Warnemunde, Rostock, and Bobbing at Sea

There was lots of down time on this trip. We had several days at sea with no stops and on those days we slept late, played Shanghai, and napped. I used this family adventure to further my studies on each member of the Union tribe. Ellen was the most intriguing, Dad was oddly giddy, and Mom maintained her usual disposition but consumed a gross tonnage of food on this trip that would probably appall her if she was given a total figure. All four of us slept poorly at night and napped just about everyday to keep us up and moving through dinner time. We began to wonder if they pumped the food full of preservatives that disrupted sleep (and caused Mom to have an inordinately healthy appetite). We began to wonder if there is a conspiracy aboard cruise ships to slowly poison people in such a way that makes them want to spend money and go to bed early so that the crew members can have some peace and quiet. We had a lot of time on our hands for this kind of creative thinking.

I'll now tell you about the ships funk band, Static. The party band of all party bands, they never played a song that you didn't adore. And they were good. Real good. We chased the band all over the boat to hear each set they played. The lead singer looked and acted just like Wayne Brady and had the most high energy dance moves I've ever seen. I worried for his back and knees. Mom especially loved Static and would bashfully bee-bop in place and bite her bottom lip which is how you knew she was really digging the tunes. Typically we watched their shows from the second floor of an atrium, looking down at the dancing crowds and Wayne's wiggly legs. One night we noticed a tiny old man on the dance floor. We later found out he was 89 years old and he must have been 5'4" if he stood up straight. He seemed to be traveling alone and to make matters sad, he was bent at the waist...forever. But "being crippled" (-Dad) didn't stop him. He held on to tables and chairs while he stomped his feet and waved his hands. He was dancing. Sometimes he would shuffle tiny steps side to side and when he got tired, he'd perch on a table's edge and kick his legs like a showgirl. As happy and unburdened as he seemed, he was dancing alone in a mob of youthful, middle-aged couples. Sweet Mama felt bad for him and braved down onto the dance floor, grabbed his hands, and then boy did that guy dance. He looked so happy. Maybe too happy. Was he standing up a little straighter now? His face is awfully close to Mom's chest. Does Mom look concerned? He's smiling too much.

We watched from the balcony as Mom's honorable and courageous deed withered into a skeptical, icky situation. Dad howled with laughter from the second floor as Mom looked up at us and bugged her eyes out with her mouth fixed shut. "This is the best night of that guy's life!" Dad roared. The people next to us seemed more concerned for Mom than Dad was. "I think he's standing up straight!" I said.
"I'm sure he is!" Dad sneered.
When that song ended Mom bolted for the staircase and joined us again. "I think he's an old crippled lech! I bet he does that on purpose to dance with girls!"
When we looked down to find him again, he was dancing with a kindhearted twenty-something girl who also miscalculated just what part of her body that man's head would line up with. She was dancing sideways to avoid any sort of contact with her unmentionables. Dad let out a blasting cackle. "Its not funny, Chris."

Somewhere around day three we arrived in Germany, a port town called Warnemunde. In need of some alone time, Ellen stayed on the ship while the three of us took a train to a town called Rostock. Rostock is a historical college town. Like the College of Charleston, students were crawling all over the sidewalks and pedestrian paths, emerging from science class in an old house that was once beloved by a little German family. That's what I imagined anyways. We wandered through this town just long enough to get lost once and eat a hearty German lunch. It was here that we experienced life-changing sour cream and a mystery vegetable that we dubbed "the potonion." I'll start with the sour cream. Absolutely life changing - make's a dollop of Daisy seem like a lump of whipped cream. It was thick and creamy and flavored with garlic or onion or, well we don't know exactly. Maybe it was part mayonnaise. We dipped everything in it, french fries, vegetables, even our fingers just for another taste. Additionally, I was served a large, round, off-white vegetable with my meal and we couldn't decide if it was a very dense onion or a whispy potato. We all took a bite and the jury was out. "It's a potato, it's an onion, it's a potonion!"

After lunch we rode back to Warnemunde and Dad climbed back onto the boat while Mom and I continued exploring. Turns out that old Munde is a resort town. A flower drenched village on the sea. It was very charming and very crowded. We ducked into the backstreets for some aimless wandering before coming back to the ship in time for Static's poolside show.

At risk of this post being too long, here is a journal entry from our third day at sea.

