“What epiphany did you have during your recent travels?” This was my friend’s first question after I returned from a two-week ski holiday with family in Europe.
Epiphany, I wondered? Indeed, I should have had some grand insight, shouldn’t I? Oh, the pressure. I should. But I didn’t. I’m empty. I’m drained. I’m lost.
No. That is not true. I am far from empty. I may have an empty head, but my heart is full and my spirit is robust.
An observation did slap me in the face— more than once. It’s in the jeans. No, I mean it’s in the genes! Actually, I’d had this observation the last time I visited my German relatives, but I’d sort of forgotten about it. And then, one evening, sitting there beside a slender, taller, blond and blue-eyed version of myself, I was overwhelmed all over again by the power of genes.
Britta and me
Cousin Britta and I could not have been raised in more different circumstances. Britta, ten years younger than I, was born in an upper-class German setting. Her father was a brilliant engineer and her mother was an elegant, well-coifed, and socially graceful, college-educated, full-time homemaker. They lived in a classy new neighborhood in a mid-century home with a swimming pool. These facts accentuated their financial and social success in a country where small flats in centuries-old buildings are the norm. I think their wealth embarrassed Britta. And that her mother presumed she’d blossomed into a beautiful, manicured, young lady, sparked furious teenaged rebellion. When I first met Britta, she was 15 and wild as a March hare.
Britta, in her mother's backyard
On the other hand, I was raised by a single mom—who was wild as a March hare. By the time I came along, mom had contained most of her wild streak, but it still crept out along the edges, like toothpaste escaping a flawed tube. I grew up in a spacious, but dark, old, three-bedroom house within which every inch of wall was cluttered with an eclectic assortment of art pieces, and every room was filled to bursting with large antique furniture. My mother’s old-fashioned clothing and hair styles horrified me and I loathed her loud presence at school functions. I so wanted a beautiful mom—like Britta’s. I so wanted a clean, bright, modern home—like Britta’s.
Britta's childhood home
So here we are, now—Britta and I. Both middle-aged women who have lived entirely different lives, been educated in vastly different ways, and have spent precious little time together. And yet, we are as alike as pills in a bottle. Ja, okay, I admit the German genes contain a more brilliant bit of brain DNA than mine. Nevertheless, Britta and I think alike. We react to things in the same way. The same things delight us and the same things infuriate us. Our world view is the same, we share the same zest for life, the same high-energy and strong-willed determination.During the last ski holiday that I shared with my Germans, we marveled at things that seemed so natural to us. It was as if we could finish each other’s thoughts—albeit in different languages. I don’t know how many times we’d burst into giggles about some little wave train and I’d chirp: “It’s in the genes!”
During our last dinner together, someone finally asked me, “What does this mean—it’s in the jeans? What is in the jeans?”
I goggled; my mind spun back through those countless times I’d rattled off this saying. If I thought hard enough, I could register a slight, almost imperceptible, lift of the eyebrow in response to my comment. Language had failed us in a big way. I had to defer to Britta’s son, the young genius who had lived in America with Erich and me for one semester. He knew everything, I was sure of it. He was a scientist. He knew “genes.” But he did not. I had to describe genes to him in a round about way. Suddenly the light bulb flared. Through his guffaws he struggled to lay out the puzzle for the rest of the Germans and then the entire table roared with delight at our shared misunderstanding. The phrase has become part of the Paul family lexicon. It really is in the genes, but unfortunately not always in the translation!
The whole gene pool
Rangewriter 
Love that story and pictures. Britta’s childhood home (living room scene) is so bright and cheery. My former spouse had a similar problem in “translation” when he was in Germany during his stint in the early 60’s in the Army Symphony (lucky guy, his 2 year duty, touring Europe and playing concerts–there is no longer an Army Symphony.) Anway he wanted a hot dog for lunch. He tried to order it in German and asked for a “heisse hoont” (I don’t speak German so I’m sure my spelling is wrong)–anyway he spoke the literal German words for hot dog– and they laughed and laughed because they were thinking literally too– and they didn’t have a food item with that literal translation.
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That is funny, Rae Ann, and that type of thing happens a lot. Germans don’t refer to “weiners” or hot dogs that way. Meat in a casing is called wurst, as in Bratwurst. (And my Germans skied with all sorts of wursts in the their backpack.Every so often, out would come this fingerling of meat…at lunches, during snacks, on the ski lift.) As a matter of fact, Britta has, on her desk at home, a “welcome” letter that my former husband wrote years ago on the occasion of their visit to our home. He asked me how he could say “head or chief hikers.” I guessed and gave him Haupt Wanderen or some such…again, literal. It was way wrong, but Britta loved the effort so much she kept the letter.
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It’s so fascinating when relatives share the many of the same characteristics despite very different life circumstances. Which means there’s another like me wandering around somewhere, god help him.
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If you ever do find your doppleganger, you may be surprised to find the best of you reflected back. 😉
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Yes, fascinating! It is a provable fact that over 90% of the English population are descended from Edward III (died 1377), which means even more are descended from William the Conqueror! Maybe that’s why we’ve plundered our way across the planet until recently?! 🙂 But I know what you mean, in our closest relatives, we can find some remarkable similarities.
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Yikes! And I’m descended from English stock, too! William the Conqueror. I could have gone through the day without thinking about that! Kidding! Thanks for reading and commenting.
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Well, that’s right, if you have English blood too, then there’s no doubt – you are a Norman, an Anglo Saxon, too.
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Enjoyed this epiphany very much. I have relatives that I go twenty years or more without seeing, and when we’re together it’s like we live down the street. I find it amazing. We always promise to keep in closer touch and never do.
