I made it here in one piece and had quite an adventure in the process. Let me start at the beginning.
After an extensive search for my passport, we decided there was no way we were going to find it. Mom and I had covered the entire house three times, though I probably didn’t get through the upstairs as well as I could have. That place is a disaster. But I still searched it fairly well, and found several things I haven’t seen in years. My passport took priority, though, so most of those things are probably lost again.
So I sought out alternatives, and found out that the only way to get my passport and have a prayer of catching my plane was to go to the office in Chicago. Three hours later (7PM on Tuesday) we left for Chicago. Ian, an old friend from St. Paul elementary, offered to let us crash for the night. He thought the situation was hilarious.
What can I say about the trip there? It was fast. We stopped in this truck-stop restaurant in Kentucky that was delicious, we listened to a whole lot of oldies (Mom’s pick, mostly), the Forrest Gump Soundtrack (little of both, there. There’s good music on that CD), and each other’s stories. Hearing about one’s roots is always nice, and mom has enough family stories to last at least 5 hours solid. One of these days I’d like get her to write them all down, but I’m not sure how she’d feel about that.
Anyway, up the interstate we went. We left as the sun set and arrived in Chicago as it rose. The I-51 Expressway is a nightmare normally, but it’s twice as bad during construction, so we spent a good hour driving in circles around it. After an accidental detour through Chinatown, we found our way back to Ian’s directions and eventually his apartment.
Ian lives a couple of blocks down from Wrigley Field, sandwiched between the "El" (Chicago's above-ground rail-thing) and the mission. He has a bookstore and a pizza place within walking distance, a view complete with three hot neighbors, and enough wall space for his various paintings. He seems quite happy there, but lacks a room-mate. If my life were any different, it’d be a great temptation, but sitting in my Regensburg flat, I don’t envy him much.
We arrived at Ian’s apartment around 6AM Wednesday, slept for two hours, then caught a cab downtown. The passport office was in a federal skyscraper, this massive thing of glass, metal, and marble. I’m beginning to think the government’s taking decorating tips from the Galactic Empire of Star Wars, but I guess the Empire was probably modeled after them. Either way, the similarity is embedded in my psyche.
A couple of security checkpoints and waiting rooms later I found myself talking to an extremely good-humored federal employee. I bet you didn’t think they existed either. The little thin black woman had no qualms about being stuck behind a glassed-in desk all day, she seemed quite at home in it. Then again, she was about to go on break. That probably helped her disposition. She was quite amused by my insane plan to catch a jet as soon as they were done processing my passport, and equally glad to hear a southern voice in Chicago. It was a great relief to actually have a friendly face to help me, rather than some bear in a desk.
She went on break and my papers went to process, meanwhile I was left in a great big city with no vehicle but my own two feet and no companion but my tired mother. We managed pretty well, though. We circled the surrounding blocks, ducked into a few stores and ate at McDonalds. I’m sure the employees there had a good laugh at my expense there, too. That was the first time I had easy access to a phone, so I called the STA office to change my flight and nearly choked on my coffee when they told me I’d have to do that in person. Luckily, they had an office in Chicago and, thanks to even more luck, it was only a few blocks away.
So a little more walking helped break in my boots for Regensburg, and after a quick conversation with a nice blonde at the desk, I was ready to fly out of Nashville the next day. Flying out of Chicago wasn’t an option, the next flight wouldn’t get me to Atlanta on time and there was no point in trying to get one from there tomorrow when I could just push back my Nashville flight a day. All that was left was to pick up my passport, say goodbye to Ian, and rocket out of town.
Back at Ian’s, we opted for a late-lunch of Chicago-style pizza before leaving. After all, we might as well get a little of the tourism in before leaving. Ian wasn’t arguing, either. He’s the first person I’ve ever seen eat a slice of pizza faster than me.
One more quick note about Ian’s apartment. He has all the same books as me! A few extras (like Fight Club and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas), but the same basic selection of Steinbeck and other classics. It’s said you can tell a lot about a person by what they read. Well, Ian’s Kerouac (sp?), Steinbeck, various books-to-movies (both book and movie were in his house, by the way), and a healthy dose of what I consider true young-reader literature (Where the Wild Things Are, The BFG, The Phantom Tollbooth, etc) match Ian’s personality wonderfully. He is fully grounded in reality, but not in the reality the rest of us seem to be seeing. In short, he’s every inch the artist/filmmaker. I hope it goes well for him.
