When Siamese Twins Must be Separated, and other grief the historian must bear.

In June, my good friend Sarah and I resolved to each write an academic article during the month of July. We're loosely following a proven plan of attack, and every few days or so we meet online to see what kind of progress we are making. It is not too difficult to write an article—even when aforementioned term is preceded by terms like “peer reviewed” and “academic journal.” These bad boys weigh in at approximately 10,000 words (30-35 pages, double spaced). It might seem like a lot, but for people who are basically trained to write their way into a doctoral title (a dissertation is upwards of 250 pages, emphasis on the "upwards of"), an article shouldn't be that difficult. 

Like most thing in life, however, they are.

I am three-quarters of the way finished with my rough draft—right around 8,000 words with most of the notes already added. I'm probably done with the hardest part of the writing, so by now it should be a sprint to the proverbial finish line. Instead, I've been stuck for days in the penultimate section of the paper, where I take everything I've talked about so far and try to support it with some bits of theory and methodology. This feels suspiciously less like the homestretch of a race, and more like standing idly on top of a vast, barren plateau—with vultures circling above me. Figuratively speaking. I hope.

I am coming up on a little less than two weeks left in this tiny place. This past Saturday marked the official commencement of my sorting-trashing-and-packing routine which has precluded all of the eleven+ relocations I've experienced in the last thirteen years. This ritual usually begins with a lot of baffled attempts at surveying my possessions, and reliving that moment you realize you will never be able to take it all with you. Despite the fact I've kept myself on a very tight leash regarding purchasing here, I seemed to have acquired more than what I came here with. As the research fellow who has been here longer than any other current scholarship holder, I have been the dumping grounds for the generosity of others who have faced the same quandary of what to do with all the stuff they've amassed here. Hence, I've acquired any number of things, from computer speakers to a computer printer/ scanner; from 3 kg dumbbells to a yoga mat; a rolling office chair; a large-frame reading chair; from random throw pillows to large, framed portraits that say things like “home” and “dream” on them; countless pencils and other office paraphernalia; books; magazines; picture frame; the cook; the baker; the candlestick maker.

In an effort to make the chaos of it all seem about as stressful as a trip to the grocery store, I started by making a list. Of lists. In all, eight lists. A list of things to trash. A list of things to keep and give, and whom to give them to. What to pack in my checked baggage. What to pack for the vacation I'm taking to Croatia before flying home. What to pack in my carry on. What to pack in the carry on I will take to my best friend's wedding in Wisconsin the morning after I arrive in Toronto (don't worry Rachel, I love you). A “before leaving WfB” to-do list... Plus a few other lists I've probably forgotten about.

The one thing that these lists basically taught me is: I only have two suitcases. And there is no way everything will fit in them. And no amount of list-making will change that. So, stop stressing and start trashing (or “gift” giving, as Trish will soon learn).

This morning, while enjoying the first, serene hours of the day in the library reading room, the reason why I am stuck in my article finally revealed itself. I'm stuck because I'm trying to write two articles into one.

For my next trick, I shall try to explain what those two are. The first paper, the one I actually set out to write, is about how 01 January made people think about the end of the world a lot more—I mean, a lot more than usual for that time period (if you've read my blog so far, you know that's saying a lot, since they were pretty much thinking about it most of the time anyway). There was something about concluding an old year, and taking those first few steps into the pristine, freshly fallen snows of a new year that made people wonder about what heaven would be like, and about the divine judgment they'd have to withstand in order to get there. I really like this topic because a.) I get to talk about the end of the world for the umpteenth time in my very young and naïve career as an academic; and b.) I thought of a really schnazzy title for the thing, so schnazzy I won't even mention it here, just in case thousands of the world leading early modern historians are secret closet reader of my blog and steal the title from me before I have a chance to do anything with it (one can dream, right?)

Anyway, that's the paper I wanted to write. The second paper is a lot more basic, and unfortunately, is probably the one that needs to get written about first. Essentially, it's about new year's day in early modern Germany (1500-1700). See, pretty boring, right? For obvious bore-related reasons, I did not anticipate talking about this very much in the article about new years/ apocalypse article. Surely, I thought, it would suffice to just tack a few paragraphs onto the introduction, in order to provide “historical context” that would explain “where we get our new year's from.”

