FLASHBACK: Freddy from Freiburg

Fully equipped with a beard you could shear for wool weekly, enough body hair to make a black bear jealous, and a belly full of delicious German beer, my old roommate Freddy is the archetypal mountain man, fully capable of enduring the densely forested hills of the Schwarzwald alone. But Freddy didn’t just look the part, he played it too. It must’ve been every other weekend he went a little holiday to dominate the great outdoors. I’d see him with his snowboard and skis, his mountain bikes, or his camping gear and ask him, “Where you off to, Freddy?” “Oh I’m just off to (insert random forest or mountain) to do some rock climbing/skiing/biking/camping with Kirsten.” “Oh, have fun,” I’d respond surprised by his nonchalance. With a simple yet enthusiastic “Danke schön!” he’d be out the door to tame Europe’s most untamable landscapes.

While Freddy’s love of extreme sports impressed me, what impressed me more was how open and, well, literal he was. Some days when I’d walk into our apartment after class I’d pass him smoking on the couch on the balcony by the door. “How’s it going, Freddy?” I’d ask without thinking much of it and expecting to hear the automatic “Good,” that everyone responds with back in the States. So when he said , “Eh, not so good, Tom,” it caught me a bit off guard. Snapping out of social autopilot mode, I ask him, “Not so good? What’s wrong?” “Well, I’ve been having a bit of a… how do you say… stomach ache? I’ve been going to the bathroom a lot.” “Oh no. Well, I’ll make sure not to use all your toilet paper. Gute Besserung (feel better)!” I replied awkwardly trying to utilize the minimal German that I knew and he let out a hearty laugh. Though Freddy’s English was not the best – much, much better than my German however – it was clear that he had just nonchalantly told me that he had the runs. I couldn’t help but giggle at his frankness.

I found myself in the same scenario about two weeks later as I finished my daily walk through Freiburg after school. “How’s it going, Freddy?” “Not so good, Tom.” “Not so good?” It was then that I noticed a metal brace secured to his shin and extending just above his knee. “Freddy! What happened?” “Oh, I broke my leg skiing this weekend,” he said in the same nonchalant, matter-of-fact tone before returning to his cigarette. “Well I think you might want to lay off the sports for a couple days,” I said, stretching for a joke to fill the unresolved silence and he laughed again. I couldn’t help but think that the worse my joke was the harder he laughed. A week later, he went mountain biking.

At least a month went by before I had another memorable Freddy run-in on our metal-grated balcony. Same scenario. “Hi Tom.” “Hi Freddy. How’s it going?” “Not so good.” “Why not so good?” “Oh I can’t hear.” “You can’t hear?” “Yes.” “How’d that happen?” “I woke up yesterday and I couldn’t hear out of my left ear.” “Did you get that checked out?” “Not yet. But I will see the doctor tomorrow.” “Well feel better… I mean, FEEL BETTER!” I shouted before walking away to the sound of his hearty German giggle.
Before going to Germany, I had heard that Germans “say what they mean, and mean what they say.” Though the language gap probably played a role, I still can’t get over how literally Freddy took the “How’s it going?” question. It was a surprise, pretty funny, but also very refreshing. People say that Germans are harsh with their words, but from my experience they are just very direct. If I didn’t do my dishes after cooking dinner or failed to fulfill my weekly living room clean up duty, I would sternly be told to do them. But, it was never insulting or judgmental. No one told me to do my dishes and then snickered, “What a lazy asshole,” when I walked away. I was told what I had to be told, and our friendships carried on as usual.

Thinking about this in Germany, I thought back to my roommates in the US. Asking them to not leave their clothes strewn about the living room wasn’t simply a reminder to do their part in the apartment, it was an insult their honor. It was as if by telling them to do their dishes I inadvertently attacked their character and labeled them irresponsible slobs. So much was inferred – often falsely – from what was actually said.

Now that I’m fully acclimated back in the States, I find myself on social autopilot once again cruising by “Hey Tom, How are ya?”’s and responding “Good” or maybe “Good, but busy” as I speed away. But every now and then I think back to Freddy; I think back to that burly beard, that genuine laugh, and his blatant honesty. Even though I learned more about his bowels than I ever wanted to, I can't help but miss that genuineness.

