Fighting Fascism on the 5 o'clock Train

Location: HEIDELBERG, GERMANY

Heidelberg is my favorite German city, followed very closely by Rötenburg and München. I had spent some time in the picturesque baroque city when my Air Force father took my mother and myself abroad for the first of many Heidelberg stops. Despite being an antsy four-year-old with a penchant for dramatics and selfishness, I vividly remember the ominous Heidelberg castle and its two-story tall keg. Of course, at that age I merely thought of it as another touristy distraction on my quest for the next toy store. I think I grasped the concept better during our next trip fourteen years later. 


This weekend, my mother and I again found ourselves enjoying the newly-warm spring air in an outside cafe, watching German couples tie the knot in the courthouse. We clapped and cheered along with their attendants when the ivory-clad couples walked out the front doors under a shower of bird seed. 


However, we found ourselves in a subdued panic at the conclusion of the weekend because our flight back to the States was the following morgen früh. And as the day continued, our plans got a little more complicated with each moment.


Before we even left the Hauptbahnhof, Deutsche Bahn, who rarely disappoints, had accidentally sent a small-capacity train to pick up about twice its comfortable ability. The conductor announced we would be stopping momentarily a short distance from the station to exchange and upgrade trains. Kein Problem, alles gut...

Upon train changes, we realized to our dismay that DB had over booked our train again. We found our assigned car, which was in a frenzy. Everyone was moving around, pulling heavy bags, shoving into each other and angrily glaring down the long line of people trying to move in opposite directions. It was like one of those Chinese finger traps: unless one side relaxes, both sides will stay trapped. 

From our position wedged in the car entrance, I caught a glimpse of our assigned seats. Seats 15A and 15B were occupied. By a couple of guys in tight, white t-shirts, black Doc Martens, and shaved heads. Tattoos of the Iron Cross completed the ensemble. “Oh, great,” I thought to myself, not wanting to alert anyone, especially Mom, to this revelation. Skinheads.

Suddenly, I heard myself talking. “Enschuldigung (clearing my throat) Enschuldigung”. Without missing beat in the conversation, I got a sideward glance and perhaps even a half-exerted throat clear. In their residual desire for white supremacy, they had evidently forgotten basic manners.  However, I knew if I didn’t argue for our seat, we would be standing like the remainder of the passengers. And we had a three hour train ride ahead of us. And I had paid a whole extra 4€ for seat reservations and I was going to get my money's worth.  

As I contemplated how to get out of this predicament, I was reminded of a quote I had read in my German language study:


"...mastery of the art and spirit of the Germanic language enables a man to travel all day in one sentence without changing cars."


Mom and I were traveling the three hour train ride home from Heidelberg, so my German really only needed to enable me for the next few seconds. Or we would need to change cars.


“Hallo. Umm HALLO”. Every time I got louder, yet they kept their conversation running. “Enschuldigung!” Finally, the biggest one turned and stared me down. 

“Ja, hallo das ist meine Platz,” I said. (That is my seat) 

“Diese Platz?” he mockingly inquired. (This seat)

“Ja, diese platz,” I said, sharpening my tone and staring back into his eyes. (Yes, this seat)

Turning to the other skin head, I said, “And das ist auch meine Platz ”. (And that is also my seat ).

I could feel my heart start pounding over my wavering voice. They said something in German and moved ever so slowly out of our way, much to the annoyance of the opposing sides still trying to get out of the Chinese trap. They glared at me and I shrugged like it didn't faze me. I noticed the passengers around me also relaxed. I had sweat pooling at the nape of my neck though. 

Mom and I settled into our seats, only to realize I had rightfully removed Skinhead Nummer Ein  from 15A. What I hadn't noticed was I had also removed Skinhead Nummer Zwei from 15D. A small, elderly German woman smiled at me from 15C and said in German, "It is ok. It was my seat but I didn't want to sit with them anyway. You have your seat. And I have mine".

The men stood in the doorway adjacent to me the remainder of the ride. But it didn’t matter. I had the seats, whether correctly or not, and they were standing. That and I had about sixty other people on the train still in the Chinese finger trap between me and the punks. 

Sound of Music

"The hills are alive...with the Sound of Music"

Location: SALZBURG, AUSTRIA


Tired of being the line leader, Mom and I decided to take two tours the following day. I half expected to encounter someone from my middle school in Illinois or my elementary schools in Alabama or Washington D.C. Chances were extremely high at this point. With no reunions in sight, Mom and I partook in something so touristy, kitschy and tacky, but something nonetheless representative of a beloved childhood memory: The Sound of Music Tour. 


