Don't Go to Costco's for Carnival Girl!

Costco's has quit carrying copies of Carnival Girl, so you can't buy it there anymore. Get you copy at Amazon.com, or order it from any bookstore. I'm looking forward to hearing from you about this.

And if you're looking forward to more about our amazing experience at the Oktoberfest in Munich, tune in again tomorrow!

The Ongoing Saga of Our Trip to Octoberfest, Part 2

At the Nuremberg train station, we found the train that would take us to Munich.  People crowded around it, and we had a hard time squeezing through the throngs to get on. Ken and I entered at one side of a compartment, and the girls and Keith at another. Ken and I stood in the aisle, wedged in by many other people, wondering how we would find our children. The smell of beer was even stronger.

Eventually I saw the kids through the window, running along the train, looking for us. They squeezed into our compartment. Departure time came but the train did not move. Instead, two train officials opened the doors and called, “This train has exceeded the limit of people it can transport. We will not leave until everybody standing in the aisles has left.”

Someone called, “But we want to get to Munich.” Other voices agreed and someone clapped.

“There is another train on track five that will leave a few minutes after this one does. Please. Everybody in the aisles leave the train through the doors ahead of you and get into the one on track five.”

Since we stood close to the door where the officials were, we turned and tried to get out that way.

The train official stopped us. “You can’t leave from this door. You need to get out the other way.”

I looked back. Nothing moved. “Please, let us get out,” I said in my best American accented German. “The line isn’t moving and it will take forever to get out the other side.”

“This is a security door, but, well, go ahead,” she said and stepped aside so we could leave.

We left, grateful for the fresh air, and along with a large group of other travelers, hurried to track five, where we found another train, maybe half full, waiting for us. The announcement board above the track didn’t say this train would go to Munich, but the people inside assured us that it would stop there.

We found a set of free seats and settled down for the second leg of our trip to the Oktoberfest.

Oktoberfest! 1

This true story happened to us in 2008. Enjoy!

On the last Thursday in September, Marit, Liesel, and Marit’s boyfriend Keith arrived to visit us in Germany. On Friday morning, I said, “Let’s do something really cool tomorrow. Sunday is the last day of the Oktoberfest in Munich, and it will be extremely crowded, so let’s go tomorrow.”

“What a great idea,” Liesel said. “I always wanted to do that.”

My husband, Ken, added, “And it will be cheap. We live close to Wuerzburg, and Munich isn’t that far. And with a weekend train ticket, all five of us can travel there and back for only 34 Euro.”

“It will only take two hours for the trip,” I said. “We’ll have so much fun.”

Early the next morning, prepared with our cameras and backpacks, we trekked to the train station, where we got our ticket from the ticket machine and entered the train.

 We started our trip in a train just like this one

We stopped in surprise and stared. Ken and I had taken the weekend trains before, and always found plenty of empty seats.

We pushed through tightly packed bodies, backpacks, bicycles and other equipment. The smell of beer floated on top of muffy human smells, and laughter, excited talking and singing assaulted our ears. Eventually, we did find some seats in two separate compartments, and called ourselves lucky. Liesel sat on my lap, and all of us were reasonably comfortable.

Our next stop, just a few minutes away, was Wuerzburg, where many other people squeezed into the train. Our train stopped in every little town on the way, and people got on in each of those towns, until we were actually squeezed in like sardines in a can.

More tomorrow!
 

Kirmes!

Kirmes is a German word, and it means the anniversary of the day the original church of a given town was dedicated, or the birthday of the Saint protector of the town. Kirmes is always held on a weekend closest to that day.

On the Friday or Saturday before, many German towns have the Kirmes tree-raising ceremony. Days before, the young men of the town gather together and choose a large tree which they strip of its bottom leaves and decorate with wreaths and colored streamers.

 Above: the town watches as the 

       tree is put up.

Below: The tree is up, and the

town people are at the commons 

to celebrate!

A German Kirmes is always accompanied by festivities. Usually, but not always, a large tent is erected on the town's common or other place especially set apart for such festivities. The tent protects the celebrating people from inclement weather and adds a sense of community and gemuetlichkeit. 

 

The Kirmes tent

When I was little, these festivities were our livelihood. We set up our attractions to be ready for Friday, and when the tree was up, the town folks came. 

The older generation drifted into the tent, where they drank beer, ate wurst and danced. The children and young people couldn't wait to ride our merry-go-round,  win prizes from our ring-toss, and impress their friends by using our air guns to shoot for prizes at the shooting gallery.

Kirmes attractions now, and Kirmes attractions then!       

                                                                      

Circus!

 My father, Colya Francesco, on his beloved horse Mimi

Our modern circus, the way it still performs today, was created in England in the 1770's. Philip Ashley, a horse breaker and trainer, retired from the cavalry and started showing his horsemanship in a large ring in London. His show became even more popular when he added acrobats, jugglers, rope dancers, and clowns. Ashley also introduced his circus to Paris, and from there, it conquered the world.