We all slept until 11:00, ate lunch up at the trough (24 hour buffet that Dad is disgusted by) and spent the rest of the day slumping. Mom and I went for "high tea" at 3:00 and we were distracted by the pair at the table next to us. An Asian mother and her 12 year old son. The boy kicked off his shoes and slurped his tea without ever picking the cup up off of the table. He'd hunch his head way over the boiling water and then "sluurrrpp!" Meanwhile his Mom asked two different waiters for cream because her tea was too strong. They both brought her a carafe of cream and then her tea was too weak. She then asked for another cup of tea to start over with and a cup of green tea for her son who didn't like the black tea. Her son (Mom called him Mogli) had his bare feet in the chair and his chest on the table while he picked up crumbs with his tongue. His Mom was unfazed by his table manners.

Dad has been giddy and energetic all day; slapping, spilling, cackling, and making crew members laugh. At some point Ellen and I were walking down a hall alone and Dad jumped out from behind a column and then laughed and ran away. How long had he been waiting there? Dad laughs wildly at his own comments. He has provided many belly-laughs each day and makes lots of cheap shots, mostly about Mom; her clothes, her eating habits, etc. Also to Mom's dismay, we came across a woman named "Tiddi" and Dad could never quite let those jokes go.

Mom has continued to impress us with her consumption of any and all food groups. She polishes off multiple plates each night and happily told our waiter, "I have a worm!" and then she cackled. She enjoys following our route on maps, shopping for trinkets, and scoping out bad outfits. She also scolded some children for being too rowdy during a karaoke show.

Ellen visits the gym most days and has done a good job with attitude and participation. While she does tend to be uninterested in most activities she will come along for a short while and has even prompted some on-board ventures. She spends a lot of time on her phone so sometimes I hide it and watch her panic. It's a scary undertaking and usually I go retrieve it before she gets mad at me. 

Lastly, here's a photo of a man that made us laugh for a very long time.

All Aboard to Oslo

Early on into this trip, Dad became obsessed with eating seafood. Perhaps it's due to his interpretations of the Baltic region that Dad wanted to refuse land meats and focus solely on consuming creatures that once roamed the mighty depths. He was appalled when there were no easily accessible seafood restaurants in a given town and would comment often about it while eating at a foreign steakhouse or burger joint. Eventually Mom said, "Shut up about the seafood." and it made all of us cackle.

Our last day in Copenhagen included a stressful mad-dash breakfast that involved tense battles of speed against other morning eaters. You had to fight for breakfast in this place and some Union's fared better than others. All a little grumpy from the Breakfast Match, we piled into a taxi and rode out to the port to climb onto the floating bowl of germs that would carry us from city to city for the next ten days. T'was a lovely boat, not decorated with garish colors and confusing artwork. Mom and I enjoyed the splashes of navy blue and celadon green in an otherwise sandy colored lounge. Dad and Ellen enjoyed the many applications on their stateroom tv's. Actually the day we boarded the ship was the World Cup Final so a gaggle of cruisers forwent the initial explorations of the first day aboard and instead we gathered in a theater that was showing the game on a large screen.

My notes tell me that Dad proudly took three naps on this day and that Ellen went to the gym within two hours of unpacking.



We woke up the next morning in Oslo, Norway. Our initial jaunt into to town was led by Mops who had already figured out where to hop onto a ferry that would take us over to the Viking Ship Museum. We rode in a little tender boat over to an island in the harbor where we looked at ancient viking boats but also mostly waited for Mom to look at the ancient Viking boats. They were very neat to see and also a little scary. Those Viking dudes just piled into what is effectively an enormous canoe and they hit the high seas. There was no worry of different levels, ballast stones, I'm not even sure some of them had sails. I left the Viking Ship Museum having decided that those ancient Nordic men relied entirely on bravery because there must not have been much complex thinking going on in their brains.

The chunk of Oslo that we wandered in was very New Endglandy with a smidge of Europe. Crisp and blue. Pretty trees. Things you'd expect from a Northern haven that takes their environment very seriously. Post Ship Museum, Ellen and Dad wandered back to the Ship for naps and snacks. Mops and I ventured into the city a bit and found government buildings and flower lined streets. The Norweigian people are very tall and light-haired and I imagined a nordic Brett leaning on a building smoking a cigarette. He'd have fit right in. I pointed this out so many times that I think I annoyed Mom. "That guy looks like Brett.", "Look at that Brett doppelgänger!", "That guy would look like Brett if he cut his hair and was a little taller and fixed this teeth!"

Blinded by what, you say?