Ok, that was quite a sidetrack. What can I say? I’ve known the guy my whole life, it’s easy to get sentimental. Ian, sorry if I embarrassed you there (not really… it’s good for you).
We left Ian’s about 4PM, sat in Chicago traffic until 5. Then we had open road, and a real struggle to stay awake through another night of driving. Somehow we made it, a little tenser than the trip up, but otherwise doing fine. After getting home around 2AM, I managed to sleep until 9 then it was off to the airport.
What can I say about airports? Those who have flown, especially post-9/11, know the experience. Those who haven’t will never understand. Just stepping into the great, flat expanse of steel and glass makes my feet want to hurry and tired vertigo begin to set in. The Nashville one wasn’t bad, I had to rearrange my carry-on a little to get it to fit but did fine other than that. The Nashville-Atlanta flight, though. Oh, the flight…. Mom calls planes like that one “puddle-jumpers.” It was small, maybe 75 people on it, and cramped. They ran out of room for carry-ons because apparently every traveling businessman carries the little rolling-suitcase one like mine. After all, it is carry-on sized. It’s designed to fit the maximum dimensions entirely. Which means someone was lying, either those flying, the airline number-cruncher who decides the max size, or maybe both. A brief discussion about how I was not checking my bag full of electronics won them over. They found room.
Maybe it was the karma from that that ended up with a rip in the suitcase Darlene (neighbor) loaned me and one wheel missing from my other one.
Anyway, that flight was a pain, but not a nightmare. I had clear skies and no turbulence, which made sitting next to the running audio-commentary on the New York Stock Exchange tolerable. I also managed to read a good portion of my book, The Tin Drum, which I still have to finish.
On my Atlanta-Munich flight I sat in the middle of a 767, happily watching Shrek 2. The man beside me, his wife, and their two kids were on their way back to Munich after a 3 week visit with his cousin in Chattanooga. He hadn’t seen his cousin in nearly 30 years, and had never been to the states before. He found the experience “moving.” His wife apparently spoke little or no English, he translated everything for her, even when the airline translated it right after him. They also chatted in German, which was refreshing to listen to. I hadn’t realized how much I’d forgotten until then, but as the plane landed he offered me a few tips on the German airport and Die bahn, the rail-system. I had to catch a bus from the airport to the rail based on directions Dr. Griffin had given me that morning while also dragging two 50lb suitcases and a 40lb carry-on bag.
It didn’t turn out as bad as I thought, though. The Munich airport was big, but not as big as the Atlanta one. The people at the information desk, which I found after 15 minutes of dragging my luggage across the airport, were helpful. The locals got quite a kick out of watching me try to drag my huge amount of luggage. No one but me seemed to have nearly that much stuff. After making sure my bus wasn’t going anywhere, I switched out my carry-on for a backpack, which made things much easier. The carry-on fit in my luggage after a little re-packing, but raised the weight from 50 to at least 75lb and made the nasty tear from the idiot airline all the more visible. I was even less happy then, but had little choice in the matter. I soon began imagining myself to be whats-his-name, the Greek who was forced to push a boulder up a mountain in Hades for eternity, and referring to Darlene’s purple-bag as my Olympian stone. Down the road I went from the bus-station, down stairs, then up to reach a train. From there, I looked across the expanse of rail-road lines and realized I hadn’t bought my train ticket at the airport like Dr. Griffin had told me to. Cursing my Olympian stone, I plopped back down the stairs to go to the roadside pay phone I’d spotted while getting off the bus. Up more stairs, then a sad discovery met me at the phone. My calling card would not work, so I had no way to ask Dr. Griffin if I could buy tickets at the station or not. Back down stairs, then back up more, and I was heaving for air inside the train station. Yes, I can buy tickets, but only if I can order them in German. The poor girl didn’t even understand me when I asked if she could speak English. So, “Eins Einfelkarten zu Regensburg, bitte?” “Ja, Ja!” she says, visibly relieved. I guess I looked enough in a hurry that she figured out I needed the next ticket. 11:11. I had exactly 13 minutes to drag my bags back out the station, down the stairs, up more stairs and to the train. I made it there with 5 minutes to go and collapsed into a heap beside my bags. I looked up to see a tall, blonde German officer chuckling at me. He looked young for the uniform, maybe 18, but then I remembered that military service here meant getting out of high-school a year early. Sometimes it was even coupled with high school, like our boarding schools in the States.
