My family has always been a bit of mystery to me. My
parents, both German, left the country shortly after the war and while my
mother kept contact with some of our family members, I don’t think my father
ever looked back. If two of his brothers had never joined him in Canada – my
parents first stop in their multinational journey – I doubt he would have made
any effort to see them.
In fact looking back over my own life most of my experience
with my extended family could easily be fit in a fortnight with several days to
spare – three trips to Germany and Switzerland (one of which as an infant) and
a couple afternoon visits from aunts and uncles on their way to vacations in
Vegas.
So it came as a surprise to get an email from a cousin I had
never met before – both of us in our 50’s. He described a whirlwind trip from
Tasmania to Nicaragua that included a brief overnight stop at LAX. “Could we
have dinner together?” I was filled with excitement, and I confess a little
fear.
My parents both gone, I had come to accept the mythology of
their stories, my own social/intellectual origins. I was going to meet someone
with stories and probably facts that intersected with my own. They could verify
or discredit them – yes leave it to me to overthink things into a potential
existential crisis.
When we finally met, I think a dance unfolded between us.
Yes somewhere in our cells were that shared strand of DNA, but could we “like”
one another, make a social as well as biological connection? We traded quick
summaries of our lives – but 50 years in maybe 20 lines of text? In his favor,
I knew my Australian cousin was well traveled and an academic – both plusses
for open mindedness, curiosity, and a sense of adventure. Still there are
things we filter from our families, perhaps thinking them more sensitive than
they really are, but also sometimes a way of steering clear of unwinnable
confrontations of beliefs, politics, and propriety.
My wife and I sitting next to my cousin in a Westchester
dinner, I realized that I was the “American Cousin” and what trepidation that
must cause. I’m sure a few Google searches eased my cousin’s mind enough to
have dinner, but lets face it despite the flag waving bravado my countrymen may
have for our land of opportunity and rugged individualism – that can come across
a bit cocky. Many – rightfully – look at us as arrogant and opportunistic,
often with a reckless disregard for others shrouded in a righteous self-serving
belief system. Yeah, there’s a reason the “ugly American” is a “thing”,
hopefully I could show my cousin that I wasn’t a part of that.
So we danced, sharing stories of our most recent ancestors –
my father finding the heart of the Großherzog lost in the war, his desertion,
and his bookish nature that attracted my mother to him. When my wife left the
table for a moment, my cousin turned to me, “You know,” he said with a
confidential tone, “our grandfather had a bit of a reputation.” “I know,” I
responded, “I have a few pictures of his girlfriend in the Schwarzwald – my
sister had a great time when she visited them so many years ago.” And with that
step, we knew we could speak more freely about our family, it quirks, its dark
sides, its flaws – as all of them do.
I brought along my father’s journal that he penned when he was 19. Written in
German (of course) my father also included many photos of the family and people
he knew at the time – especially, or so it seemed – the women he had loved. I
doubt my father ever expected to have his diary read by his nephew and son, but
it brought him back to life for me, and charmed me with it’s romanticism as
well as it’s bluntness. “She and I had many love adventures,” read one such
caption – "Liebesabenteuer" – perhaps that’s a common German phrase, but its
translation delights me. So many of our stories really are our Love Adventures.
As the dinner closed we took my cousin to his Hotel and
decided to have a nightcap and see the pictures we had brought along to share. The
lobby was full of activity, and the bar filled with patrons dressed mostly in
black with a preference for lace, leather, lycra, and latex. How could this nondescript
corporate airport hotel be such a magnet for LA’s fetish scene? And, oh what a
hilarious backdrop as we recounted more family histories, full of elopements,
rekindling old flames, affairs and remarriages - love adventures indeed.
As we crossed the midnight hour, my wife decided that
to really commemorate the evening we should take a picture, not just of
ourselves, but with some of the fellow hotel guests in their slinky, sexy
finery. As she left to find some volunteers, my cousin asked, “Do you think
she’ll be successful?” I retorted that knowing my wife, and my experience with
people who dress to be seen, that I had no doubt she would be. What I failed to
say, though probably still evident, that this is certainly one of the reasons I
married her.
Before long we were joined by Mistress Precious, Sir Nick,
and their entourage. Mistress Precious was dressed in an elaborate latex
bodysuit complete with black latex ruffled collar. She asked my cousin if he
wanted to touch, offering her knee. Sir Nick, a tall lanky gentleman made
taller and lankier by his 6” heals, offered up praises of Australian whip
makers, thanking my cousin’s countrymen – and perhaps revealing an untapped
market for the Australian whip industry.
Suddenly we were retelling our stories, showing off my father’s journal and grandfather’s medal. In turn, we were told about DomCon – the conference of professional dominatrices celebrating its 11th year - as well as common misconceptions about the BDSM lifestyle. Sir Nick even invited us to stick around and check out the next day’s workshops.
My cousin charmed them all. His simple statement, “I am a
scientist,” the ultimate flirtation – the Aussie notes in his voice friendly
and inviting, while the German undertones gave it a certain veracity and
authority. And to be honest, he charmed me too. The existential fears
evaporating and leaving me thinking about the over 50 years of familial
diaspora and how crazy it was to let it last so long.
Now I dream of traveling, to an old homestead in Germany and
a mysterious green box containing still more stories, to Tasmania to continue
our conversation and dance, and to elsewhere on the globe to hear more stories
of shared histories and of course, Love Adventures.
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