On our way back to the boat, Mom and I stopped at a little seaside cafe called Pappabuene where we drank sodas and people watched. We studied locals and tourists alike and the most memorable three seconds of this lounge occurred when a little girl, suspended directly over Mom's head by her father, let out a larger than expected little girl poot and Mom's eyes bugged out with outrage. I had a hard time waiting for that family to leave before I laughed at the gall of that little girl and the horror on the face of my lady-like mother. 

My last note on Oslo is their fondness for trolls. Mom hated these trolls. They appeared in statues, gift shops, door stoops, and key chains and I reckon those Wegians are proud of their trolls on account of folktales and whatnot. Though I said it softly to Ellen, Dad heard me compare them to his possible future appearance and he didn't disagree.

Mom and The Big Red Bicycle

Weeks prior to leaving for our trip, Mom did abundant research to make sure our time would be spent the best it could be. A proud founding member of The Leisure Club, Mom did her homework, memorizing a map of town before even leaving her driveway. She’s been trained to flawlessly organize transportation from one distant land to another, to heave heavy luggage off of train tracks in the knick of time, and fearlessly navigate winding streets with guides written in exotic tongues. A veteran of all pastimes travel and leisure, I’d argue she’s more bold and courageous on foreign soil. Fearing no obstacles or running into someone she knows, Mom signed us up for a bicycle tour of Copenhagen. 

 We met our guide, Oliver, on a pretty backstreet just around the corner from our hotel. Patient and friendly, Oliver fitted us for a bicycle in relation to our height. The company prefers to put their guests on large, beach cruiser-eqse bicycles that have wide rubber wheels, useful for riding along the city’s many cobblestone streets. These big, red bicycles were notably heavy with loose steering but they functioned the way all bicycles do and the twelve of us on the tour that day all got the hang of our bikes relatively quickly. All of us but one.

Oliver, a twenty-something Danish American fella, led us miles around town. He had a California sense of calm mixed with a Danish sense of politeness which resulted in him being quite laidback about road rules (and perhaps overly confident in the abilities of others to ride bicycles) as well as being too respectful to embarrass an individual who might be lagging behind, especially if said individual was an “elderly lady.”

This bike tour was fantastic. It was an exciting way to see lots of an unfamiliar city without being too concerned about where you were going and how you would get there. Sometimes we rode in the bike lane, sometimes we took up the whole street, and one time Oliver had us ride our bikes through some government building’s breezeways, flying around sharp corners and going down staircases.

To preface Mom’s trials and let the record show, it was more difficult than normal to maneuver the big bikes around corners. A light, skinny bike might whip right around but these big guys did require less speed for big turns because their weight was off and you could certainly fall down. Two bikes fell over on this day just from the strange weight balance. So I’ll give Mom some credit there. But, no one else struggled like Mom did that day. I was so wrapped up in the tour that I didn’t notice the frustration on Mom’s face until we were halfway through. She was scowling. Nancy Union does not scowl while touring a new city. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t handle this bike!” she sneered. Just then Oliver stopped talking and started pedaling. There was no time to chat. The kid could get away from you quickly.  We all filed in behind him, one by one lining up like a dozen red ducklings. Prior to the tour, Oliver asked for a volunteer to stay at the back of the line so that he could look for that one person and know that everyone else was somewhere between them. Dad foolishly volunteered for this job, unaware that he’d be babysitting the bike tour loser. 

Note Mom's exhausted posture.

Ellen and I were having a great time. We were racing, pointing out pretty things, and comfortably taking pictures in transit. Meanwhile Mom and Dad were a half-mile behind us, Mom riding like a newborn calf and Dad pushing her along by the seat. Mom was humiliated. Ellen was delighted. On the rare stretch of empty, straight road, Dad would leave his responsibilities behind and dart ahead, rip roaring down the street to create some excitement and competition. I imagine Dad spent the tour feeling like a bull in a pen, held back from his natural state of recklessness. Dad also did instinctive Dad Things like block a road with his bike anytime one of the three of us was crossing a street. He would also pedal ahead to check traffic before we went out into the road. I wondered if he knew was doing this and if he knew that I noticed. Sweet Dad Things.

Now back over to Lance Armstrong. At some point I noticed that Mom’s ankle was bleeding and she casually informed me that she got it stuck between her bicycle and a building. I’m not really even sure how that’s possible. She ran into curbs, historical statues, parking blocks, and medians and also managed to hook a looped metal post in the crook of her elbow, knocking her off the bike completely. 