“Veile Luggage.” I told him with a grin, hoping he knew the English word for luggage since I didn’t know the German one. He got the point, anyway, and asked in German if I needed a hand getting it on the train. I gratefully accepted and introduced myself. His name was Victor, and he was also going to Regensburg. He didn’t speak much English at all, so once we boarded the train we both stood quietly watching the fields go by. I didn’t see a single house I wouldn’t want to live in, and many of them were so picturesquely cozy that I wanted to stop the train and get a photo right then. I restrained myself and Victor laughed at my excitement. I found it incredibly hard to explain Vinyl siding to him, and finally gave up and described it as a cheap way to make houses. He understood, or at least came close to understanding, and was glad I found his homeland so inviting.
Victor and I parted ways at the Regensburg bus station. There I met a girl from Universität Regensburg (the University of Regensburg, it should be pretty obvious. Expect more German from me as the weeks progress, I’ll try and keep it coherent). She took me to a cab, and then to my place.
Check this place out!
(Image coming soon)
Any envy I had of Ian and his nice Chicago flat has slipped away. My little apartment in Regensburg has all the advantages of living in a real house without any lawn to mow. And an actual kitchen! I had an hour to spread out, get comfortable, and wait for the others to find me. They’d already been in Regensburg for a day, after all, so they were all out to lunch at the Uni (short for Universität, just a little more German for you).
I plopped my bags down, threw a couple of things around, and took a nap. It was ended by the best possible sound I could have hoped to hear: Tiffany knocking on my door. Words can’t describe how ecstatic I was to see her. After a day of worrying about her and her flight (and trust me, I did worry, I was just trying to spare you from it), followed by a day of worrying about me on mine, we were finally back together, and I was finally here in Regensburg!
A little while later I met with the program director and the MSU professors. They were quite glad I made it all right and Melanie, our state-side director, told me over the phone that I had better get used to traveling companions. Anyone who can navigate the planes, busses, and trains while jet-lagged beyond belief is bound to be a good person to keep from getting lost.
I certainly didn’t see it that way, but I don’t think I should be giving anyone directions anyway.
Dr. Griffin fixed me coffee while we talked about what I’d missed (a tour of the Uni and a little paperwork) and what I was in for (we’ll get to that in a minute). I mentioned this site, and the option of a pictures page, provided Dad gets the image server up. MSUR wandered into the conversation and Dr. Griffin was impressed to see something so organized come out of the student body. Dr. Guin didn’t seem nearly as thrilled, I get the feeling he’s read some of the more opinionated posts on there. As for MSUR, I’m not sure how they’d feel about their professors browsing their site, but if they’re smart then they’ve realized that any degree of success on the site’s behalf is going to result in that eventually anyway.
My personal plans for the semester came up next. Actually, we talked about Tiff’s plans that I’m involved in, but that’s close enough. There’s great hiking right around Regensburg, and further up and down the Danube. He pulled out a gigantic map to show us more specific options. It’s like living on the Natchez Trace! And the land here is gorgeous. I mentioned the fields already, but I found out also why the black forest got it’s name. Never before have I seen so much shadow cast by a single tree. It’s dark and cool in all the woods, which could be eerie, but is nice to walk in on an otherwise hot day.
The city proved to be just as much fun. We went out to a carnival that night. It was a lot like the State Fair, except it was free to get in and had a flea-market merged with it. There was a pony-ride made up like the American West, complete with country music in German. There was also quite a bit of food, which I happily helped get rid of. I wish I gotten a picture of the cheese for sale there. They had a block of Swiss that was 6 feet in diameter!
For dinner I had Currywurst mit Pommes Fritas (fries with a meaty bratwurst covered in ketchup and sprinkled with Curry). I ate it before Dr. Griffin had gotten more than a sip of his first beer. The steins, by the way, only came in a 1 Liter size. Don’t worry parents and other authority figures, I didn’t have one.