Well, thanks to the fact that history is never as simple as you think it is, “This is where we got our new year's from” turned into “By the way, for a really long time, there was some serious confusion as to when the year even started—some thought Christmas, some thought 01 January, and other people thought 25 March. And some people thought it was all three or neither.”

And then, that turned into “here's why everything you ever thought about new year's was a lie.”

Well, not everything.

Besides my goal with Sarah to write an article this month, I set a goal with the Fiancee to wake up at 6:30AM every morning this month—7AM on weekends. I don't really know what was going through my mind when we set that goal, I think something about trying to reset my body clock or be more productive or something. 

At heart, I am a morning person—I function best when I wake up at the crack of dawn and work before anyone else get up. But every so often, I go through phases where I just laze around in bed not doing much of anything until I'm darn well good and ready. Strangely, such phases coincide with seasons in which I have no real responsibility to anyone or anything but myself and my own work, which becomes really depressing after a while. It turns out that a lack of obligations can be really stressful. I find setting arbitrary goals helps me recreate that sense of obligation, which can be really fulfilling.

In this case, however, I realized that even succeeding in one's goals can have its downside. Namely sleep deprivation. Waking up at 6:30AM means I can't just go to bed whenever I please. Going to bed early means I can't loose track of time scouring facebook for signs that other people exist. Nor does it mean I can keep drinking coffee until dinner time, no matter how much I adore the bitter guzzle of tar juice. The more I try to have my cake and eat it too, the more exhausted I become.

You just can't fit it all into one day. Or suitcase. Or article. Life is short, and so is everything else. Better to live selectively and intentionally rather than all-inclusively and indescriminately, right?

I don't care. I don't want to split them up. I don't want to write two articles about new year's in post-Reformation Germany—even if it would look good on my resumee. I want to write one article, and tie it up masterfully into a beautifully bound, logically cohesive, spell-bindingly captivating read (by academic standards). And then I want to write a poem about it. And then I want to paint a picture about the poem, and sell it, and make everyone think how brilliant I am. How I just capture, in one glorious brush stroke, the full spectrum of what it means to be a human being suspended in this both tragic and magnificent fabric of temporality. And then I want to use the money I make off of that painting to solve world hunger.

Sigh. Sometimes people tell me I set unrealistic goals for myself.

There comes a time in every woman's life who gives birth to Siamese twins, a time when she must decide whether to intervene and separate them, or let them play with the cards they've been dealt. Even if their mutual liver(s) are fused between the two bodies. She (and hopefully the father too) must make the choice knowing that, either way, one or both of the twins could die. I'm sure that whatever decision she arrives at, she does so out of love—she wants to give her darlings the best possible chance at life.

Today, I am that mother. Kind of. And, as Steven King explained once in regards to the writing process, if I want my article to survive, I must “kill my darlings.”

But, should someday my two little Siamese twins topics come back to seek retribution for my fateful choice to separate them, I would like to say how much I love them. How much I want them to survive in the field of history as fully formed arguments, rather than to be eternally constrained by the parameters of one article. And so, I am cutting their wings—in the hopes that one day, they will fly. (That is the most incoherent and poetic metaphor ever! Which is why I'm not deleting it!)

I just better finish all of this by the end of the month if I want to make that goal.

Lessons Learned as of Late

There are times in life we learn important lessons to help us grow. This may be why I was always sort of tall for my age.

Lessons learned for the week, in chronological order:

1.) Being on top of your to do list and life tasks is usually the first indication you have overlooked something, usually something that could potentially send your life catapaulting into chaos when remembered (after it is too late).

2.) Do not let the following people fool you:

• End times gurus who proclaim the Euro to be the One World Currency. The Euro is about as compatible with credit institutions outside Europe as water is with... oil. No, tar. No, tar made from oil.
• German bank personel who assure you they are doing everything they can to help you transfer money between foreign accounts, yet fail to inform you they actually have an associate who SPECIFICALLY HANDLES SITUATIONS WITH FOREIGN BANK TRANSACTIONS.
• Aforementioned German bank personel who assure you it is not possible to transfer money overseas.