By the end of the tour Mom had given up and simply chose to crash into things as a way of stopping her bicycle. Bystanders would watch with concern as she slowly but consistently maintained speed as she closed in on a curb. BAM! Mom would then plant her feet, brush the hair out her eyes, and calmly listen to Oliver’s spiel. We’d ride along again, come up on a landmark, “Oh no watch out for that...” BAM! Mom had made it to our next stop. 
I felt a pitied amusement. I knew Mom would be indignant about this and I felt preemptive frustration for how she would certainly not feel heard on this matter.

“I know how to ride a bike!” she said with a sting. We piled into a nearby café after the tour was over and Mom was a dark cloud of undeserved shame. Dad didn’t help. He enjoys the failures of others and only egged her on by explaining the basics of bike riding.
"It was the bike!" she said. "Something's wrong with that bike!" and then she'd cross her arms and scowl. Then she'd laugh a little. "It's not funny!"

While Mom defended herself, Ellen scrolled through her photos of the day and lost her composure when she came across one of Mom. She shared it with Dad, me, and our waitress and we howled with laughter in a quiet, little cafe in Copenhagen.

Copenhagen

Let’s begin our Scandanavian reports with notions of crisp blue skies and placid seas, chilly mornings that melt into balmy afternoons, and sunlit evenings that never quite go dark. You know, Nordic things.

I’m ready to move to Scandinavia. Doesn’t matter where; any place that will accept a swarthy troll of an American with few redeemable business skills. (I’m not kidding. I told Brett to tell his boss he’s available for international relocation. And those Swedes you know, they love engineering.)

Let’s continue our Scandinavian reports with notions of smoked fish atop freshly baked bread, hot cups of coffee and an unexpected fondness for waffles. Viking ships, mountain fjords, people that don’t necessarily smile at you when you walk by; these are the gems of the Baltic north. 

We had a great trip. I’d argue it’s in my all-time top three Family Adventures. This is for a few unforeseen reasons.

One – We got to experience a place that was newish to all of us. (Helps keep up morale.)  

Two – I’m older now. Which translated into;

            2.A: a sudden interest in regional history

            2.B: a preference for the clean, quiet surroundings

2.C: appreciation for sluggish mornings with family 

Three – Ellen had a good attitude and never really turned on us.

I know! Here’s how it all went down. Before the trip I pulled Ellen aside and we discussed a game plan for her in-flight meltdowns and mid-cruise detachment. I was not to become immediately discouraged if she needed a break and she was not to opt-out of activities on the grounds of disinterest, sleepiness, bloat, or any other universal feelings that can arise in the human race.  I explained to Ellen that it’s important to have her with us on day trips and at dinner tables and she explained to me that she doesn’t always feel in control of her attitude and we opted to work together. A few times when Ellen got testy, we sent her off to the pool or put her down for a nap and she always came back trying, if nothing else. Seeing her try was enough to keep all of us patient, which kept Ellen trying. A vicious cycle of gentleness. 

We start our adventure in Copenhagen. To my delight, Mom unknowingly booked our hotel in what used to be a Red Light District of sorts, so there were strip clubs on either side of our hotel. Typically this is not a hot region so most buildings do not have air-conditioning. As luck would have it, we arrived during a heat wave and had to leave our windows open in the hopes of catching a breeze. Leaving your windows open when located next-door to a gentlemen’s club sets you up for a wild night. Though leisurely shrieks did occasionally wake me up, I enjoyed listening to the rambunctious drunken laughter grow dim as it moved through the streets of Copenhagen. My family found the noise much less charming and complained about it each morning as if it was new to them. Ellen and Dad tended to wake up grumpy and sweaty – though they won’t admit it. I also enjoyed watching for Mom’s dismay any time we came or went from our hotel. Life-sized portraits of lingerie-clad bimbos lined our street, pasted over doors or pressed into windows. I know it’s childish, but it added an element of anticipation. I love watching Mom hate things. Most days she pretended not to see them. That strikes me as very funny.

We walked 6.2 miles the day we got there and Ellen and Dad were unimpressed with purposeless wandering. Copenhagen is a big small city and Mom led us around to hit main streets and city highlights that did not require us to hop on a bus. We found the very busy pedestrian shopping street and all were immediately put off by pushy crowds. I become a mean person that I don’t recognize when forced to exist in a crowd and I almost pulled an Ellen and bowed out of the day. We ambled and milled and lollygagged and that about sums up our activities for Copenhagen. All the while Ellen took flawless photos fit for dental advertisements.

I have happy good feelings towards this city. It’s got a young, spunky vibe while getting things done in an old, charming setting. It’s busy and colorful but also has lots of quiet streets and green spaces. What else could you need?