Tiff and I left the fair early. Neither of us was really up for rides, and neither of us had enough money for the things they were selling. It was neat to walk through, but not worth staying at all night. And the quiet walk by the Danube was much more relaxing.
Back at the room, I met my German roommate. His name is Thomas (or Tommy, but since I know a Tommy in Murray, I’m calling him Thomas on the blog) and he’s just here for a week or two. Their regular classes don’t start until October, but he has something he’s taking care of now. He was a little vague on it, but it seems to involve a lot of time at the library. Maybe he’s a grad student doing research. I don’t know.
Anyway, Thomas speaks fairly good English, partly because his girlfriend is an American. She’s going to Wesleyan College in Connecticut, but has been over here at least once. There’s several cute pictures of them on the wall.
Thomas plays guitar, listens to some Coltrane, some Johnny Cash, and who knows what else. He can be quiet at times, but has a good sense of humor once you get him talking. I complimented him on how neat the house looked and he laughed. That’s not his doing. The clean roommate won’t be here until October, but in the meantime I’m supposed to make sure it stays that way. It’s not really going to be hard. Dishes, which I’m at home doing, and organizing a few things. The trash is strange. Here in Germany they recycle paper, plastic, white glass, brown glass, green glass, and aluminum. Our glasses are all stored together but the paper, plastic, and aluminum all go in separate bins. Then there’s this tiny little bucket for the real trash which, thanks to the recycling program, is mostly food. I’d wondered why the dump I spotted from the train was so small. Now I know.
Today we got up and went grocery shopping at the Netto, a place mysteriously like the Aldi’s back home. They even had the little coin-slot that I had to use to free my buggy, but with so many more coins in the Euro, I had a while before I found the right one.
We bought enough food for today and tomorrow, plus enough breakfast for a week. I was proud of our shopping excursion, which ended up only costing 5.10 each! Lunch was an oven pizza, “Amerikanish-Hawaiian.” That’s right, it was a Hawaiian pizza, and a darn good one at that. German Cola went along with it, a little warm because my fridge has no real power behind it and after a day and a half the ice-tray was still just water. I cooked and did the dishes and generally made a show of how if a man can’t have a house to be the master of, he can at least have a kitchen.
Tiff got a good laugh over that.
Then came our boat ride up the Danube. We had to rush to the river front, especially since Tiff’s ankle had already started bothering her and thus slowed us down. It’s going to be four months of ibuprofen and ankle-braces, I think. Anyway, we caught our boat and took a leisurely ride up the river with our group. I hadn’t really been around the entire group much until then, since the fair split us up almost immediately. We’re an interesting batch, all right. Varied, to be certain, but friendly. No one seems to want to kill anyone else yet, which is good. Being the only Americans any of us knows helps relations, too.
Walhalla (pronounced “Val-halla,” and yes, it is named for the legendary resting place of heroes, not for the band) was our destination, and we arrived there with an hour to climb the hill, get through, and get back on the boat. Since the building was built similarly to the Parthenon, the flight up the hill it set atop was made to be similarly daunting. Tiff’s ankle was so much worse after that, and it didn’t help that I spent the whole way up marveling at the view, the plant-life, and the nearby trails. But what can I say? It was great!
Walhalla itself was equally thrilling. Built in the 19th century by Ludwig I (Mad Ludwig’s grand-father, who was not nearly as mad), Walhalla was made in honor of all the heroes of Germanic descent. This included Edger I (sp?), the founder of England, the 3 Austrian men (literally, that was what they were called on the plaque), and just about every classical musician you can list. Almost all of them had marble busts hanging on the walls, making the majestic hall look a little like the hunting-lodge of the gods, an association I probably shouldn’t have drawn. Angels stood at even intervals between each column, and huge men hold up the roof supports. Ludwig leans forward from his throne at the top of the hall. The marble statue of him was dedicated at Walhalla’s hundredth anniversary.
I was impressed at the arsenal of cameras my companions brought. Almost all of them have digital cameras, and most of them are new ones. I feel so dumb with my little Kodak easy-share. Oh well, it works.
The afternoon was spent taking a quick nap and trying to get comfortable in my new place. It’s still thrilling to actually have space and a kitchen!
…and so here I sit, happily typing on my laptop while Thomas listens to Johnny Cash singing "Hurt". I think I’m in for quite a semester.