3.) Making partial payments on car loan until you can get money transferred into AMerican dollars to pay bills is not just like paying the minimum balance on a credit card bill.

4.)  Just because you haven't actually heard anything from your car loan officer, and just because there are no huge red flags on your online account, does NOT mean loan sharks haven't been stalking your stateside mailing address trying to repossess your car.

5.) Loan sharks do not care that you have been in Germany for a year, trying in vain to transfer Euros into dollars so you can pay your bills from an American account. They do, however, care that your car is not at your mailing address but "smuggled" (i.e. driven in plain daylight with full knowledge of customs official) across the border to Canada just as you stopped  making full car payments, where it now resides with The Fiancee.

6.)Never doubt the Fiancee's ability to be my hero and save the day with his mad Western Union skillz and unconditional love.

7.) Wallets are not to be unattended. No, not even in a library locker in naive little Wolfenbuettel.

8.) Always be thankful for your rival arch nemeses. Sometimes when they go out of their way to prove they are better than you, they actually can be handy for something. Like recovering stolen wallets in the bottom of a woman's bathroom garbage can.

9.) Do not attempt to take stress out on tin cans of tomatoes with a dulled can opener whose lever is missing.

10.) Do not mistake gushing blood for tomato juice. Also, try not to die of blood loss if possible.


Yep. I knew I was feeling tall lately. Growth spurt!

The Breakup

I have some news. A regular character in this blog, aka The Boyfriend, will no longer be featuring here. That's right, The Boyfriend and I are no longer dating.  It's a long story...

This recent change in my life has been developing for some time, now. In fact, I suppose it all started when the Boyfriend became the Boyfriend (as he put it, when he asked me to "go steady" because he is charming like that). There we were, standing in the crowded Toronto airport: he dropping me off, me heading to Germany. He calm and collected, me crying. He standing still, me being ushered by a clerk towards security. When suddenly, amid the bustling crowds and blaring security announcements, he pulled me back from security, took something from his pocket, and got down on one knee.

"Nicole Marie Lyon," he asked me, his gesture suddenly halting the crowd of passersby to a curious stop. "Will you be my keychain buddy?"

The onlookers followed us with their confused gazes as the boyfriend and I enthusiastically began exchanging key rings with tears in our eyes. To the rest of the world, we were sharing keys. But to us, we were sharing our heart. On the keychain The Boyfriend gave me was a tiny prayer rope he had made some time ago, identical to the one he had on his own keys. He made it wanting to give it to someone special. He had told me a long time ago about the keychain, and I knew how much it meant for him to give it to me, so I barely noticed there was something else on the keyring.

"Do you see the key?" He asked. Looking back at my keys, I nodded. Indeed, there was a tiny key with a matte, red handle--the kind that might open up a suitcase or diary.

"That key leads somewhere very special, but you will only find out later," he told me. "Just don't lose it."

I nodded and looked back at the prayer rope and hugged him. And in a few moments, I was whisked into the security line, and in a number of hours, I stepped off the plane in Germany all alone.

And yet, not alone. For somewhere out there, I had a key chain buddy. 

 We even got roped into paying eighty Euro for a charcoal portrait of our two Franco-Hispanic look-alike cousins. 

As beautiful as the beginning as our relationship was, however, our life together has also had its share of reality. Over time, the distance in between us put a strain on things. It sifted us. It taught us. It made us think about what it was we loved--and didn't love--about one another. It made us wonder about our lives, our futures, and what it means to love someone. There was loneliness, there, and sadness sometimes. I remember all the nights falling asleep, and wondering how he was doing at work. I remember all the mornings, thinking about him on my way to work, while crossing the picturesque bridge called "Little Venice," whose love locks you may remember from an earlier post. I have always loved that bridge, since the first day I came here. It is one of those places one simply longs to have another person there to share it. I always thought about the boyfriend when I crossed it, wishing the bridge could cross over everything in between us. But, us girls. We never say the things we really think. And I never told the boyfriend how much I wanted to share that bridge with him. Until it was too late.