Friends They Are Jewels

As you might have inferred from the subtle clues left here by our ungrateful groundskeeper, EisenEars, we left the country for a Scandinavian cruise and Brett stayed home to take care of the houses and pets. During this two week time period Brett lived here, on Black Pig Farms (as Carolyn calls it) and he and Grace and Pippa and Buddy and Bobo had a special summer camp experience that they will never forget.

Here's a picture of how he walked all three pups.

In addition to the dogs and the vicious cat that he kept locked in the guest room, Brett was in charge of managing all shipments delivered to Chris Union's house. During this time of renovations, Brett had to keep an eye out for various packages of construction equipment and tools and one big box that contained a new tire for my car because he ran over a manhole cover and popped my wheel just before I left. He's always beating up my cars. I also strategically left out a list of jobs that need to get done here at BP Farms, things like painting a board on the roof, garage improvements, lawn care, and wishes for a porch swing. Oh and I left him with six large plants to care for and about 25 small ones to spritz on occasion.

I'm happy to report that I came home to four living pets and 31 happy, healthy plants. He painted that board (and the garage), mowed the lawn, and painted and hung a porch swing. He also sanded and painted my bathroom, installed some kitchen shelves, put on my new tire, stocked the fridge with my favorite breakfast supplies, and planted my "rescue agave" cactus in the backyard so it can grow even bigger and stronger.

Here's a picture I took from the comfort of the new porch swing.

Once I got home from our trip, Brett finally admitted to me that three dogs is one too many and that he had no free or alone time for two weeks. He had gone into my absence with excitement, finally able to read, have some Brett time, work on Brett projects. He said he got nothing done. I feel for the fella, but he sure got a lot done over at my house. 

Our flight got in late on Thursday night so we all went straight home to sleep and I told Mom I'd bring over her pets whenever. Buddy and Bobo were home by 8:30 the next morning because I couldn't stand it; the meowing and grunting and clickety-clacking of twelve paws circling my bed. I am now more convinced than ever that Brett Eisenhauer is part saint. 

A few more notes before I start my trip reporting. As soon as I got home I needed some Dock Time. It doesn't feel like Summer without Dock Time and though I did get a little bit with a few special friends on the Fourth of July....

...this summer has been mostly void of that salty paradise. Also, Pippa had never had a dock day. Sure we'd walked out there last winter and she even leapt into the pluff mud but she's never had the pleasure of donning a life-jacket and charging over the edge into our murky blue/brown water. 

Mom said that Buddy was a little despondent after he came home from two weeks at camp. My little heart broke for Buddy. No problem. We loaded up, fitted Pip for a floatation device, and opened the gate. 

Unsure at first, Pippa dutifully followed the crowd and did as Buddy and Grace did. She flattened out and tried to resist when I lowered her onto the floating dock but before she knew it she was bobbing and surfing like the rest of them. Then Brett jumped in. Buddy followed, Grace brought up the rear, and Pip watched from her floating perch. A true adventurer, Pip reared back, leapt up, pointed her toes, and dove into the water like a human, front paws first, submerging her head, then belly, and then her straightened back legs. It nearly killed us. It was so cute and funny. I'll try to get it on video soon. She dove like this, in and out in and out and finally did a normal dog jump when she thought she might land on Grace. Pippa loved Dock Time and swims so fast. I felt like a parent watching their child experience something new. 

One last thing. Brett picked us up from the airport on Thursday night. We were supposed to get in a little before 11:00 but our flight was delayed and we didn't make it until after midnight. We felt horrible about keeping Brett up so late. We told him to stay home and we'd just take a taxi. He insisted and just before we boarded our last flight he asked me if I had any markers in the house. I was too tired to read into this.

We arrived in Charleston, sleepy and confused, to find Brett, Erik and Chelsea in the lobby holding signs and grinning at us. Erik's poked fun and my old parents while Chelsea's nodded to Pippa's Russian heritage.

Brett's sign had bystanders feeling awkward. He held a balloon that said, "It's a boy!" and the following poster.

Women gave me dirty looks while menfolk giggled and looked at Brett like a fool. Brett (who feels no shame) loves to embarrass me and will happily go down with the ship for the sake of a laugh. 

Next to us was a foreign family of a dozen people wearing matching T-shirts of someone's face and they were having a tearful family reunion. It seemed to be the first time meeting of a long-lost grandfather or perhaps his long-awaited arrival in the United States. They were all crying and filming and hugging. Though it made my homecoming feel much more trashy, I was touched that my friends stayed up so late to greet us.

I felt like the luckiest pregnant cheater in Charleston.