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Yes, I understand that promise of more contact…then the years seem to just slip quietly past us. The older I get, the more I am aware of the danger of those years.
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I love watching my nieces & nephews and those in the generation of grand and great. I see traits and responses that floor me.
My most surprising “gene” experience was when I went to Ireland – Irish being my father’s side of my pool.
As I touched the soil of Ireland, I was overwhelmed with a sense of being home. Then, throughout my visit, I shared their humour, nuances, gestures and even (unintentionally) began speaking like them – lilts and all.
While on the West Coast of Ireland, One Irish fellow would not believe that I came from Canada. He said I had a Dublin accent through and through. I pulled out my passport and showed him, but he walked away saying, “Sure, by God, you were raised Dublin. Ya won’t be foolin’ me!”
Borrowing and adapting an old phrase: “You can take the person out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the person.” It IS the jeans, Linda! 😀
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And amazing how durable those jeans are, Amy!
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I experience the same thing my my cousin, Carol, who lives halfway across Canada. We grew up apart, but when we get together, it’s uncanny how similar we are.
Do you remember the “Patty Duke Show” ? Patty and Cathy were “identical cousins” …
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Ha, I’d forgotten that, if I ever knew it. Growing up as I did, without relatives, this whole cousin thing has been a late and exciting discovery for me. I feel a bit like an orphan who stumbles across her birthright.
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How fortunate you are to have spent and to be able to spend time with your relatives this way. What amazing bonds families can have even miles away from each other. What a glorious vacation!
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Yes, SDS, I do feel extremely fortunate. I was looking through all my photos today, trying to weed them out and make a slide show. My heart just bubbled over with love for “my peeps.”
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It’s amazing how much you guys favor one another. I’m so glad you got to take this trip, reconnect with your family, and come back safely with a renewed spirit.
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Thanks, Renee. Me too!
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I couldn’t wait for you to come back with another great story, Linda, and you did.
Interestingly, when I read the headline, I knew exactly that it was a play on words – because I have experienced the same phenomenon in my youth. I still remember how I, as a teenager with only rudimentary English knowledge, would sweat over my cassette player, rewinding a particular song over and over again, trying to make out what was being sung. Later, at our local disco, singing along while I was dancing, I would belt out the most ridiculous ‘lyrics’, simply because I never properly understood a lot of the words.
Today, when I listen to some radio station playing 80ies hits, I often think ‘Ah, THAT’s what they are singing!’ It’s quite entertaining actually.
Anyway, it is great to see that language barriers can’t suppress the bonds of family. Or distance, for that matter.
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Hi Sandra, I hope to have more stories. I’ve just been so blasted busy since I got home.
Your experience about trying to learn English lyrics reminded me of two things: First when good friend Ursula arrived in the States for her year as an exchange student, I was dumbfounded by her wide grasp not only of vocabulary and grammar, but also cultural references. She attributed that to religiously listening to and learning the lyrics to American rock & roll songs.
But on the other hand, when I was an impressionable teenager, trying to learn the words to rock & roll, I had a tiny little transistor radio. Even American lyrics came through so garbled that they might as well have been in German. I never sang out loud, because I had no idea what the songs really meant! I spent my youth puzzled, even though I loved the music.
Throughout my trip to Europe at each loo I came too, I thought of you. That may sound funny to others, but I think you’ll know what I mean. German toilets (and Austrian) are tails above American ones and they’ve only gotten better during the years that I have visited. I love ’em! (If it is possible to love a loo…)
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That was such a sweet thing to say, thank you, I’m honoured 🙂
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I’m glad you had a good holiday and that you are so ‘jeanetically’ similar to your cousin! 🙂
I’m a bit low on words at the moment but just want you to know that I’m glad you’re back and I enjoyed this post.
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Thanks, Val. Your comment is appreciated. Just take care of yourself!
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Who was related? Your mother and Britta’s mother or her father? And how did your mother wind up over here? I was fascinated by your description of how different your lives were growing up on completely different continents, and I thought of my sister and I. She moved to Spain when she was 18 and has spent her entire adult life in Seville (married to a Spaniard for about sixteen years or so but ultimately it didn’t work out. Cross-cultural marriages are not always as romantic as they seem.) They had three kids who all live over in Europe and are VERY Spanish. But my daughter and son adore them and have both gone over on their own to visit a couple of times as adults. My daughter feels especially close with my sister’s daughter (they’re only one month apart) and they both feel more like sisters. The cultures are SO far apart, and they’ve only been together…what? Five or six times total in their lives? It’s kind of amazing how strong the bond is. There is something about family isn’t there? Genes? Love ’em or hate ’em…there’s such a deep sense of belonging and identity that derives from that source.
Great post and so glad you’re home!
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Dia, my mom and Britta’s dad were direct cousins. My grandfather came to the States in 1924. His brother stayed in Germany. The German side of the family still feels indebted to my mother and grandfather for the care packages that they sent over after the war.
That gene thing really is amazing to me. I can imagine your daughter and her Spanish cousin and how they feel. Sometimes, I think perhaps these long distance family threads may be easier because of the distance involved. We don’t start the relationship with a lot of childhood baggage, so we are more accepting of differences and can really marvel at similarities. I don’t know. That’s just a guess. Too bad about your sister’s relationship with her husband. But, 16 years? I had a marriage that lasted that long, too, and there were no cultural differences involved. Some relationships just don’t make it through the fluctuations and stretching of time.
Thanks for commenting. I’m so way far behind, I have been trying to check in to my blogging community, but I seem never to get caught up. I’m sure this will change once I’ve finished my projects. I become awfully driven and tunnel-visioned about things.
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