Cell Phones, Hormones, and Fourteen Year Old Girls

“Mom! I have like 100 friends texting me and I can’t respond! If I don’t get a new phone today I won’t…” and from there my little sister, Gina, rambles at a rate of three million two hundred thousand and four words per second about God knows what. I’m pretty sure it had something to do with the world exploding and the fate of the whole human species resting in her responding to those text messages. The way she was speaking to my mother, it had better have been that important.

This irrational rant was no isolated incident, either. I’d say for every three hours that Gina spends awake at home there is at least one similar episode. Tell her she can’t go to her 13^th concert of the summer she’ll run to her bedroom and slam the door behind her, allowing the torrential hormones to brew and intensify within the closed compartment. Remind her that drama camp starts tomorrow – an experience she was begging for only months ago – and you better have a poncho and galoshes ready for the emotional downpour that will ensue. I know that fourteen year old girls are supposed to be moody and emotionally fickle, but damn.

But back to the cell phone thing. My sister – like many other kids whose families can provide them these luxuries – is addicted to technology. If she’s not playing basketball or telling my parents how horrible they are for telling her to spend some quality time with her little sister, she’s most likely doing one of the following: giving her friends minute-to-minute updates on what she is doing via text message (while also giving her thumbs quite the workout); she is glued to her MacBook looking at the latest Jonas Brothers pictures or giving her friends minute-to-minute updates on what she is doing via Facebook message; she is listening to music on her iTouch; or she is doing any combination of the three.

You might say, “Aw come on, Tom. Cut the girl some slack. All the kids are like that these days.” You might say, “Tom, she’s young. She’ll grow out of it.” You might even say something else that I was not clever enough to come up. But to any of those response I would say, “You know what. You’re probably right.” But I think we should question deeper anyway.

Consider this recent example. Wanting to bond with my little sister who tells me she wishes I would spend more time with her, I suggested we play some good old fashioned Rock Band. Don’t get me wrong, rocking out on the drums made me feel like the drummer I always wanted to be; but bonding time didn’t happen. Between each song – literally – Gina’s thumbs furiously scrambled over her mini-keypad to respond to no less than three friends’ texts. Our dialogue that night went something like this:

Me: Hey Gi, come on. You can text them after we’re done.

Gina: Ok, one second.

Me (after several seconds): Gi!

Gina (closes her phone and clicks the Green button to join the song): Ok.

(Repeat this conversation for each song until she says she’s going to bed).

Despite her being physically less than three feet from me, she could not have felt further away.

If we are all unfortunate enough to be traveling in the same minivan, she’ll have her iTouch blasting so you can sing along with all her favorite pop/emo songs. Only the piercing screams of our nine-year-old sister Angie can sunder the sonic wall surrounding her (to which she unfailingly responds, “Angie SHUT UP! You are such a brat!”).

Just one day before the cell phone argument, Gina asked me to go on a walk with her. She dropped her phone and cracked the screen one day prior. This time she’d have no choice but to talk to me! We spent the better part of an hour and a half chatting as we wandered along the sidewalk-less estate section, through Colonia High School, and even by her new Alma Matter, St. John Vianney Elementary School, which was preparing for the annual town fair. Lo and behold, I discovered that Gina was, in fact, a real person – a human being with experiences, opinions, insecurities, joys, and goals. We talked about basketball and our Dad’s obsession and paranoia about her potential as a star student-athlete; about Aunt Gina – whom Gina was named after – and how awesome of a person she was; growing up as chubby kids and the lingering insecurities dwelling in the last ounces of belly button baby fat; about how we’ve hit the parent jackpot; about my time in high school and her time to come; and about how silly emotions can be when you look back on them. We took a ride to the mall to see if Verizon could replace her phone. When I had to break the news to her that she wouldn’t get the new one until Tuesday she shocked me by saying, “Eh… I guess I can wait.” Thinking back on the past couple hours, I thought to myself, “Holy shit. Gina is awesome. Maybe she’ll turn out ok after all.”

Hours later, my mother returned home. Somewhere between our walk and just past suppertime, the texting withdrawals had set in. As I sat reading, I heard the frantic pleading. “Mommy! I can’t wait until Tuesday! I’ll pay the seventy dollars for the new phone! Please, Mommy! Please!” A starving technology addict replaced the cool little sister that I got to know earlier that day, but at least I know that there is a glimmer of hope somewhere beneath the overly dramatic and wired surface. After all, she’s just a kid. She’ll grow out of it. Right?