It is one of those movies that you sing along to, even though Julie Andrew's voice is superior to all mezzo sopranos (including a little brother who hasn't yet hit puberty) and one that the parents don't have to ponder whether it could have "bad connotations" as so often cited by my parents regarding other movies, including Disney. It kept my brother and myself passive for 167 minutes on long, family car rides. And we had a lot of long car rides, always ending in Texas. 


As the tour name insinuates, it was a veritable walk-down-movie-lane, except on a bus. With fifty others singing off key. 


The fictionalized movie is based upon the true story of the Von Trapp Family Singers from Salzburg. While working at Nonnberg Abbey in 1926, Maria was asked to tutor one of seven children of widowed naval commander, Georg von Trapp. They were married in 1927, when Maria was 22 and Georg was 47 and their first child was born three months later. They went on to have two additional children, bringing the total of ten children.

The family began singing in Austria in 1935 and moved to the United States shortly before the Nazi annexation of Austria in 1938. There are conflicting accounts about their departure from Austria, but the majority state that the family left prior to the Anschluss on a train to Italy and then sailed to the United States.

No Nazi love interest for the eldest daughter. No discernible age difference between the happy couple or a six month baby bump under a white frock as Maria walked down the aisle. No midnight escapes from the Nazis. For that matter, had they escaped into the Alps, wearing very little protective clothing, and survived the temperament, they would have found themselves in Berchtesgaden, underneath the Kehlsteinhaus, otherwise known as Hitler's Eagles' Nest.  


The United States Library of Congress selected the film for preservation in the National Film Registry as it was deemed "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant". The movie was aesthetically pleasing. But culturally and historically significant, I think not. Perhaps the non-fiction version was too sordid a love affair for Rodgers and Hammerstein, but to not even use the real names, events, or make the escape even feasible...No wonder most Salzburgers have never seen the film! 

The bus continued its cheery sing-along, but as the tour progressed I seemed to be the only one having my childhood crushed. We were ushered to the gazebo made famous during the duet between Liezl and Rolf in "Sixteen Going on Seventeen". But there would be no jumping bench to bench, for me or anyone. The gazebo is locked up tight, but you are allowed to take pictures on the outside. 

The large manor made famous as the von Trapp homestead is, in fact, two separate homes. One home provided its back siding for some of the more infamous scenes, like when Maria and the children fall out of the boat into the lake. Another home was the front side of the "manor", which can be spotted if one looks quickly on the tour as the bus speeds by on the highway. 


Another spoiler: The fictionalized von Trapp wedding did not even occur in Salzburg. For the tour, we were taken to the Stiftskirche Mondsee, located about a 20 minute drive outside of Salzburg in Mondsee, Austria. It was a pretty Catholic church, but not nearly as grandiose or exceptional as the movie. In fact, it was rather dark and gaudy. 


After arriving back in Salzburg a little dejected, we joined the next tour heading to the Austrian Alps, including a tour of the Salt Mines. Salzburg translated means "salt mountain"

Once on the salt mine tour, claustrophobia set in. I was in my long winter coat, two layers of clothes, a jumpsuit provided by the organizers and was seated ponied-up with six other people on what strongly resembled a log flume from those adventure park rides, but with rails. The train, made of about seven cars, hurriedly descended into caverns intermittently-lit by lone industrial bulbs. The wind blew past quickly and the temperature drastically dropped as we dropped. At least that it what my face, the only piece of exposed anything, detected.

"Here. Here is for you. Stand next to speaker," the abrasive Austrian said as he ushered us to a small box labeled ENG/MAN/FRE/ESP. He pushed the ENG button and we listened to a recorded explanation about our current location and frankly, why we should give a damn. All in an nice English package.


By about the third cattle drive into yet another cavern with another piece of antiquated and unrecognizable machinery, I didn't give one damn any more. Let's be honest. It was about salt. Salt mining, salt collection, salt distribution. It was salt in my Sound of Music wounds. 

High School Musical - Austrian Style

Location: SALZBURG, AUSTRIA

American tourists are easy to spot and their inability to camouflage with the locals makes for great prose. In a tropical destination, they are the ones with pink skin, only further accentuated by their white sneakers and matching white tube socks. In Asia, they are outfitted in fanny packs and raised voices, all in hopes that the lowly hostess will suddenly understand English at a higher decibel. Side note: For some reason it always seems to be in the excoriatingly pinched Northeastern accent. In South America, they are decked out in baseball caps and t-shirts in support of their favorite sports team, be it local or national, but always American.  However, in Europe they apparently wear electric blue sweatshirts.

