Where does the time go?

I was going to write this shortly after my son’s six-month ‘birthday,’ but the job and the dad stuff got in the way, so I put it off for a few days. Two weeks later, I’m finally banging out this draft, wondering where the time goes.

My Opa once said that as he grew older, the days got long but the years got shorter. I never really noticed that stretching and condensing of time until I became a father. When I lay in bed exhausted, I wander what a long, eventful day it was and then I think wasn’t that little guy just born a few days ago? How did he get so big so quickly? Where did those long, full days go? 

Shortly after university, I watched a friend become an active father. It was from that adult’s perspective of parenthood that I saw how much work and sacrifice comes with being a father who’s present, who’s there. I knew going into this fatherhood thing that I was giving up some things to be a part of something that was outside myself.

Aside from the sleep I’ve lost – which barely compares to my wife’s sacrifice at the Altar of No Sleep –the sacrifices I’ve made haven’t been a big deal. It’s the me-centred stuff that’s the first to go, like partying all night or binge-watching an entire series on a rainy afternoon. Easy sacrifices.

And the money? Yes, a baby is expensive, but I would have blown that on whiskey and road trips if he didn’t come along. If anything, my son has grown me up and made me more responsible. He’s made me became a man.

But the time… That’s a sacrifice I’m still getting used to.

With so much more demands on my time and energy, I see time as my most precious resource. And it’s flying by. I don’t feel like I’m wasting it. If anything, I feel as though I’m making a far better use of it than I ever have before. I’m tested and challenged. My son grows every day, and I’m growing too, keeping up with him.

Time might be flying, but it’s not slipping away. And as the six months have raced by, I feel as though my life is fuller than it ever was before. Now if only it would just slow down a little bit, so I can appreciate and hold onto some of these moments just a little bit longer.

Quest for a German Drivers' License

Patiently posing in front of our rental

I meet a Canadian at the rental car desk. While he filled out my reservation, we exchanged stories about ending up in Germany. His hometown was up the road from mine, Kitchener-Waterloo. Like many folks from there, he's of German descent, so it wasn't too hard for him to get a work visa and come over during a gap year that turned into a few years.

While we talked about life in Germany as a Canadian, he asked me about my address. Like every time I rent a car in Germany, there was a pause as I reminded myself to provide my Canadian address instead of my German one. He understood right away.

As a permanent resident, German authorities would prefer if I got a German drivers' license. When I rent a car I let them believe I'm visiting from Canada. It's not illegal, since my license is valid, but I should have a German drivers' license if I live in Germany. My new Canadian acquaintance had recently done this, and understood the patience and strength it takes to drive through that part of the German Kafka-cracy.

If Germany decides your country is on its level of driving excellence, you simply exchange your foreign license for a German license. Of course, you need the right papers.

A First Aid Course in German

German drivers must pull over to help someone in distress, rather than the traditional North American Let's-Slow-Down-And-Rubber-Neck as you pass by. This means, you need a first aid certificate.

The course I found was in a hotel basement, where they also threw in an eye test, which is also needed for a license exchange. The course was in German, so it was a first aid lesson, an eye test, and a German lesson all rolled into one. Good deal. The only other non-German speaker was an IT worker from India. He was also taking a driving course because Germany doesn't look as favourably on Indian licenses as my Canadian license and wouldn't exchange it. He had to earn his German drivers license from scratch, so this was one stop on a longer journey for him. The two of us muddled through the German details of the course together and followed along with the demonstrations.

I apologize in advance if I pull over to help you on a German roadside.

The 1st Government Appointment

Like my other bureaucratic adventure in Germany, the rule of thumb for a foreigner is that you won't get it done in one appointment. There is always some paper you're missing. I find this frustrating, but friends who grew up in East Bloc communist dictatorships find this comfortingly familiar.

Of course, I forgot about this rule. I strutted into the office. I spoke my crappy German and proudly laid out my documents. The man looked it over and asked me for a driver history. Why? I have all my papers! Nope, I did not. I had gotten my Canadian drivers' license renewed after I arrived in Germany, which suggests to the German Powers-That-Be that I only recently earned my drivers' license. I needed a driving history from my home province to prove that I've been driving for 20 years.

Oh, and the translation of my Canadian drivers license wasn't acceptable either. It must be translated by someone certified by the government. The only place for that is the ADAC, Germany's version of CAA, which  shares the building with the government's transport office that I was in. How convenient!

Playing the Waiting Game

To get a complete driving history I wrote a letter asking for my drivers' license history, not the history of all my vehicular brushes with death or maiming. I signed the letter and mailed it, like my forefathers. It's a bureaucracy, so they don't accept Visa. I wrote a cheque, also like my forefathers and I waited… And waited…

Over a month later, I received my reply. My request required a different kind of request because I was in foreign country, so the amount in the cheque was not sufficient. Could I send another cheque? I wrote another polite, formal letter. Signed another cheque. Did my walk of shame to the post office, and then I waited again for the Ontario government to open my letter, walk to the bank, cash my cheque, chat idly with the bank teller about the weather, then return to the office to write my official drivers' with ink and quill.

The Waiting Game Continues…

Months later, the drivers' history finally arrived. I went to the ADAC with all my papers and said it my crappy German, "Frau! I would like a translation, please." She copied all the important driving papers and I got a receipt.

Like so many times, I'm my own worst enemy. I was so accustomed to waiting months for important papers that I didn't read the German fine print on my receipt. I waited two months and started muttering about the awful ADAC. I had a mind to call and vent, so I dug up my receipt looking for some contact information and discovered the pick-up date for my drivers' license translation was a month ago. Yep! I'm a genius.

I picked up my papers and marched into the drivers' license government office. Triumphantly laying out all my papers. Speaking my still-crappy German. When I laid out my first aid stuff, the lady waved it away. She did carefully examine my drivers' history, so that wait was worth it. When everything was signed and stamped, I was told the drivers' license would arrive in two weeks. And wouldn't you know it, it arrived in two weeks. The rusty cogs of German bureaucracy certainly get moving when you have all your papers.

See you on the Autobahn!

Visiting Eltz Castle

If you don't have access to a car, it isn't easy to reach Eltz Castle. There's no train access, since it's a castle up in the hills. Bus service is intermittent because it's partway between Koblenz and Trier – which means it's not near anywhere. For a normal plebs like us, visiting the castle at Eltz was a distant goal. Until the Hungarian family arrived in a car for a visit and were easily convinced to take on a road trip to Eltz Castle.

It's a two-and-a-half drive from the Dorf to the entrance of gravel parking lot on the Eltz estate where you pay the old man a couple of euros to park. If you roll past him, as we saw a Dutch family do, he will shake his fist at you until you return to his booth and pay him.

Then you walk into a nature reserve and hike a half kilometer along a forest trail that goes around a hill, edging a deep ravine. Eventually, you turn an outcropping of basalt and there's the castle, standing on a rocky crag in a valley.

It's then that you appreciate the difficulty to reaching this place. As a veteran of Neuschwanstein Castle, I was half-expecting crowds of people, sausage vendors, pretzel pushers, and kiosks serving frosty glasses of Weissbier. There's none of that tourist nonsense near Eltz castle. It's just a castle surrounded by nature.