Standing in the center of Paris.

It's not that we had a bad time together here. In fact, our time in the eastern hemisphere started out thrilling enough--after all, we met in Paris. In our five days there, we more or less divided and conquered the subway and bike-rental system, we systematically tracked out the best quiche lorraine, the best boeuf bourgignon, the best comte cheese and beufort wine. We visited and made new friends at the Orthodox churches in the area. We studied the architecture, took lots of beautiful pictures, drank too much over-priced coffee, spent ample time inside Notre Dame and St. Germain des Pres (my favorite two cathedrals there), learned some French, and even got roped into paying eighty Euro for a charcoal portrait of our two Franco-Hispanic look-alike cousins. And in between all the big tourist attractions, we had our own share of memorable moments, ranging from the happy (a quiet spot we found on the Seine river to watch the boats go past) to the lesson-learning (the reality of two people making all their schedule, and food, choices together for a week), to the just plain maddening (one word: insect infestation. And hostel. Okay, that's four words.)

But by the end of the week, we could look back on a trip that had been both magical and, somehow, realistic. On the last day, after walking through the city and saying goodbye to our favorite places, we made one last trip to the Eiffel tower.

When we got to the observatory deck, The Boyfriend put his arms around me.

"This has been the best trip of my life," he whispered into my ear.


So it's not that we had a bad time together. But still, something was missing. I didn't know what, but something.

On the last day, after walking through the city and saying goodbye to our favorite places, we made one last trip to the Eiffel tower."This has been the best trip of my life," the Boyfriend whispered into my ear.

 


Back in Germany, it was back to life-as-half-normal for me, and life-as-vacation for the Boyfriend. Things started coming to a head when he saw the scavenger hunt I had put in the little gift basket on the guest bed. The envelop read "Everything you need for a totally awesome photo-scavenger hunt." Inside was a map of the historic inner city of Wolfenbuettel, and a list of ten clues for him to find while I was working during the day.  I'd thought about the list for weeks, but only wrote it down right before I left for Paris. I already had the tricky clues like "a street paved (partially) with gold"  and "a bird's eye view of wolfenbuettel that you can fit into one picture frame." (The former was referring to gold-plated cobblestones that Germany has erected across the country in front of homes that Holocaust victims lived in before they were deported, called "stumbling stones." The latter referred to a small miniature model of Wolenbuettel that sits around the corner from my house, but the boyfriend went all out and somehow found his way to the top tower of the highest church in town.) But after I wrote down the tricky clues, I only had 7 items to find and I knew that would not satisfy the Boyfriend, who loves finding things and being curious in new places. So I threw on a few easy ones, locations that were somehow special for me: 8.) "find your favorite building"; 9.) My favorite bridge with love locks; 10.) a horse.  After that, I threw it all in the envelope and promptly forgot about half the clues I'd put on there.

For several days, while the Boyfriend was working on the scavenger hunt, I had to listen to comments such as: "This is one of the most fun things anyone has ever done for me... The only complaint I have is that the clues are too easy," and "I hope you don't try to give me any more hints at where to find things, because I'm not an invalid." On  Wednesday night, we decided that the next day, the Boyfriend would meet me at work. We would then spend Thursday afternoon sampling Wurst (brats, sausage) and going through the clues.

"For each clue, I'll show you the picture, and you tell me if it's right or wrong. And then if it's wrong, you just take me to the right clue and we take the picture together, okay?"

"Perfect," I said.

As we went for a walk later that evening, we past Stober Strasse.

"Hey look," I turned to The Boyfriend. "That's the street I walk down for work in the morning. Want to see? There's something I want to show you there."

"Not really," The Boyfriend said in a rare tone of apathy, and pulled me in the other direction. "Is there a nice biergarten open?"

A heart sank as I stared down the cobblestoned alley. So much for showing him my bridge.

a list of ten clues for him to find while I was working during the day.