Mom and I had arrived only an hour earlier to Salzburg via Ljubljana on the heels of a serendipitous 24 hours. After a quick morning tour around downtown Ljubljana, thankfully minus the rain of the previous day, we packed up and settled back into train travel. This time, our train car was significantly nicer and smelled of new carpet, rather than stale body odor and unfiltered cigarettes. We shared our six person cabin with one rather unpleasant German man for only a short time before it was time to make the train swap again in Villach. This time our train was Deutsche Bahn, the standard German trains by which all train lines should aspire. 


Our train sped along the tracks with the indelible clackty-clack, until it reached speeds where you don't feel you are even moving. The scenery of Spring's newly greened trees, rust-red tiled roofs and long forgotten bridges and fortaments, rushed past in a fog of color. When we arrived at the Salzburg Hauptbahnhof, a familiar city and warmer weather awaited. 


I had visited Salzburg a few weeks earlier, but Mom and I hadn't been back together in nearly five years. The first time was a miserable experience felt through the fog of a seventeen year old's self-induced, tequila-flavored beer hangover and the aftermath that comes from arriving home at 4 a.m. The second time was a spirited jaunt with a pair of English ladies following our brief introductions to each other the night before disembarkation. I was looking to make the third time a charm. 


Then I saw them coming from up the road, all clumped together like a blueberry pie. Nothing more American than that. And then I saw them up close. 

As the group drew nearer, we saw that their sweatshirts had the Dutch, German, Austrian and U.S. flags embroidered and encircled by the script "Spruce Creek High School Marching Band Tour 2010". SPRUCE CREEK?! My alma matter high school? 


"They can't possibly be from Daytona. I mean, your school colors are orange and black," my mother noted observantly "Think about it...two coincidental run-ins with people from your two previous schools, it just doesn't happen".


Resigning to "mother knows best", we kept up our pace towards the mountain opposite of the castle for some nice sunset pictures of the city. But, as another wave of blue approached, I noticed one had a NASCAR hat on and white tennis shoes. My suspicions were confirmed. I thought, “How many Spruce Creeks can there be?” 


So I asked the oncoming group “Spruce Creek in Florida?” The group looked stunned and had a mix of “yeses” as I explained that I had graduated Creek in 2004 and my brother followed in 2009. I think they were most surprised to hear English, much less in their native Southern drawl. They invited us to dinner...dinner with all 200+ teenagers and chaperons. Caught up in the novelty of the past two run-ins, Mom and I accepted their offer and continued with our planned tryst around downtown Salzburg at sunset. 


Before the uproariously loud dinner later that night with ravenous American high-schoolers and exhausted and bullied wait-staff, I stopped to really think about the cliche "small world".  In the last three months, I had run into a college acquaintance in Amsterdam, met another at the Munich Security Conference who was working Congressional Delegation logistics and had communication with a handful of ERAU students, both past and present, living and working in Munich. Now, in just 24 hours, I had met another alumni in Slovenia and a gaggle of representatives from my high school. 


What are the odds? You can’t make this stuff up. Well you could but it wouldn’t be nearly as believable. 

Riddle Me This, Riddle Me That...

Location: LJUBLJANA, SLOVENIA


My mother looked at me through her steamed-up glasses over her steaming glass. "This is likely the most expensive hot chocolate I have ever had," she acknowledged, probably in reservation to her current situation. I nodded, realizing that 500 Euros is pretty expensive for hot chocolate, give or take a few Euros. The chocolate was good, but it wasn't that good. The bar stools were comfy, but not that comfy. The service was cute, but not that cute. I looked outside the cafe at the pouring rain and silently mourned for our one and only day in Slovenia. 


My father once brought me home a souvenir-shop t-shirt with SLOVENIA printed in big red letters across the front with the Bled Castle depicted in yellow and black. At about ten years old, I had no clue where this country was located. Or why he chose this as my souvenir. At the age of 23, I hadn't learned much more about the country and many of my contemporaries even failed to point it out on the map or mistakenly picked Slovakia instead. All I knew about Slovenia was while Dad had "been there, gotten the t-shirt", I had gotten the t-shirt, but not been there. 


I also knew that Slovenia's capital, when its name is spelled out, looks a case of Tourette's on a keyboard.  In fact, I picked the country solely because of the capital's name: Ljubljana. Pronounced lou-be-on-na, our trip was as discombobbled and unusual as the city's name. 


En route recounts are always a matter of "you had to be there" and therefore, our trip from Munich to Ljubljana required your attendance for the full effect. Everyone has troubles with their travels and everyone thinks their misadventures are cause for alarm and an hour long story about a minute detail, which during the event, probably felt like the weight of the world. Ours was no different, though forgetting our non-refundable tickets at home, purchasing brand-new tickets at nearly double original price, nearly missing our train and a language barrier sure did add some spice to the story. 


