Life as a missionary in Germany doesn't come with the extremes of cross cultural adventure associated with living in the jungle or wrestling with the bureaucracies of a former Soviet Socialist Republic. We have grocery stores (three, in fact, but each sells only one brand of paper towel), electricity (220 volt and expensive), clean water (plentiful but very expensive), medical services (if you're comfortable being diagnosed in another language, prescribed some sort tea for the majority of normal diseases and told air conditioning is a clear and present health danger), radio (mostly American pop music), and heating systems (electricity - cost already noted), gas and oil (also very expensive). Gasoline is also available and it, like back in the States, has dropped in price - now it's only $5.71 per gallon down from $9.
Things balance out - most of the groceries are fairly good quality and low cost so we tend to eat well and walk most places. Another way we've tried to balance out this year is by heating primarily with wood. That's relatively cheap (about $160 per cord) compared to the $5.11 we paid per gallon for heating oil back in the fall.
Here's the challenge - find, purchase and arrange for delivery a supply of wood.
The challenge doesn't stem from a lack of wood. We live in the Black Forest. There are many woodcutters about and few of them are the scary Grimms brothers types of guys. They just generally are not schooled in the English language. Conversely, my German is marginally awful and completely inadequate for the local dialect. So here's the challenge - find and communicate an order and delivery of seasoned firewood of the appropriate dimension for the house's woodstove. This should be put on the Amazing Race.
As I said, we've got the woods and the woodcutters so the wood is available. Piles, intricately and tightly stacked abound both out in the open and deep in the forests. They're not, however, posted with an online ordering link, they're just out there. The trick is to connect a woodpile and a woodcutter. The patient, methodical man might stake out a pile and wait but I'm not that patient or possessed of that much time. Instead I listened to the sounds of the town. Walking home from work I would sometimes hear the sound of the enormous chopsaws the woodcutters used to transform their piles of one meter split logs into piles of 30cm long split logs. Being able to hear this is one of the advantages of walking. One day, I followed my ears but by the time I made it downhill to the river and uphill to the next ridiculously steep hill (those that have been to Kandern know what I'm talking about) the woodcutter had quit for the day. I determined to try earlier the next time.
The next time was a day later and I set out - brilliantly enough with an index card with info such as my phone number (you never know, I might find a bilingual woodcutter) and home address. This time I caught him just as he began tearing down the quasi-mountainside in his tractor - 5PM on the nose - and I boldly flagged him down. Well, of course he didn't speak English, so the few choice words and pantomime began. I must say he was and is a very polite and pleasant woodcutter and human being. In short order we negotiated amount, price, tentative delivery times (punctuated by the word for rain "regen" and the appropriate arm flailings to match. We shook hands and he again shot off (they drive tractors way fast!) for dinner and I returned down the hill to the river and back up the other ridiculously steep hill we live on with the gleam of the triumphant ancestral hunter in my eye.
A night or two later the woodcutter appeared at our door and we engaged in some more pantomime, weather prognostication, number recitals and hand shaking. It seemed like the meet was set for around 4PM the next day - just before BFA began its home basketball weekend.
And come the wood did (Yoda wrote that sentence). He delivered to our side lawn by backing his tractor's trailer over the hedges - we think they'll bounce back - and dumping the lot there. Then it became my job to move it all off the lawn and around to the back. Diane enjoyed this cross cultural exchange as I was on the job that afternoon. She particularly found "cute" his using his finger to "write" his phone number ("500" - which means he's been here for a long spell - a 3 digit phone number!) on the front door. All I can say is I'm ready for the cold. By the way, the long cold snap we've had since Christmas broke once the wood was delivered.
All in all I really enjoy the cross cultural adventures and it's nice having a warm living room.
