welcome in German beer gardens. They often even get their own play areas. In Bavaria, you can even bring your own food, so families come and bring dinner and meet their friends while the kids go off and play. I never liked the American version, or at least the Seattle version, of a beer garden. There is beer, alright, but that’s all there. And all that it is there for. It’s a place to get drunk. Which is fine, I suppose, if that’s what you want. But I don’t even like beer. I know, I know, what a shocking revelation. Not liking beer? That’s weird to say for an American but for a German? Can you see “exiled” burnt across my chest? Anyway, where was I? Ah, sitting in a beer garden under chestnut trees in the late evening summer breeze…

I also miss public transportation and the railway. And I miss people on bikes. I see them around in Seattle but it’s a different breed of bikers. In Seattle, for most bikers – apart from the occasional student- riding a bike is not a means but an end. It doesn’t serve the purpose of transportation but rather the purpose of exercise. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that, it’s just that I miss the old men and women on their bikes with their shopping baskets full of daily groceries. Daily, because even large German fridges are small by American standards. Oh, yes, there is plenty for me to miss…

…now that I am back. This time, coming home was made easier by a freshly painted house, newly stained back deck, and a new, much more eye-pleasing yard fence. The yard itself looks rather horrid, but the fence and the paint make our house look so much more attractive. I love those house improvement projects…once they are done that is. Mr. H and I never really agree on what really needs to be done (except the exterior paint), because his priority is “security” whereas mine seems to be “prettiness”, but once in a while we come to an agreement. For example, when the wind blows down the ugly, eye-sore of a fence. So, I am not sure what comes next. Replacing windows (Mr. H) maybe or replacing the ueber-ugly vinyl kitchen floor that could be mopped thrice a day and still look dirty as hell (that would be me). First though, we have to save some money for our next IVF gig. Wish that wasn’t necessary.

However, not surprisingly, I am still not pregnant. I find it actually ironic that from the outside in, I would look like an average fertile women today: it’s day 13, I got a positive OPK (not sure why I still feel the urge to test sometimes. Maybe to see a double line?), my saliva ferns, and my CM looks ready. Almost textbook, I blushingly admit. But it all feels so pointless. I am not even sure I ovulate an egg (maybe my follicles are mostly empty promises?), and should I manage to ovulate one, where does it go? Into the fallopian tubes or into abdominal space? Does conception ever take place or do all the sperm jump on their brakes as soon as a brownish-wrinkled, drunken looking egg stumbles down the tube (apparently endo eggs don’t look so pleasing to the eye)? And even if a sperm takes pity and jumps the hag of an egg, does it shout “hooray” and fertilize? And if conception actually takes place, when do the embryos die? Do they already give up in the tubes or do they wait until they reach the desert, formally known as my womb? It’s a mystery.

I went to a playground today, not any playground mind you, but the one where every pregnant woman of a toddler or two (and if not pregnant then with a newborn) likes to meet her friends. Who, not surprisingly, are in similar circumstances. So, while I felt my body gearing up for another kamikaze ovulation, I looked at this happy display of fertility and couldn’t help but feel my spirits sinking really low. Out of reach.

IF is never far from my waking mind, it’s actually scary how often I catch myself thinking about it. Only when I sleep do I seem to let go of it. And even then, it manages to intrude my dreams here and there. Some days are better than others. Today wasn’t so great, but there is always tomorrow, right?