Thursday morning at breakfast, the boyfriend was a little quiet. I barely noticed because I was rushing around in my usual cyclone-esque way trying to get my things together for the archive.  At work, though, I kept wondering what had been bothering him. We'd been together 90% of the time for almost two weeks, maybe he was getting sick of me. Maybe he was happy when I went off to work during the day, maybe he needed some space. I felt funny inside, but didn't know why.

When he showed up at lunch, I began to pack my things up for the day.

"You look nice," I said in sort of an absent way, because I saw he was wearing my favorite shirt.

"Yeah," his face unexpectedly turned a rather violent shade of red. "Just... you know... There was no real reason. I guess, sometimes, it's nice to just... I don't know, freshen up, as it were. I guess."

His whole tone immediately struck my ears as strange and unfamiliar. I stared at him. What on earth was going on? A quick glance to his pants pockets did not reveal any sign of a quadratic-shaped jewelry box, so I knew he couldn't be thinking of popping the question.

"Sorry, I wasn't teasing you," I smiled. "You know I like that shirt."

"Yes," he answered. "I do know."

Anyway, we got out into the beautiful sunshine (for one in it's life, Germany decided to display normal spring weather.) After a few good Thuringer Wurst and mustard, we started in on the clues to the scavenger hunt.

As I perused the list, I realized I had forgotten about half of what I'd even put on there.
"Wow, I didn't know I put the horse and the bridge on there!" I commented. "Let's go to the bridge! Number 9!"

"Well, I was thinking. Let's go from easiest to hardest. Those ones were really hard for me," he said. "And I dont' know if I got them right. Can we start with the easy ones?"

And as he started showing me his pictures, I was amazed. One thing I can say in all honesty about the Boyfriend, no word of a lie, you put that man in charge of a scavenger hunt, and he will not disappoint. He did not just find the clues, he practically ate them for breakfast..  

The Boyfriend went all out and somehow found his way to the top of the highest church tower in town!

Finally we got to clue #9, the bridge. Since he had found all the hard clues, I was hopeful he'd finally found the bridge, perhaps he had even developed a special relationship with it in the meantime that we could appreciate together. After all, it was the only item on the list that really meant anything to me in a personal way. The bridge was the most special place in all of WfB to me.

"Well, I had some trouble with the bridge, like I said," The Boyfriend confessed. "I walked around for a really long time this morning trying to find it, because it was the last thing on my list. And all I could come up with was this."

He showed me a picture of a bus stop near the river, with a contemporary art statue in the background.

Once again, my heart sank.

"But that's not even a bridge," I commented. "And where are the love locks? I thought you said you weren't an invalid."

"Well, I don't even know what love locks are," he said and pointed to the so-called "art" in the picture. "I thought maybe that thing represented love, because I know you like art."

"No," I sighed. "That's not it. I guess I'll just have to show you myself."

"Yeah, I guess you will," he answered wryly.

And on we walked. Bridge-wards.

And all at once, my face started blushing uncontrollably. Maybe it was the fact we'd been standing there for five minutes, and the Boyfriend was still taking pictures. 

"I still don't get it," the Boyfriend commented. We were standing at the bridge. My hopes of him ever understanding how special this spot was to me had completely dissolved in the face of his unromantic cluelessness.

"Pumpkie, I'm sorry, why are there locks here? Can you explain it again?"

"I already have like three times!" I was trying to hide my exasperation. "When couples get engaged or married, they come here with a lock that has their names engraved on it. They lock it to the bridge and then throw the key into the water."

"Yeah, but why?"

"Because it's Symbolic!" I nearly shouted at him, fingering through the locks and looking at all the names and colors. "Because it's romantic! It's not that hard to comprehend."

"But why do people lock their wedding rings to the bridge, then?" He asked, showing me a lock on his side of the bridge that had a ring attached to it.

"I don't know," I said flippantly, flicking the emerald ring with my fingers. "Maybe their wife died or something. It's probably not real, anyway."

After a while, the boyfriend crossed the path, taking pictures of the bridge so he could officially complete his scavenger hunt.

