Abschiedsfeier 101

Megan is currently running a series on moving to another country, and one of the first pieces of advice is: You’re going to be dead tired.  To which I would add – this starts BEFORE you actually move.  Today was my last day of work.  I fly out to Beijing tomorrow.  Believe you me, this was not my design, but through a combination of begging and bribery, I was talked into working down to the last hours.  At my going away party this afternoon, everyone was asking if I am excited or nervous.  Mostly, I am just tired.  And cranky with Deutsche Bank and Germans who don’t grasp (or accept) the concept of waiting in lines.  And tired.

Also, as you expats in Germany will have discovered, it is customary to throw your own going away celebration, much as you are responsible for bringing your own birthday cake to the office.  So a tip for fellow Munich residents: if you are running errands in Marienplatz before work and think you can pick up some cakes at Rischart on the way to the office, you cannot.  Because they do not have cakes until noon.  But just when you are about to start punching people in the face, remember that you CAN walk down the street to Dallmayr and buy cakes at 10am.  There will be a plethora of offerings, including champagne tortes, fruit tarts, Sacher tortes, and more.  They will be beautifully decorated and packaged and wrapped and festooned in ribbons.  They will, surprisingly, cost the same as those sad little cakes in Rischart you were so desperate to buy as quickly as possible.  And your coworkers will fall all over themselves fighting for the last slices.  Unless the senior VP in your office shows up to make a friendly little speech about your work, and then slyly walks off with the last quarter of the cheesecake – doily and all.

prep work

The German and I were lulled into a sense of false complacency by the promise of a moving company doing all the work for us. As recently as yesterday afternoon, we sat around, drinking our coffees, spending time making panna cotta and strawberry sauce as all we needed to do on Sunday was pack the suitcases we would carry on the plane and toss stuff we don’t need.

Well. Now it’s Sunday. And I have realized that a moving company does not erase the need to donate clothes you haven’t worn in the two years you’ve lived in Germany. Nor do they separate out what items are essential, and what can wait to be shipped over in a month. Nor will they make two round trips up to the 4th floor storage room to get all the suitcases required for packing. Nor will they do five loads of laundry. Nor will they sort through books and DVDs to see what you must take with you, and then further divide into what can stand up to a through Chinese customs inspection of shipped goods (The OC, Twilight) and what should be buried deep within your suitcases in the non-descript 32-CD case like those I haven’t seen in ten years (don’t worry, Jack, I will keep you safe).

So, today has been a 12 hour event of preparing for other people to come in tomorrow and pack our stuff. Yes, aside from the suitcases that will be flying to China with us, there is very little that’s actually packed. I don’t know why they left 100 m of bubble wrap for us. We used it to make matching Michelin man suits. I assume that was the intended purpose.

coming to america

I take a fair amount of grief from my colleagues for being from America.  These relate to corporate policy far more than foreign policy, so I wouldn’t say I’ve experienced any real anti-Americanism during my time year.

In fact, I find that most Europeans love America.  Or, at least California.  And specifically, San Francisco.  When Europeans from any country find out I’m from California, it’s like suddenly I’m a movie star.  A privileged and exotic creature, who is certifiably insane to have left this magical land.  I don’t know if other Americans have the same experience, but that’s probably what they deserve for being from somewhere outside California.

Today I spent 20 minutes talking to some French and Italian colleagues about how wonderful California is.  Amusingly, they both experienced my great state through previous Silicon Valley employers and were able to speak at length about the virtues of the Milpitas Great Mall and the Gilroy Factor Outlets.  This made me laugh.

Also, one of the French men had made several visits to Santa Clara University and couldn’t stop raving about the campus: “It is completely different from university in Paris!  It is so sunny!  Everyone is sitting outside!  The girls…they wear shorts that are like this! (indicating)“  Which, funnily enough, is exactly the same reaction the German had to America’s higher education system when we visited the same school last year.  Now I see how they make so much money off the international students.

tastes like chicken

During the past two years, I have often fantasized about dim sum, bubble tea, pho, and other such treats.  Not only is there a serious lack of good Chinese food, there is also an alarming tendency to have “Asian” restaurants.  That is, restaurants that serve a fast food mix of chicken tikka masala, sushi, and chow mien.  Because, you know, all Asian people eat the same food.  India, Korea, whatever.  To a community who spend so much time deriding Americans for not recognizing the difference between different countries, I say to you, “pot?  kettle?”  Although I do enjoy the irony of my coworkers engaging in such complaints about our US colleagues while ordering lunch from one of these Asian establishments.

I’ve been thinking an excellent business plan when I move to China would be to open up a European Restaurant, where I serve tapas, crepes, pasta, and maybe a Sunday roast.  Mmm..tapas.

Oh yes!  The German and I are moving to China.  His company has made a recent investment in a Chinese firm and are sending him there.  My company has kindly made arrangements for me to work in our Beijing office.  Finally, I will have the upper hand!  I knew my time would come.  I didn’t realize it would be coming in two weeks, but the upper hand can never come too soon.  Frantic updates to follow in between packing and eating down the cupboards.

if the wheels fit

People often share with me the rants, raves, and stereotypes they have about America/Americans. Usually these are fairly predictable, running the gamut from weight to friendliness to shopping. But the other day someone said to me, “You know what’s crazy about America? That only the front two wheels on the shopping carts move and then they come here and don’t know how to use ours because all 4 wheels are moving!”

Which made me think:

What?

This is what springs to mind when you think of America?

Clearly, this girl has never been to a factory outlet.  Or California or New York.

Is this even true? Is this true? Having never owned a car, I have only experienced life with a basket, and being an SF-bred snob, that basket was normally trotting around a farmer’s market. I could not say with certainty how many wheels are moving on a grocery store cart, either in the US or Germany. Which I think disappointed this girl as much as it disappointed me to move here and find out that no one, but no one, had ever heard of The Sound of Music. How can you not like one of the greatest Rodgers and Hammerstein productions of all time? Oh, wait a minute….