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