As our train sped along the tracks, stopping ever so often, my nerves finally began to unwind. We transversed through Germany, with its many red-roofed buildings surrounded by lush, green parks and mountainous backdrops, into Austria, which looked very similar. We had to change trains in Austria and when we stepped from our train to the train bound for Slovenia, I suddenly felt like picking up chain-smoking, donning a dirty newsboy cap and saying things like "Mother Russian". At least I would've fit in better than I did in my polo, jeans and Coach tote. 

Our train dropping us in Ljubljana...thankfully

"Where the hell are we supposed to go," my mother swore, in probably one of the only cases to which I had ever borne witness. She was watching people take their luggage, rolling bags and all, across the tracks to join their transports. Thank goodness I had told Mom to pack light.  Our cattle car, luckily, awaited us at the adjoining platform. We stepped onto the closest car, walking past the inquisitive stares of some older gentlemen and their unfiltered smoke clouds, as they both spilled out of the smoky, film-covered windows. The car we happened upon was the dining car. The rest of the train seemed to be overpacked, so we took the first seat, bags tucked tightly next to us. 


Now, I am not a skittish traveler nor do I judge a country's status by whether it is subjectively "pretty". However, the look of subtle terror on my mother's face quickly regressed any of my initial recoil. Without letting on to my mother, I kept looking at the Slovenian language section in my travel book, hoping some of the words would suddenly reveal their meanings to me in German. I wasn't being picky. 


"Would you care to sit with us? We couldn't help but notice you speaking English," said a man in a lovely South Britain-accent and seated in the table behind us. Leave it to Mom to find the only Brits (probably the only other English-speakers) on the train. The two gentlemen were on their way to visit friends in Sarajevo. The idea alone of spending more than a few more hours on this train frightened my mother; the idea of going to a former and still dangerous war-zone intrigued me. I couldn't help but notice one was missing a finger. The idea alone that perhaps I was sitting next to a master bomb-maker frightened me; his real occupation, a yachtsman on something like the 20th largest yacht in the world, intrigued my mother. But the fact that he was more secretive about his job than I had to be about divulging my internship at the State Department,  only intrigued my mother more. 

As the train chugged along, the sky became grayer and the buildings became more concrete. All in varying shades of gray, taupe, sand and beige. It almost reminded me of living in USAF base housing when your options for paint colors were white, eggshell, off-white or Elmer's glue. Painted letters depicting the long since forgotten, yet still being advertised, household goods or automotive parts, cracked and chipped, revealing the more vibrant color from the original painting, circa 1950. The familiar yellowing lace curtains attempted in vain to add some delicateness to the stone facade while assorted pieces of laundry dried in tiny alcoves and concrete balconies.


Now, I love urban decay. I love to photograph it and walk through it; I just don't want to stay in it. The cabbie from the train station smelt like onions and drove us through the cinder-blocked Ljubljana. Because neither Mom nor myself speak any Slovenian, the cabbie turned on the radio to kill the silence. “This Love” by Maroon 5 filled the taxi and I felt a bit more at ease. When he pulled us up alongside the nicest hotel in Ljubljana, I felt even more relieved. 


After checking into Hotel Slon, which proudly displayed a picture of Bill Clinton from his visit in 1999, we went to unpack in our room. We really only had the remainder of the day and part of the following morning to get in all the sightseeing. However, sometime in the fifteen minutes it took for us to unpack and unwind, I had managed to loose our room key. I went downstairs to replace the key and while retrieving a new key from the front desk, I heard an all too familiar West-Coast accent.


I turned to see a handsome, tan gent in his early twenties, dressed in a white v-neck t-shirt, jeans and a black blazer. His spiky blonde hair and huge grin only furthered my suspicions that I was running into a fellow countryman.


"Hey, are you from the States?" he asked with a broad grin, like it was some pick-up line.
"Yes, are you?'" I asked, like it wasn't obvious to the both of us.
"Hey cool, I'm from California. LA area. Where are you from?"
"Oh, Florida. Daytona Beach"
"Really?? I almost went to school there. Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University. You know it?
"Yeah of course. That is where I go to school"
"No way! I went to the Prescott campus" [ERAU has two residential campuses, one in Florida and one in Prescott, Arizona]


About this point, I thought, "These types of run-ins really only happen on television or in corny romance novels". I was in neither and was fully aware of that fact. My internal commentary was noting nothing more than a passing observation, which had been strongly influenced by the Disney movies of my youth. We spoke for a few more minutes about the coincidences of running into a fellow alum so far away from home. And then, my passing observation passed just as quickly out of my life.

Drinking dulce at Dulce

No sooner had Mom and I emerged from the hotel lobby doors, but it started to pour felines and canines. Mom and I grappled for our umbrellas, but determined to make the best of the short time we did have, continued to walk along the now deserted streets. After our pant legs had soaked up quarts and we had snapped a few pictures, we found refuge in a coffee bar aptly named Dulce. 


