Bringing Up a Baby in Germany

Four years ago, I was my way to the Dusseldorf airport from a job interview and started chatting with my cab driver. He had three kids and, in response to my impressed look, he laughed and said, "It's up to us, the Arabs and the Canadians to make the babies here, because the Germans aren't making them!"

So, my son was born earlier this month in a German hospital to a Hungarian mother and a Canadian father, and I did my small part to fulfill Germany's economic goal of replacing the ranks of its aging population with a beautiful hybrid baby boy. And what an international love child! He'll get his mother's command of the Hungarian language and his father's Canadian English, along with a German education, starting out in a Kindergarten.

The country he will grow up in is as international as he is, though it's still different from my own settler state of a homeland. My mother, born in Canada to Dutch immigrants, still remembers attending the ceremony where her parents, brother, and sister were made Canadian citizens.

Those ceremonies are still celebrated by soon-to-be citizens and Canadians like me, who grew accustomed to seeing short clips of these ceremonies on the local evening news – back when people used to get their news from the TV.

You won't find that in Germany, or elsewhere in Europe. There's no Ministry of Multiculturalism and Germany doesn't bill itself as a Promised Land. It's the World's Workshop and it needs skilled workers. This is a transactional relationship, which is why there are so many foreigners in Germany and why so many of them come and go. It's not that they can't hack it – although many will give you an earful about the food, weather, language, or bureaucracy – it's just the way it goes in the European Union. People move where the opportunities are and their host countries accept them, with little pomp or ceremony. My Syrian cab driver wasn't far off, Germany is still a country that relies on its guest workers, even for their babies.

But those Syrian cab drivers, Hungarian designers, and Canadian copywriters who stay have found something beyond the pragmatic benefits for living and working in Germany. Sure, we contribute to, and enjoy the benefits of, a functioning social welfare system. And that system may care little about whether we stick around, but there are times where we have met informal multicultural ministers in Germany. Like the patient government workers who hear our faltering German and reply slowly, clearly, and respectfully for our German-novice ears. Or the helpful colleagues and friends who've offered advice or included us in some local custom, which often involves beer and/or raw meat.

When you stick with it, good things come to you here. It often takes the barest of minimums, like using your lousy German or keeping an open mind. Then, gradually, you lay down some roots. You feel less like a guest worker and the whole thing doesn't feel like a transactional relationship.

As the years go by, as the character of Germany evolves with those of us who stay and make a life here, I'm excited to see what my son will encounter. He will never have experienced this awkward guest worker phase that we endure. He'll be a local kid born in Germany with foreigner parents, like many other kids he'll meet at school. What will his generation bring to their Germany?

Into the Harz of Germany

Glad to be standing at the top of Brocken after a crowded steam train-ride. 

Ever hear of Goslar? It's fine. You likely haven't. But you should drop by this town if you're in the neighbourhood, which also isn't likely because the only thing in Goslar's neighbourhood are rocks, trees, and the Harz Mountains.

The places that usually draw people to Germany are on the country's fringes. From Hamburg to the north, down to the southwest to the Dorf, Cologne – then further down the Rhine, you can reach Frankfurt, Heidelberg, the Black Forest, never straying to far from the border. Then turning east into Bavaria, you'd reach Munich with the Alps on your right. which are shared between Germany, Italy, Switzerland, and Austria. To the northeast, you reach Nuremburg, Dresden, and Berlin – every city close to Germany's borders.

The Harz Mountains are in the middle of that fringe. It's rugged country, where Germanic myths of witches and dwarves and bridge trolls come from. Kings ruled from castles here to guard the silver mines, the Nazis built V-1 and V-2 missiles in bunkers beneath the mountains, and the Iron Curtain ran through it. Most people flock to the fringes without really seeing the heart, or Harz, of Germany.

Express trains run around the Harz, so it took two train changes to reach Goslar. Then we got lost in the town. This is no cookie-cutter rebuilt town with a shiny old centre. Goslar wasn't carpet-bombed during the war, so most of the old town is as it was, with all its twisty, not-so-modern-German streets and its old timber houses. 

Sure, Goslar is a touristic draw. There's a Kaiserpfalz – an Imperial palace/castle from the medieval days – and old mills and German-style breweries. But the untouched old-timey centre is big enough to absorb them, so you get wonderfully quiet moments to yourself on these old, twisted cobblestone streets and alleys, hemmed in by ancient wood houses.

