The house was built in 1899. Seven rooms, high ceilings, a new kitchen. It had a view of the river and the old bridge in Heidelberg. It sounded perfect for us. I would finally have my own room and the view would inspire great works of literature. As soon as I saw the photos on the estate agent’s website, I wanted an appointment. But why was one room empty? And was that a bed in the living room? And why was the price – 417,000 euros — so low?

If I had known before moving to Germany that I would never live in a four bedroom home with a two-car garage, I might never have been so eager to move here. The housing market and the education system – those are the two items I wish I had researched better. Not really house hunters, my husband and I are that species that estate agents hate - real estate tourists. Ten years ago we bought our current house, which by Canadian or American standards would be considered a cottage, a starter home. It was a Schnäppchen, a bargain, and it was a happy coincidence that we found it.

The house described above turned out to be located on a steep incline on the sunless side of the river, and accessible only by a footbridge that rises high above the railway tracks. One would have a view not of a peaceful river, but of high voltage cables. Imagine moving into that place: Every single chair and every single box of books would have to be carried up the stairs and over the bridge. Not much wonder it is currently rented to students. Location, location, location.

My idea of a nice family home is, for example, my grandmother’s house:

These photographs were taken in 1974, but the house hasn’t changed much since my father grew up there in the 1920s and ’30s with his many siblings when his father, a medical doctor, was one of the local medical practitioners. My brothers and sisters called it the Ice Palace. As my Grandmother aged, she refused to move into a nursing home, but wanted company in her cavernous, lonely house at night. We had our choice of bedrooms, the brass bedroom being our favorite. But in January or February, it was like sleeping in a deep freeze. When my grandmother died, her wake was held in her parlour, a candle glowing in the window.

In my first year in Germany, my husband and I shared a two-room apartment with a friend of his. We had one room and the friend had the other. The only common room was the kitchen. The neighbourhood was attractive, but apartments were hard to come by. It was the early 1990s and German reunification put the squeeze on the housing market, with many “Ossies” also looking. Eventually we had to move out when the landlady’s granddaughter decided to leave her home in the former East Germany and move to Heidelberg. We moved out and around the corner into a furnished apartment, vacated by a woman who entered a nursing home. It was a temporary solution. Her flat was outfitted with plush green carpet, swag curtains, and wood panelling. We bought the Saturday paper early and trawled the ads, hopeful of finding a big, beautiful apartment. Maybe like the ones I had rented in Montreal. Estate agents wanted to see ID when we looked at apartments; hundreds of other hopeful couples lined up to inspect the flats too. It was never clear how the selection was made but I suspect handsome “incentives” were paid. Desperate, and afraid of living in Frau Schlecter’s digs for the rest of my life, we did what any normal young couple where I come from would have done anyway — we decided to buy.

We had saved a bit of money. But estate agents laughed when we revealed our budget to them. We bought the first apartment we saw that we could afford. In hindsight, it was a mistake. Luckily, we were able to sell it when we bought our little blue Scandanavian house:

We also happen to live in one of the most expensive areas of Germany, the Rhein-Main area, an area blessed by a mild climate, early springs, short winters, and favored by well-educated, high-paid professionals who work at any number of companies established here. So cheap four-bedroom homes, even if there were plenty of them, are hard to come by.

Until last year, when I found a house that I would have bought on the spot. If it were not located  janz weit draussen. Cut off from the civilized world in a tiny village with only one bus to-ing and fro-ing to a beaded necklace of similarly cut off villages along the path to the nearest train station, several miles distant. A fabulous house with Mediterranean flair. Four bedrooms, a den, a fireplace, rose trellises in the expansive garden – and the payoff – a walk-in closet in the master bedroom. I am ready to make compromises, like doing without an en suite bath, or a large kitchen, or local transport. The house was located conveniently to my place of work. But my kids said, forget it mom, how are we going to get to school, who is going to drive me to hockey practice, and how are my friends supposed to visit me here? Which quickly put an end to that dream.

This weekend we have an appointment to look at another house. To be continued…

I remember crossing the bridge in my hometown on the last day of school one year, opening my satchel and dropping all the contents into the river. Watching all that loose leaf float down toward the flume and the falls, I watched my cares of the school year float on. Terrible for the environment, but great for my mental health. I didn’t hate school. In fact, I enjoyed school so much that I played school with my sister and her friends during our summer vacation (I was always the teacher). I had a number of teachers who believed in me, and encouraged me by assigning extra work or books to read. One of my favorite teachers was Mrs. Kirkham,  my Grade 7 teacher. Her bearing was majestic, crowned by glossy black hair that she wrapped in an enormous knot on the top of her head. Once my mother came back from a parent-teacher meeting and I pestered her to tell me what the teacher had said about me. My mother, clearly embarrassed, only told me that Mrs Kirkham had made some flattering remarks about me.

I wish my 11-year-old son had a Mrs Kirkham. I wish he had teachers who believed in him, teachers who praised him and encouraged him. Instead, he was sent home for the summer vacation last week with a report card containing the following – roughly translated – remarks from his teacher:

“F. showed interest in most subjects, but was often careless. He was particularly disinterested and unwilling to make an effort in Physical Education. He had troubling concentrating and following the lessons in all subjects except English and Art. He raised his hand only occasionally, but worked well on his own, although at an extrememly slow pace. To some extent he had difficulty getting organized. Not only did he forget his homework and notebooks, but he also slouched in his chair and showed a negative attitude in class. In the first half of the year, he could not be trusted to obey the rules. Moreover, when confronted with his misdemeanors, he was incorrigible, stubborn, and unwilling to show reason. This improved only towards the end of the school year. Towards his classmates, F. was helpful and considerate. In the open discussions with the class he often contributed to solving problems by making good suggestions.”