We ordered two hot chocolates with whipped creme. When it arrived, it was not quite as thick as chocolate syrup, but not as thin as hot chocolate to which I am accustomed . “This may be the most expensive cup of hot chocolate, but it is by far the best” I commented, peering out again at the unapologetic weather beating on the café’s glass windows. Mom smiled and said, "I'm just happy we made it here and are together." Like a sappy television show, the rain abruptly stopped.

Now, in comparission with my three months of interaction with German and Austrian hospitality workers, the Slovenian personnel were something unusual: hospitable. The waitress provided translation help, gave us ideas for dinner once the hot chocolate buzz subsided, and sighed a huge relief at the end saying, "Ah, I did it". We smiled at her, reminded her that her English was great, tipped well and walked out into drying streets. 

We visited the Ljubljana Castle and captured some creative panoramic photos of the city. We soaked up more water in our pants walking around Town Square, simultaneously giggling at the flamingo-colored St. Franciscan Church of the Annunciation (what a strange color for a church). We walked many times across the uninspiring Dragon Bridge and the beautiful, carved stone Triple Bridge over to St. Nicholas' green domes and imposing twin towers. But, it was the nooks and crannies of the city that enchanted me. Ljubljana was graciously decaying. Paint peeled in long strips off of concrete walls colored by green moss. Wood doors warped, revealing their wrinkled cracks and the sepia tones glittered next to the rusting industrial tones of the windowsills and rain gutters. 

Before dinner, and needing to change out of soaking clothes, we went back to our room. And there sitting on the desk was a handwritten note from the "Riddle Guy" asking my mother and I to dinner with him that evening. Again, I thought "Well, now we are going to have dinner, have a long distance courtship, and it is going to end in marriage. Underneath the stars at a castle. Isn't that what the fairy tales told me as a child?"

After walking around, albeit slightly lost in downtown, we finally settled on the most Slovenian of restaurants: the local Italian immigrant pizzeria. We talked about aviation, which is almost a prerequisite for any Riddle conversation. "Riddle Guy" talked about his campus; I talked about mine.  I had spent a summer semester at his campus, so we tried to determine what friends we might have in common. But without Facebook, who can tell the endless possibilities these days?


After dinner was over, we said our brief goodbyes. Nothing fancy. Just blocks away from a castle. Under a striking full moon. 


My encounter in Slovenia didn't end in a fairy tale, though I still have regular contact with "Riddle Guy". And he is still just as handsome. But it was the next 24 hours paired with my time in Slovenia that would make me again believe in the reality of fantasy and fiction...

Follow-up with the April 3rd Salzburg entry

Transaction Unable to Process

Location: MUNICH, GERMANY

After my extension materialized, I went to view a new apartment. It was listed in a part of town way out of my way, but it was a good price and semi-close to public transportation. I asked my current roommate to come with me. When we arrived in the neighborhood, it looked like I had walked into the former Eastern Bloc of Germany. The building’s paint peeled in long strips to reveal its concrete cinder block exterior. Dogs barked maniacally, protecting their piece of broken walkway and slashed chain-link fencing.

However, when I visited the actual apartment, I felt as though I had left Munich and entered Mecca. The landlord’s walls were covered with Arabic script that peered over his shrine of Sunni Islamic religious figures and partially melted candles. I half expected to hear a call to prayer during the viewing.  As we were walking out at a quickened pace, I understood him ask my roommate where I was from. My roommate replied “American” and I heard the landlord start laughing and say something along the lines of “Oh, we are neighbors. I am from Iraq”. I knew at some point in the future, I would have to list this as a “place of residence” on my security clearance if I chose to live here. There isn’t enough space on those clearance papers to explain living in an Iraqi’s home while he is “just visiting” his homeland for a few months.  

The next apartment I visited had a listing which said:

The apartment is within walking distance from the U-Bahn. Located in a pleasant part of Munich, your roommates are a young couple. Will share use of bathroom, kitchen and living room. Available for short-term lease, so perfect for students.

What it should’ve read was:

U-Bahn a 20 minute walk away, if you are lucky enough to catch the green walk-lights. If not, tack an additional 10 minute wait time. But take your time; the neighborhood is full of graffiti that is the neighborhood’s latest art exhibit and hooligans that you can’t outrun. You will be living in a fluorescent, purple bedroom with My Little Pony wallpaper peeling off and a suspicious stain in the middle of the green carpet. The couple will be in their mid-forties, heavily obese, heavy smokers and their German and English are about as great as your desire to live here. When you arrive, the bathroom will be occupied by the husband, who is making obnoxious grunting noises. The kitchen will be suitable for a rat to make nest and staphylococcus to flourish beautifully. Bonus: you will be sharing said bedroom with their six year old child, okay?

