Hi, I'm New.

A few short stories about uncharted territory

The other night, Matt woke to find a shadow hovering over him, inches from his face. It was me, his wife of twenty-six years. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, but I didn’t respond right away. “What are you doing?” More mysterious silence. Finally, as a joke he asked, “Are you going to murder me??” 

I paused, apparently, before answering in a way too noncommittal tone. “...No?”

And that’s when I woke up. I’d gone to bed overtired and was having one of those dreams where I didn’t know who or where I was, what year it was, or why the heck there was a guy in my bed. I was only awake for a brief, deeply relieved moment of realization before rolling over and going back to sleep. Matt, who is, for better or worse, used to all kinds of craziness when I’m ostensibly sleeping, had forgotten it by morning when I apologized, and he found it hilarious when I reminded him. 

That dream, though, that feeling of total disorientation kind of sums up moving. One moment I’m telling myself, I’m fine. We’ve done this before, after all–plenty of times! We’re just fine.

Then the next, I’m asking, Where am I? Who am I? What century is this? 

A few examples:

1. I’m happy to report that after not even three months in Germany, I already know more German than I ever knew Korean though I lived there six years. To be fair, some of that knowledge includes a nursery rhyme that my first-generation-American-of-German-descent grandma taught me as a child, which is unlikely to be useful unless I’m asking a talking kitten where it’s been. But German is also close enough to English to figure out many words and phrases, at least with a little effort. Park Haus, for instance, means “parking garage.” Piece of cake!

This relative ease, though, has still afforded moments that catch me off guard. I was setting up our phone service shortly after I arrived. The salesman was describing the various options, and one in particular sounded good. “Yeah yeah!” I said. “Let’s do that!” I noticed a subtle wince as I said this, but he gave me a polite smile and began to type and set up what I wanted. Then he paused.

“Just… don’t say that,” he said very kindly. “Don’t say ‘ja ja.’” ¹

“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” My cheeks were instantly on fire. 

“It’s okay!” He replied. “You didn’t know. Just… from now on…”

But I was curious. I leaned forward and asked quietly, “What does it mean?”

“I, uh, cannot say out loud, but, uh…” Here he pointed to his backside and made a face.

“Ohhhh! Okay, good to know!” And it was! 

2. We started looking online at what kind of housing was available before we even arrived in Germany, trying to get an understanding of what we might find. Our first weekend here, we house-hunted in earnest. One was a very unique home, built in the 1950’s on some land at the end of a road. The view from the front of the house was lovely–fields of wheat, trees on the rolling hills, windmills in the distance. A huge yard and lovely (though overgrown) garden surrounded the home, and I could instantly picture myself outside in the summer, clipping herbs for dinner or flowers for the table from the abundance of peonies, roses, lilacs, and rhododendrons. 

We walked inside and found that it was truly massive. There was a guest suite complete with a small kitchen and living room off to one side. Two of the first apartment Matt and I lived in when we got married could have fit into it. But there were still four other bedrooms, two-and-a-half bathrooms, a large kitchen that actually had storage and cupboards (rare for Germany!), and a dining room, living room and den with a very unique fireplace. We were all intrigued if not enamored, especially when the tenants told us how helpful and kind the landlord was. 

However, we didn’t rent that home. There were minor issues like the lack of a fence substantial enough to keep a certain adored dachshund from exploring all of Germany and the enormous lawn we would be responsible for mowing. The clincher, really, was the distance from the base where Matt works and the kids will be attending school. But there was one other detail best summed up by Matt when we had seen the whole house and returned to the car: “I’d say there’s about a 97% chance that place is haunted.” 

There was a barn with all kinds of interesting things–an anvil (for any annoying roadrunners you might come across), various shapes and sizes of saws, and meat hooks. Yes, meat hooks. I know there are perfectly legitimate reasons to have any of those, but in a dusty old unused barn… well, it just didn’t give off kid-friendly home vibes. 

In the house, there was the attic. The tenant took us up the winding stairs and opened the door. “I won’t go in,” she said (Red flag! Red flag!), “but you can take a look.” We walked into it, and it was–like the rest of the house–enormous. Furniture remnants were randomly spaced throughout: an old armoire with a broken door, and a nightstand with a missing drawer, an ancient headboard propped against a wall. My youngest kids were eyeing the vast space, and I just had that sense that they might start running or stomping at any moment, so I abruptly said, “Okay, let’s go.” I sort of pushed the kids back through the door, and the tenant said in a very alarmed (also alarming) voice, “Did you see something in there?”