I stared at the water, only then realizing how much I'd wanted the boyfriend to just understand the bridge was special, even if it seemed stupid. For whatever reason, every time I had crossed that bridge in the last year and seen those locks and flowers, I'd thought about him. I thought it was because of how beautiful it was, but only then did I realized the real reason. Maybe all along I'd just hoped that someday, somehow, we would have a lock to put on that bridge. But due to the Boyfriend's stubborn ignorance on the topic, that dream was proving to be just that: a dream.

I gave one last look at the locks. And all at once, my face started blushing uncontrollably. Maybe it was the fact we'd been standing there for five minutes, and the Boyfriend was still taking pictures. Maybe it was the words of my youngest brother and others, who had wondered casually whether the Boyfriend had really come to Europe just for a visit. Maybe it was the fact I knew that lock, the tiny one with the ring, was new and it made no sense why anyone would lock a ring to the bridge. Maybe it was the fact that this same ring matched the necklace The Boyfriend had sent me previously for our one-year anniversary.

But why would he be giving me a ring? Had I forgotten about some kind of milestone? What was going on? Was he trying to trick me? There was only one way to find out, and that was to test his resolve.

"Maybe their wife died or something. It's probably not real, anyway."

"Come on," I whined, walking over to him. "I'm starving. Can't we go get our sandwiches?"

"Yup I'm done. My scavenger hunt is officially finished!" he smiled triumphantly. Not the response I had expected from a man who should, by all accounts, be sweating bullets and freaking out by now.  Guess the ring wasn't mine. My heart didn't sink, though. It was already racing and rising and falling so many times per second that it was pretty much in a state of antigravitational free fall. When I recover my senses, I vowed, the boyfriend would hear about this. He would hear about how special the bridge was to me, how much I'd wanted to share a special moment there with him, how much...

"Can you take your keys? I need to put my camera in my pocket," he asked. At the last moment before clenching my hand around them, I saw he was holding them by the prayer rope. Or rather, not by the prayer rope. I did a double take. How on earth could I have forgotten?

"What does this mean?" I asked frantically, my hands shaking, as I stared at the red key.

"Well," he began. "Do you want to unlock the padlock and find out?"

It was not how I thought it would be, getting proposed to. I didn't cry (right away). I didn't scream. I didn't think about my answer (or answer at all). The boyfriend wasn't sweating or shaking. He didn't get down on one knee.

"When I asked you to be my girlfriend, I knelt," he told me. "But in our marriage, I want to start as equals. Neither of us stands above the other."

I didn't picture a perfect future, either. I knew in his eyes he was afraid, and I knew in my heart that I was afraid too. We both have so much growing to do, so many things to learn about life and loving. The joy in my heart came not because I knew we had an easy road ahead of us, but because I know I get to share whatever comes with him.

And yet, despite--or because of it all--it was the proposal I'd always wanted. Though  I didn't know how important the lock-and-key- symbol was to The Boyfriend, he got to propose by involving a lock and key. And though he had no idea how important that bridge was to me, I got to get engaged there. We got to be real people, with joys and fears. But most of all, we got to get engaged.

And that is my news. The Boyfriend is no more. Ladies and gentleman, allow me to introduce...

The Fiancee.

 The Fiancee's afterword: After approving this post, the Fiancee wishes to clarify that he didn't come to WfB with the intention of proposing in that spot. Nor did he know when he gave me the key how he would use it in the end. He bought the ring with to Europe, thinking perhaps Paris would make a good place to propose. Over the months he has thought about various possibilities, none of which felt right. Then, he read in a tourist guide there were love locks in Paris, and if that failed, there was always the Eiffel tower. But, for various reasons, the timing in Paris was never right and it did not work out. He resigned to wait until I made it to Toronto in August. When he saw the love locks on my scavenger hunt list, he took it as a divine sign that he was meant to propose there. In the end, it was the perfect proposal--for both of us. We are thankful for each other, and to God for bringing us together--from Toronto to Germany and Cincinnati and Wisconsin. It has been an amazing journey so far, and Lord willing, it's only just begun.