But, third time was a charm. I found this beautifully, remodeled loft apartment overlooking a lake. The landlord was an elegant Taiwanese woman in her early thirties and her 18-month old son, who by the way spoke Taiwanese, Mandarin, English, and French and was currently enrolled in German classes. I made arrangements to bring my mother by a few days after the viewing. Unbeknownst to me, I had to pay the security deposit that day. Instead of lengthening the rental agreement signing, my landlady offered to drive Mom and myself to the local Deutsche Bank to withdraw money. After many tries with both of our cards, neither of us was able to withdraw any money. The ATMs kept displaying Transaction Unable to Process. We tried a second Deutsche Bank ATM center. Same error message. Feeling defeated we set another time a few days later to finish the transaction.

On the U-Bahn ride home, it hit me. I had been fighting this hard for this long because I thought God was testing my endurance and resilience. He was actually testing my obedience. I broke down crying. I cried because I knew that another three months in the most expensive city in Germany, without pay, in a position that does not necessarily add anything substantial to my credentials, was counterproductive. I cried for the other foreigners who, by an act of the Devine, were also unable to withdraw money that day. But mostly, I cried because since Mom and I were only a day from embarking on our European tour, I knew I would have to say goodbye to my friends in less than 24 hours.

It was not an easy decision to make. But I am at peace with the decision, and at the time of this reading, I am at home starting the next chapter in my educational course. Back to my family and friends. Back to a warm climate. Back to a job with real monetary income and free housing. And after all, free housing is a transaction anyone would be able to process. 

Happy One Year to The Travel Sized Tourist blog

Streamers in Salzburg

Location: MUNICH, GERMANY


Happy Birthday (plus a day) to The Travel Sized Tourist blog. One year ago (and a day) I started the blog by posting my first (and published) blog about my initial arrival in China. In the two years since the trip, as well as the year since the beginning of the blog, I have been to another continent, gotten four more stamps in my passport and checked five additional countries off my list. But, it isn't so much checking off from a pre-written list that made my travels extraordinary. It was the experiences I had slightly off the beaten path and sometimes lost in a desert. Here are a few:

• Walked the Great Wall in flip-flops
• Bungee jumped in Qinghuangdao with a little more than old bindings, duck tape and a prayer 
• Picked up my skis and schlepped down the side of the Alps after realizing how bad I am at skiing
• Touched the ocean and desert simultaneously in Swakopmund
• Pulled over by the Namibian military under suspicion of illegally transporting my rental car
• Ate scorpions, chicken feet, cow's tripe and cow's stomach...and proceeded to get food poisoning in China
• Took off to Austria for a day because I felt like it
• Drove on the left hand side of the road in a left-handed rental car through the Namib Desert
• Stood in the middle of a herd of zebra
• Retraced my grandparents steps in Canada following their immigration to Prince Edward Island

Looking forward to the next year!

First Impressions and Second Chances

Location: SALZBURG, AUSTRIA


This internship has been on-and-off more in the last week than my previous boyfriend and myself. It has been an up and down emotional drain, not knowing if I have two weeks or three months left in a city I love, away from a city I also love. I didn't know if I once again would need to tell my friends I was leaving, only to turn around and tell them I would join them in a biergarten as soon as Spring starts. And I still don't concretely know. 


What I did know was that I was not going to be able to make this decision or process the changes while moping in my Munich apartment. I needed to "get out" and, when given the opportunity, I decided to take a chance. 


I had only just met Emily and Katie from England (via the Isle of Wight) the evening before our excursion. They are friends with a guy with whom I go to church and he was leaving Saturday for a retreat, leaving the two non-German-speaking girls alone in Germany. They had wanted to go to Salzburg, about a two hour train ride from Munich, but really needed a German-speaker and guide. I am a German-speaker and have been to Salzburg once. Seven hours later, we were on a train to Austria. 


Nearly six years earlier, I had been walking down these streets as a 17 year-old, nursing a German-beer induced hangover, exacerbated by my mother's endless chiding about missing curfew the previous night. My pounding headache and nauseous stomach continued as we walked aimlessly around the Old City, past beggars and homeless people lying along the bridges. One woman, the most vivid of my Salzburg memories, was selling her artwork which was propped up against her wheelchair. No matter people's situation, I always have a pull at my heartstrings when I see people reduced to begging and though it may put a damper on my day, like many others, I will just avert my eyes and walk ahead, trying to shake the feeling of remorse.