Uff! Now, haven’t we all learned to give the positive feedback first, and only then the negative? Those words depressed the heck out of me. I knew all that stuff and have a number of e-mails from the teacher to prove it. Why rub it in at the end of the school year? Why can’t teachers be a little kinder? There are Mrs Kirklands here – but where? My little boy has been suffering tough teachers for the past three years. But this was the first year that he had detentions and had to write lines. I think he found it mildly sadistic when the supervising math teacher passed the time by listening to her i-pod, helping herself to a bag of gummy bears and flicking through a magazine. The next time my boy got a detention I asked the teacher if F. could at least use the time sensibly by doing his homework or memorizing a poem. Homework, no; poem, yes. F. and his father chose Goethe’s “Totentanz”  (“Dance of Death”). Now at least he can recite Goethe.

The last time I was in Canada, one of my sisters and I deposited our husbands and children somewhere and went on a shopping tour of Eastern Ontario. We love nothing better than taking off for an afternoon without a map or a planned route, to let our whim take us where it will. On this day, we stopped by the Tay River in the town of Perth for lunch and a coffee, and continued along, stopping at a number of antique shops on the country roads. The most memorable of these was Rideau Valley Antiques. Luckily I had a camera with me to capture the chaotic collections in their yard. The shop is housed in a turn of the century country farmstead. We found the rooms crammed with junk that had been sorted: dinnerware, teapots, soup tureens, and other porcelain in the former living room, sports equipment in the hall, tins in the kitchen, bottle openers hanging from the ceiling.

I went back a second time to take photos and to buy baseball gloves for my boys. The photos are some of my favorites:

In need of a slightly worn garden hose?

...or a rocking horse?

...or perhaps a rusty wagon from the considerable collection at Rideau Ferry Antiques?

They don’t have a website, but I found the shop listed at Antiques in Canada. If you are travelling in the area, be sure to shop by – at least for a chat with the owners, a couple of brothers if I remember correctly.

Martin Levin in the Toronto Globe and Mail writes that “if drinking were not verboten in the office”  he would drink to Alice Munro, the mother superior of the short story and one of Canada’s literary treasures. First of all, no writer in the world deserves more than Alice Munro the recognition that the Man Booker International prize has now awarded her for her body of work. She is the Canadian Chekhov, a master of the short story, and if you have never read any of her stories, go now and do so. She writes of humble, small town people and has the most uncanny insight into human behavior. She is a delight to read. I have loved her books since I read Who Do You Think You Are 30 years ago. After stumbling upon Shakespeare and Co. , the legendary Paris bookstore, last week where I learned that Ms. Munro had been awarded this distinction, I bought a copy of her lastest book for the friends who were with me. Anglophiles though they are, they had never heard of her. I hoped with my purchase not only to correct that oversight but to convert them to lifetime fans of Alice Munro.

But what I thought was most startling about Mr. Levin’s comment was that drinking is not allowed on the job. This is probably true of most offices in North America. Maybe I’ve been away from home for too long, but I work in a place where the office refrigerator is stocked with bubbly and where popping a bottle is de rigeur to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, or team achievements. The management team even awards a Champagne of the Month to an employee for outstanding efforts. Our cupboards are stocked with notebooks, pens, post-its — and booze. Until cost-cutting measures were introduced last year, beer and soft pretzels were served after every all-hands meeting. 

I’m not at the office today, but I will drink to Alice Munro.

So here’s a weird thing. I’m on Facebook and a number of classmates from high school have contacted me after searching for our high school. It seems as if all of them live in Western Canada and live lives that feature water, snow, horses or cattle, and nature. Always nature. Don runs an inn on Vancouver Island and gives lessons in white water kayaking (here is his website - stay in the yurt!); another teaches yoga in Vancouver; yet another has a ranch in Alberta. They lead lives that humble me, that I cannot imagine living myself because I would fail miserably, and because the hugeness of the nature would swallow me.

But the best is Charlie, who runs a ranch in Alberta. He says, “I run a business hauling water to oil rigs as well I run an animal health service for a 20,000 hd feedlot as well as training and buying & selling horses.” Okay, that’s a lot of information, so I had him translate for me. That’s 20,000 head of cattle he is talking about. On 160 acres of land. He goes on to say that it is his wife who hauls most of the water to the oil rigs: “We have a 2 ton dodge truck with a tank on it we only haul the potable water to the trailers that the rig workers live in while they are on the rig site.” I have a lot of respect for Charlie’s operation but could never imagine doing his job, or living  as remotely as he does.

One day not too long ago after a particularly long and hard week at work, when I came home on Friday evening with a head like cement, I called my sister. She and her family live in the town where most of these folks grew up. Her husband answered the phone. He was sitting in the upstairs sunroom in a rocking chair watching the ducks on the pond and enjoying the view of his rather expansive property. It was 2:00 o’clock in the afternoon. He wasn’t sure what he would do for the rest of the day. (“You must at least be drinking a cup of tea!” I croaked). We had a long and lovely chat, which ended with him quoting Voltaire’s Candide: “Everyone has to tend their own garden.” And it seemed to me that if there is one thing these friends I have mentioned here in common, it is that they tend their gardens.