Noooo, but… ?!?!?!?!

And then finally, there was the basement. Whereas the attic at least was decently bright thanks to a few skylights, the massive basement was almost pitch black except for a few bare lightbulbs. It was mostly finished, but crumbling in parts. A casement window had a child’s drawing on it. Matt pointed out it might make for great writing inspiration, and that was true. But I had the strong suspicion that on dark nights when Matt was away for work, I wouldn’t sleep a wink. Even the promise of a hair-raising bestseller just wasn’t worth it to me.

 3. We ended up choosing a house  in a village not far from the base, mostly because of falafels. I’m not kidding. We found a döner kebab place in said village with delicious falafels. Sitting at lunch on Mother’s Day, we said, “These are amazing! I wonder if there are any houses here that would work for us!” Lo and behold, there was!

Once we moved in, though, we faced the challenge of furnishing the home. We did receive temporary furniture, but it was ugly and uncomfortable, and also, when we left Korea, we donated some older items with the intent of replacing them once we got here and saw what our space was like. 

German (most European, for that matter) homes have almost no built-in storage furniture. We had one wall of our kitchen with cupboards and a counter, but nothing in the way of a pantry or sufficient counterspace. Each bathroom comes with a small cabinet and there is a shelf in the laundry room. What I’m saying is, we needed a lot. I went to IKEA the day we moved in, and found the perfect table in the “as-is” section. There was nothing wrong with it, but it was fully assembled and wouldn’t fit in our car. 

A few days later, on one of the resale pages, I found a guy who was getting rid of basically everything in his house as preparation for retirement for crazy low prices. There was a counter-height table with built-in storage and four stools that was perfect for our kitchen and a huge, comfy couch and chair, plus lamps, rugs, and decor. I managed to get the table in the rental car by taking three trips, but I really wanted the couch. After some brainstorming, I decided to rent a moving truck to pick up the rest. 

“You’re here for one of the monsters?” the rental agent said, which made me shudder. Giving him what was probably a sickly smile, I showed a picture of the couch. “If you don’t mind paying four euro more,” he said, “I think it would be better to get the next size up. Otherwise you’ll have to make multiple trips.” I saw his point. But I was terrified about driving something so huge (and also a manual) along narrow German streets. 

For one day that felt both too long and too short, I ran a three-woman (me with my daughters Skyler and Lilly), one giant van moving company.

I couldn’t get it into reverse at first, but after a panicked phone call to the agency, I figured it out. We loaded up the couch and chair and rugs, and the man added he had a queen-size bed he’d throw in for free. The catch was that he had a broken foot and couldn’t help us move any of it. Oh, and I did not rent a furniture dolly, so it was all just us–arms, legs, body mechanics.

In the afternoon, I headed back to IKEA and to my great delight, they still had the table in the as-is section! And a huge wardrobe and shelves!

Once again, it was a challenge to get it all into the truck.

A few people even gathered around to watch us. Someone tried to convince the IKEA employees to help us just a little, but it seems they said they could not. I’m pretty sure there were bets placed regarding the success of our mission because oh my goodness, that wardrobe was heavy. Truth be told, I’d probably have bet against us. But we got it all in with only a couple minor scratches added to the furniture. 

My legs, however, were another story. Apparently I use my legs to bear the brunt of everything when I move. To that end, I had huge bruises all the way down my legs that were a garish purple fading to green and yellow over several weeks. I decided against sharing the photographic evidence here. You’re welcome.

I love how in her book I Guess I Haven’t Learned That Yet, Shauna Niequist writes, “I said, Oh my darlings, you’re not dumb–you’re new. We’re all new. And we’re not failing. But we’re learning, and it’s exhausting and humbling and fun and hard.”

Being new–in the myriad ways that can happen–means having to learn by doing things the wrong way first, over and over again. It’s making decisions based on gut instincts and hoping for the best. It’s piecing together a home or life while getting a few scratches and bruises on the way. But the older I get, the more I’m trying to be gentle with myself in all the ways I’m new, to forgive myself when I was trying to do everything right and still messed up. 

The other day, I went into a place where I had to do something for the first time. I felt stupid and scared at first, wishing I had more information and knowing the person helping me could be annoyed and the people waiting behind me would be frustrated. But then I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, and walked inside.

“Hi, I’m new,” I said. “I’m probably going to do this wrong, but please be patient with me.” And to my great and grateful relief, she was.

1. Pronounced, of course, like the “yeah yeah” I had just said