Maybe it was the hangover. Maybe it was Mom. I know it was definitely the remorse. But from that visit to the current visit, I didn't like Salzburg. I viewed it as a dump. A place that was not worth a second thought, or a second visit.


Instead, what I got this time around was a beautiful city on a rare, bright and sunny day in Austria, bustling with tourist and locals alike in the numerous outdoor fresh produce markets. The streets smelled like tulips and croissants. The archways reverberated with the sounds of the markets and local street performers playing an array of instruments from the electric violin to the, well, I don't actually know what this instrument is...


We ate serving-plate-sized pretzels, which had been dipped in Austrian chocolate, as we walked off the 1000s of calories they contained. The girls laughed that the calories didn't count because they were on "holiday" and therefore, by default of my attendance, I was also on holiday. According to them, I was also expected to be eating such large portions because I am American. Okay, point one for the Brits. 

Amongst the good-humor American versus England jokes, we lost ourselves in the Old City. No streets, alleyways or boulevards are straight-gridded, so we meandered and snaked our way around the old churches and Mozart's birthplace, sometimes looping back on our former footsteps, yet still finding something interesting or beautiful that we had missed before. 

Like the locals who were playing on a life-sized chess board, with chess pieces the size of small children. Or the artists haggling prices with us in English, even before we exposed ourselves with our accents. Or the tank-topped girls lounging on the side of the river with a snow-capped mountain backdrop. Or the way the light hit the sides of glowing steeples, glittering statues and the shimmering river as the day progressed and the sun moved toward the same direction to which we would soon be returning.


It was a day of taking chances and giving second chances. I took a chance going on a trip with two girls with whom I had been acquainted less than 24 hours to a city I had previously disliked in a foreign country. 


And I am going back in two weeks with my Mom. Third time will be a charm. 

Skiing in Garmisch-Partenkirchen

Location: GARMISCH-PARTENKIRCHEN, 

GERMANY

When my friends asked me if I wanted to go skiing last weekend, I had a little more than a nanosecond between my thought processing and my loud "YES" answer. What should have processed instead during that time, should have been the obvious fact that I had not skied in nearly seven years and that time seven years ago was my first time EVER skiing. And that was skiing in North Carolina, not the German Alps. Nonetheless, I was on the train with them first thing Saturday morning.



Before I left Florida, I had insisted that I find the perfect white ski outfit. I wanted to at least look the part. Skiing in the Alps was #17 on my Bucket List. Learning to Snowboard is #22. So, at the peer pressure of my friends, I rented a snowboard. I can surf, so I thought, "How much more different can this be?" Well, first, I am strapped to the board so when I fall, it isn't into churning salt water that at least gives a little. Instead, I crashed face first like a pancake being flipped on the skillet. At least I still looked the part. 

Admiting a bit of defeat (and not wanting to waste €35 for a day spent on my bum in the snow), I rented out a set of skis. Immediately when I got off the ski lift up to the base of the resort, I knew I was more stable and could keep up with the others. 


I had since lost everyone else, so I took the ski lift to the top of a red run. I got off at the top of the lift and peered over the slope. I watched as small children fearlessly skied down the slopes. They were better than me. What nerve. Recounting what spur-of-the-moment lessons I received on my North Carolina trip, I started zig-zagging my way down the mountain. I had my ski tips in the "pizza wedge" and had pretty decent control. At least good control over the first of a series of icy hills. 


I suddenly picked up speed over the next hill and before I knew it, I was blowing past everyone, including those little children, like I was qualifying late for the downhill skiing portion of the Winter Olympics. "They ain't got nothing on me" was my first thought. If the judges could have seen me, seen my form, they would've granted me the Gold weeks after the Olympics closing ceremony, no questions asked. Then if they had seen my epic "yard sale" they would've given me a 9. A 9 because nine things went flying off me: my goggles, the padding on the goggles, my beanie, two ski poles, two skis, the gum in my mouth, and my pride. 


"Oh my gosh this is going to hurt" was my second thought.


I made it down the run a second time, with only two more crashes, determined to get one more run in before we had to catch the train back. "Oh, this one is easy. It is just like stairs. You have one small hill and then it is flat. Then another hill. Then flat". Those were the words that sealed my fate.


Not barely down the first "stair", I face planted. Growing frustrated, I told my friends to go along ahead. At least they could have a fun run. I saw a sign for the blue run. "Oh, easy." Wrong. I crashed one turn into the hill, this time with little options of getting my skis back on. Poised on a steep hill, I would stand up, loose my footing (or my ski) and be forced to pick out compacted snow from my boots and try to get my skis back on. After about 10 minutes I succeeded. Only to fall on the next hill. And this is where I just took off my skis, picked them up in my arms and walked. All the way down the side of the Alps. 

