--Mein erster Tag--

Do you mind if I am thorough? Starting from the beginning will help me make sense of the present. I will confess that I am not quite sure what a ‘travel blog’ is supposed to look like, if it fits in the same category as ‘travel writing’. More like a personal narrative, but one that must maintain lots of interest so that the family visiting this site do not feel burdened by its lengthiness. I just envision a beautifully awkward situation when we spend time together next Fall or in the future: someone asks me how I liked the food, for example, and then they hesitate and think, wait, did she say that in her blog? If I ask then will it give away my negligence? I really should have kept reading it! I take absolutely no offense if when we see each other you confess to me that you have not read a single word. It’s ultimately just fun for me to write, and a way to make the distance a little less like 3,000-plus miles and a little more like a Skype-call or a letter.

Being driven by your parents to the airport with your entire life in three suitcases (in my defense, one of those three was cabin-sized) is an outlandish experience. It’s too easy to say that I was, well, excited for the trip I was about to embark on. I was in fact trying my hardest not to think about it. It’s too much to swallow, a whole 13 months without those familiar places in my life just does not make sense in my head. So after turning off my US cell phone for the last time in a while, I literally just thumbed through my flight itinerary for some sense of organization. My parents probably thought that I was holding myself together fine while they were the ones struggling. I think the struggle was equal; it sort of exploded just at the moment that I had to strip off my belt and shoes to go through security. I wondered how many crying people the uniformed crew of airport attendants with heavy Boston accents had to deal with every day. I proceeded to pass out at the gate for a full hour. Anybody would tell you that when you do an overnight flight to Europe the right procedure is to stay awake until you get on the plane so you can adjust to the jet-lag early. But the packing and the parting took so much out of me that I unfortunately strayed from protocol.

Aer Lingus is amazing for two reasons: one, they do not care if your luggage weighs over 44 pounds. Both of my bags exceeded the limit, not even counting my cabin bag. The second is the tea that they have on board. Amazing. Black and delicious. I could neither sleep nor sit tall enough to see over the seat in front of me to watch the movie, so instead I listened to music, copied down addresses into a brand new address book (exciting moment) and drank tea. When a very proper-looking blond stewardess walked by offering tea, a passenger in front of me said, “No, I’d like decaf tea please.” Uh oh, clearly the wrong thing to say. All traces of the stewardess’s polite smile were totally gone. She replied, flustered, to the passenger, “Decaf? No there is no decaf. Herbal? No! Tea is tea, I’m sorry but tea is tea. We do not have decaf.” The accent was Irish, and I could not help but feel like I was getting a little dose of Ireland in my gray plastic aer-lingus tea cup.

My roommate Nora in Chicago would not at all be surprised by what happened next. Although I had two hours in between flights, I nearly missed my connection at the Dublin Airport. In my defense, our plane from Boston sat on the tarmac for a good half hour waiting to find a parking spot, so I entered the airport already behind schedule and already stressed. Keep in mind that I had not slept at all; we landed after sunrise – I could see a little bit of the greenery beneath the fog – at around 5am. No problems in customs, unless you consider immigration negligence to be a problem. They didn’t even a look up at my face to verify that I was the same person as in my picture! The place was already a crowded mess. I found the flight to Frankfurt on the computer screens and began weaving my way to the gate. So many duty frees, one after the other, the kinds that make you go through the liquor sections in order to get through to the actual gates just so you’d stop to by something on your way. I finally get there and find a long queue but we are not boarding yet. Thank goodness; I set out to find some food. I linger back to the queue, relaxed to know that I was not going to miss my flight. I join the queue at the last minute. When I get to the front, I hand an attendant my green aer lingus ticket. I’m sorry, she said, but this is a Lufthansa flight. You’re at the wrong gate. Scheisse! I had looked at the time but not the flight number! Why would there be two flights to Frankfurt leaving at 6:50 on a Saturday morning?!? She was already busy taking other tickets so I rolled up my pants a bit and set out at a near run. Duty free after duty free. Finally back at the computer screens. I wasn’t only at the wrong gate, but the wrong “Pier”! Weaving weaving weaving and about seven minutes later I approached the other gate with maybe the last four people in line. Totally out of breath, I hand over my ticket, and a friendly Irish man with white hair offered to help me with my luggage. I collapsed in my seat and don’t even remember having landed in Germany at all.

I hate to bring up stereotypes, but of course the Frankfurt Airport was perfectly empty, spacious and well-organized. I saw exactly where to get my bags, where to give my passport, no problems. A free cart allowed me to carry all three seriously heavy bags on my own. The sliding glass doors opened and Robert was waiting for me on the other side with a big, welcoming smile.

My mother was right – it’s a completely different experience travelling somewhere when you know that someone will be there to pick you up. Someone on the other side is anticipating your arrival; this was starting to not feel like that exotic “third year abroad” experience at all but something entirely different. In Robert’s small silver car I recognized the signs for Speyer and Karlsruhe and Heidelberg and the small towns nearby. I knew the name of the Auto-route we were on. The scenery - the sort of rolling hills with pockets of small red-roofed towns - was not new, but comfortably familiar.

We climbed the stairs to the fourth floor of Robert’s apartment lugging my bags. His apartment is in the town of Rohrbach, a sort of suburb of Heidelberg, which is itself not very big. According to spotlightgermany.com (obviously I just looked this up) Heidelberg has a population of 135,000 people, 20,000 of which are students. Rohrbach is twenty minutes by bike (30 minutes by Strassenbahn since the trams are pretty slow) from the ‘altstadt’, or the old part of town. Interestingly enough, Rohrbach is where the American military bases are stationed. Mark Twain Village. A lovely place resplendent with monotonous beige barracks and barbed-wire fences. But it’s a very residential area, very quiet and inexpensive for students.

We left literally five minutes later to go to Durlach, a small town next to the larger city of Karlsruhe forty minutes from Rohrbach. Durlach is where Robert’s mother lives. She was not expecting me until Wednesday, so she greeted me with a big surprised hug. In my completely broken deutsch I explained to her that Robert wanted to surprise her on her birthday. Although I wanted to celebrate with her, she set up a bed for me and tucked me in. I woke up six hours later to find three large half-eaten tortes on the table in the living room. Fruit salad and strawberries soaked in Schnapps… She had around twelve people over for lunch and “sekt” (sparkling wine) and I had slept right through it!

After a large cup of coffee Robert and I went to a fest at the University in Karlsruhe, where most of his friends from high school are studying. There was a band playing and students everywhere. He introduced me to some friends whom I had already met and some who I had not. They were all surprised when I answered in German and were very understanding when I stumbled over my words, but one could imagine that listening comprehension is not rendered easier by large crowds and loud music. We made plans to visit Robert’s friend Sophia who goes to the University of Konstanz and camp in the Black Forest along the way; I look forward to spending more time with them not only for the German but because of how welcoming and laid back they seem to be. The rest of the story goes like this: jet-lag. There’s nothing like a change in time zones to force your body to catch up on sleep. After a hectic semester of classes and homework, arriving in Germany felt like arriving at a secluded summer house far from the distractions and stresses of normal Chicago life.