The Francesco circus at the end of WWII

 The circus ring was soon covered first with a wooden roof, and then is became established in buildings especially built for circus performances. Eventually, circus owners realized they could get more attendance if they traveled, and the traveling circus with its tent-covered ring was born.

My mother, Margot Edel, selling tickets for the circus

In a circus, language is unimportant, and that's why the circus performers came from all over the world from the very beginning of the circus.

In Nazi Germany, the Nazis chose not to break this tradition, since, besides the radio and occasional movies, the circus was the main entertainment for the German populace. The Nazi government wanted to keep the common people happy and distracted, so the circus was a rare exception to the rampant racial persecution the Nazis committed everywhere else.

A Poster for Circus Althoff, the first Circus Mutti hired on in

And that's why my mother, never saw the inside of a concentration camp. That's why her life was and still is, a miracle. Mutti, however does not see it that way.

September 11

September has always been a special month for me. It's my birth month, and when I was young, it heralded winter quarters, which we usually started the beginning of November. Winter quarters meant a more steady lifestyle, and maybe a friend for more  than one week.

Years later, on September 11, 2001, I worked as an ESL teacher for the Goodwill corporation in Portland, Oregon. That morning, I had a class early, so I arrived at the corporate quarters where the classroom was located, a little before 8:00 AM.

Bit by bit, my students came in, several Chinese adults and ten or so Hispanic students. I wondered why so many of them came late. The students were talking to each other in animation, not seeming to be ready for the lesson.

Finally, I decided to start. "Let's look at last week's homework," I said.

A young man from Mexico, Juan, raised his hand. 

I called on him, wondering whether he forgot his homework again.

"Have you not heard? New York was bombed today."

And that was how I found out about the attack.

I wasn't sure what had happened, but decided that the students' excitement and their efforts to explain exactly what happened, would be a great exercise in using English, which they were trying so hard to learn.

Later that day, when I came home, I discovered some other news I hadn't known. 

When I arrived, Ken and I discussed the situation with our teenagers who had come home early from school.

As the conversation petered out, and I decided to go into the kitchen to make some supper, Ken announced, "I have some good news, too."

Liesel frowned. "What news can possibly be good on a day like this?"

Ken turned to Liesel and Meagan. "The news I have will bring hope and light on this terrible day."

"No way," the girls said, almost in unison. "What is it?"
 
"You girls became aunts this morning."

Jacob and his older brother Daniel in 2009

Suddenly smiles appeared on Ken's and the girls' faces, and questions about the new baby and his mom pushed out the sad and disturbed thoughts.

Ken told us one thing I'll never forget. "When Jen was in labor," he said, "One of the nurses asked her how it felt to have a baby on such a sad day. 'It feels wonderful,' Jen answered. 'This is just the day to bring some goodness and light into the world. I know my child will be special.'"

And that's how it came about that we felt hope and happiness on the saddest day in America in 2001.

Jacob is turning eleven today, and I can't wait to go and congratulate him. He truly is a special boy!

Big, Black Bike, Last Part

This was a big bike! I had no idea how to learn to ride it.

Carmen and Josefa burst out of the caravan. Carmen clapped her hands. “You got it, you got it! Did Vati really let us have it?”

I nodded.

Josefa pointed toward the merry-go-round. “See that boy over there? It was his.”

Still holding the bike, I said, “Vati give him ten free tickets and two Marks. He was happy with that.”

Carmen grabbed the bike. “Let me try to ride it. I’m the biggest.”

Since I had no idea how to ride such a large thing, I let go. Carmen held it by the handlebars and stared at it. “Can you hold it while I get on it?”

“Yes.” I held on to the bike, but with Carmen trying to get on I didn’t have enough strength to keep is upright. The bike, Carmen, and I landed on the grassy ground.

Carmen picked herself up and scowled at me. “Can’t you hold it steady?”

I stood, too, leaving the bike on the ground. I shook my head. “I can’t. You’re too heavy.”

Josef came closer. “People get on bikes by themselves,” she said. “I don’t think it works if someone holds the bike.”

Carmen stared at the big, black monster on the ground. “Okay,” she finally said. “I’ll try it by myself.”

She stuck one leg under the crossbar and onto the pedal, and pushed off the ground with the other. The bike moved for a few seconds and crashed again. Carmen jumped off just in time.

To my surprise, she grinned. “I think it will work this way. I rode it for a little while, didn’t I?”

Josefa and I nodded.

“Maybe I could give you a push when you’re ready,” I volunteered.

And that was how we three girls, even little Josefa, learned to ride our bike. For a while, we took turns and pushed each other, and each time we tried, the bike went further.

We rode our big, black bike with one leg under the bar, pedaling as good as we could until we got good enough to ride with our leg swung over the bar, practically sitting on it.

For several years after, when we moved from one town to the next, Vati stashed our precious bike in the pack caravan after he’d packed the dismantled attractions.