I'll save you the detailed description, but I can sum it up like this: I would walk down one hill, reach a plateau and reattach my skis. I would then realize after a short distance on skis that the next "stair" was coming. I would inevitably fall again, and hoping to make it down the mountain before dark, I would start my walking process again. 


I did finally make it down(obviously), albeit an hour later with bruising shins and bleeding blisters. But, I managed to ski the last part, which brought me directly into base camp, and thus saving face because, well, I actually skied instead of walking into camp.

Bruised shins. Tear in my perfect ski outfit. Sore bum.  A case of bronchitis a few days later. But, it was all worth it for the warm gluhwein at the end. And the friends around the fire. And now I can add "Walk down the side of the Alps when you epic fail at skiing" to my Bucket List.

It's Official...

Location: MUNICH, GERMANY


When I know a deadline is looming, I feel like someone on death row. Just waiting for that day when everything changes. The day when everything you know ceases to exist and another chapter is closed. Waiting all along for a state reprieve. In the past few weeks, I have tried vehemently, albeit unsuccessfully, to hold onto days, hours and minutes, knowing all along that my time would come in the last week of March to say goodbye to everyone. To all the colleagues I have grown to respect. To all the beautiful sites accented by the beautiful language. And most importantly, to all the friends I have acquired in my mere three months.


I knew I would be going back to a family that loves me. And friends that miss me. And a masters degree that needs finishing. I had accepted the inevitable move and had told everyone last Wednesday that I would soon be leaving. However, on Thursday late afternoon, I had to "print a retraction".


I have been asked to continue my internship until July, this time connected to the Foreign Commercial Services Department. Although not technically the State Department, the FSC helps to mediate between American and German companies (really any foreign commercial company, but since I am in Germany...) as they seek to develop new bases of operation or new business ventures in each others respective countries. I am extremely excited about the opportunity and look forward to spending another four months here. I kind of consider it my State reprieve

Red Tape meets Red Light

Location: AMSTERDAM, HOLLAND, THE NETHERLANDS

How do I write about Amsterdam while avoiding taboo topics much like I avoided them during the vacation? Well, I would start by saying that I really did just want to see the Anne Frank Huis and the canals. And that all the coffee shops I patronized sold ONLY coffee. And that any window I looked into did not have a semi-naked girl staring back at me. Well, that isn’t completely true, but I did not go closer than any diseases could jump.

What I can say is that this weekend was a weekend of awakened understandings. I knew when I decided to go to the “Sin City” of Europe that I would have to bob and weave smoke clouds. Not only is any drug use while holding a security clearance grounds for dismissal, but even if it wasn’t, I want to be able to check NO drug usage on my next security clearance and also show responsibility and self-control.

I wanted to dismiss myself while on a tour of the RDL from being further educated on the latest and most disturbing of fetishes and their availability (and according to our guide, for the price of a 50€ bill) in the District. After seeing another sign for happy brownies and Russian girls, I opted for a few 4€ pints and some French fries. I was the real high roller.

And at the end of our 24 hour trip, I was ready to get out of there. There are only so many museums, canals and “safe” coffeehouses that one can visit before the red lights and smoke clouds blindside a tourist. Standing at the train tracks, I first heard the announcement in Dutch. I caught about every fifth word, but I did hear geannuleerde. And then again, I heard aufgehoben. By the time the announcer said cancelled in English, I was running down the stairs to the ticketing counter, leaving Gwen on the grimy train platform.

Amongst the confusion of thirty languages shouting and swearing, I gathered that a major storm had hit the coasts of Spain, Portugal and France, killing many people, and was now on course with The Netherlands and Germany. In anticipation, Germany had cancelled every mode of public transportation in and out of Germany. That meant the train that I so desperately wanted to be on, leaving me in the city of which I was quickly tiring. Quickly, the rumors began swirling. They were closing us out at 9 pm into the freezing cold of A’dam to find our own sleeping arrangements. We were sleeping on a train. The German government wasn’t paying for our transportation.

 The truth was scarier. About three hours after the cancellation, they announced that anyone who wanted to go to Germany needed to get on the inner-city train leaving Amsterdam for the Germany/Holland border. From there, they were planning on busing us home. We quickly gathered up our bags, and apprehensively, we left presumably on our way to a 20 hour bus ride through nasty German weather. We got to the border, hoped on the bus and were bused to Oberhausen. Then it was announced we were getting on the ICE for Frankfurt. After a two hour layover in Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof, we got onto another ICE and arrived in Munich three hours after our anticipated arrival.

Work had started an hour earlier, but judging from the drool on my shoulder and mascara on my cheek, I opted for a personal day and went home to bed. It was time for my awakened understandings to be put to rest.

Photos from Amsterdam