Having Goslar to yourself is a common feeling.

Down the rail line is Wernigerode, the starting point for tourists who take a crowded steam-powered train to Brocken, the Harz's highest peak, and back down again into town, where they crowd souvenir shops and Eis cafes. The buildings are also old, but the town is completely given over to tourist kitsch, which was disheartening and uninviting. We were ready to write off Wernigerode completely until we walked down a residential street, past a plague for Paul Renner, the typographer behind Futura. So not all bad, after all.

On our last night in Goslar, we we sat in our apartment deciding on our next destination as Empire Strikes Back dubbed in German played in the background. We had planned to go to Dessau to see the Bauhaus sights. But a Bauhaus Design and Architecture Museum was still a few years from completion and there were no architecture tours in English. It's astounding that Dessau hasn't embraced its Bauhaus heritage. We had to change trains in Berlin, so instead of changing trains, we stayed in Berlin.

One day in Berlin

What do you do when you have one night in Berlin? We had no time for anything, so we planned as much as possible for the rest of the afternoon. Kata suggested we visit the Boros Bunker to see some contemporary art. We got turned away because it's appointment-only. Berlin amateur move. Kata used to live in Neukoeln, so we went there for dinner, but choked and couldn't agree on a restaurant. We rushed hungrily into a joint that, to put it lightly, sucked. Another amateur Berlin move. We should have known better.

The next day, we walked along the Spree in the sun, had a cool drink by the river, and ate amazing burgers in the Mitte. We had no plans. We didn't make it to another museum and that didn't matter, strolling through the Tiergarten was enough. We threw away our plans and the expectations that come with them. And we were reminded that Berlin has nothing but rewards for the relaxed visitor.

Berlin views.

Baby Naming Struggles

When we started our baby name list we agreed to a Hungarian name, because he'd have an awesome Anglo last name. There was just one condition: I had to be able to pronounce his name in my maple syrup-y Canadian accented English. 

That eliminated Abel, because a Hungarian would pronounce it like A-Bell, while a Canadian would say it like Able. We decided this would confuse the poor kid.

Kata really wanted Samuel, because the cutesy pet name for it would be Samu, pronounced Shamu. I decided naming our kid after a famous whale wasn't a good idea. I vetoed it, but Kata never understood the North American reference.

Hungarians pronounce their S like Sh, so that pronunciation issue eliminated Simon (Shimon, phonetically). A Canadian Jacob, would sound like Yak-ub. Benjamin made its way onto a few government documents, like our daycare sign-up (yes, you have to sign up early for day-care here). But that J issue popped up again. Plus, it isn't a Hungarian name.

Kata had a girl name figured out, but thinking of a boy's name hadn't occurred to her and she didn't want her son's life to be like a JohnnyCash song. I approached it with my usual shrug and let's-not-think-too-hard-and-something-will-pop-into-our-head attitude. So, the process went on for a while. A Hungarian woman and a Canadian man living in Germany can have a tough time thinking of a name.

Armin was a favourite for a while, but then it wasn't. We both pronounced Felix the same way, but we didn't like it because it's far too common in Germany and it was not a Hungarian name. As an expat family, Felix was raus! as the Germans say.

For a while Kata was fiercely advocating for Csongor, pronounced Chong-Gore. I should have liked it, it's a great Hungarian name, but it always rubbed me the wrong way. Csongor. Chong-Gore. Little baby Chong-Gore. Nope.

Another great Hungarian name we both liked was Attila. Hungarians have been naming their boys Attila since the days of Attila the Hun, the great barbarian... pillager... plunderer... oh... right...

There was Áron, which was our choice for a week or so, but then I would write Aron all the time because my Canadian computer keyboard doesn't have an A with an accent on it, so that was out. Another name starting with an A was Antal, for Antal Szerb, my favourite Hungarian writer and one of Kata's favourites too. That was cut after a while. I can't remember why.

There was Gellért, for the hill in Budapest I wind-sprinted up a lot. Then Bence, the Hungarian version of Vincent. Both considered, liked for a day or two and cut. Imre? Out.

There was one name that kept popping onto the list and was never eliminated. We've been using it for the last few months now. "How is ____ doing?" or "Oh, ____ kicked!" And neither of us has vetoed it. The name has stuck. So, with six weeks remaining until his arrival date, we have a name for him.