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

Sag Niemals Nie...and buy an U-Bahn Pass

Location: MUNICH, GERMANY


There is an English saying, "Never say never". Apparently, there is also a German translation...


Last night, I went out to eat with a few friends from the church group. One of the girls told us about how she had walked four hours to church that evening because she didn't have her S-bahn card. I said, "Well, I have never been checked for my card". She said, "Oh, I have been checked like six times. The S-Bahn they are dressed like police officers. But the U-Bahn ones, they are the scariest. They are dressed like normal people".


I thought of all the places I had ridden outside of my allocated circle, including the day before when I had gone to Dachau. That was about ten circles too far outside of my district. Just last weekend, I had just ridden the trains and disembarked when I felt like the ground above would be an interesting side trip. And I thought of all the "normal" people I had seen on the S and U-Bahns. How could I even know if they were, in fact, the "ticket police"?


On the train this morning, I was enjoying my coffee and about to get off at the next stop when a scruffy man with a long ponytail, said "Morgen". I looked at him as he rambled something else off in German. It was still before my German side of the brain kicks in and I was only half way through my coffee. Suddenly, I saw people around me pulling out their travel cards. I thought, "No way. Are you serious? I am actually getting carded". My heart dropped a little bit; I don't know why but being checked for proper identification in a foreign country by a man who looks like he belongs in a Daytona Beach biker organization is a little startling. I passed inspection and exited at the next stop.


On the way home, about two stops from mine, a larger man who smelt like vinegar elbowed his way into the already tightly crammed corner where I was standing. Suddenly, again, I saw him pull out his identification card and start checking for tickets. I managed mine out of a packed gepäck and watched as the Austrian man next to me was ticketed for not having his ticket. 


I came off the train and thought, "Sag niemals nie". Never Say Never. 

The Abandoned Olympic U-Bahn Station

Location: MUNICH, GERMANY


In my last entry I wrote about the photographs I had taken at a derelict U-bahn(underground) station that was once used to shuttle spectators to the Olympic Stadium during the 1972 Summer Olympics. I found out about the station from a discussion on Toy Town and used the handy Google Earth imaging to locate the actual station, which coincidentally is about a six minute walk from my apartment. These are some of the photos I took that day.