Wherein I see glimpses of America in Germany…

It felt a bit like stepping back in time, waiting anxiously at the Weimar train station (built in 1846) for my older sister to turn round the corner and appear from the upstairs platforms, knowing only her time of arrival (7:00pm) and city of departure (Warsaw), unable to receive a play-by-play update of her travel status via SMS, as we learned from our father’s great example, whose emails to his daughters during his own travels are frequent enough to substitute GPS tracking. (Think instead of the “Find My iPhone” app something more like “Find My Verbose Father.”)

(If you’re reading this, Dad, I love you. <3)

With every wave of passengers that washed passed me, the hypothetical questions in my brain increased. I had yet to see her.

Where could she be? Did she miss her train? Has it been delayed? How long should I wait for her before I’m allowed to full out panic?

“Oh!” I thought. “That old granny coming down the way looks like she could be from Poland. She’s wearing a floral scarf around her head…?” (Which is of course not an accurate indicator of being Polish.)

With nothing better to calm my nerves, I situated myself next to the McDonald’s and took out my knitting.

Several rows of knitting and purling later, I looked up, and there she was. A petite woman slowly transporting a small caravan of luggage, most of which had been inflicted on her by her own saintliness. This martyr of a 10-hour international flight and another 10 hours on trains (interrupted by transfers) had within her parcels such precious goods as canned pumpkin, Jiffy’s cornbread mix, Mexican spice mix, and honest-to-goodness American peanut butter.

Amen.

. . .

After being thoroughly mothered and spoiled by my sister for a week, the two of us got on a train north.

Hype about the latest movie in the “Hunger Games” trilogy, “Catching Fire,” had been dominating my news feed by the time I arrived in Berlin for the first time.  Since the start of my sojourn in Germany, there’d been a similar amount of hype about the national capital – a “must see,” a city unlike any other in the country.

Despite the admirable efforts of the German movie-dubbing industry (apparently the German dude who provides the voiceover for Brad Pitt gets paid quite the healthy sum), we saw the movie in English. And it did not disappoint. It was one of those movies where you sit back until the credits have finished rolling (and looked for staff listed that might have a name even remotely close to your own – or am I the only one who does that?), everyone else has left the theater, the lights are back on, and scenes from the movie are still replaying in your brain.

It was as if I also saw the city itself “in English.” Everywhere you go – on the subway, on the streets, in cafes – there are people speaking English. Not tourists, with their telltale gaping-mouthed expressions of “I’m lost,” but residents sipping lattes with their German shepherds at their feet. Sitting in the U-Bahn I might as well have been riding the Tube in London.

It was as if some freak tornado had picked up me and Toto and dropped us off in New York City. We were surrounded by not only English, but also Spanish, Italian, Russian, you name it. Thai cuisine on the first night was followed by Japanese the next. The grand finale was kim-chi dumplings pan fried by my dear, dear sister, who sent me home with udon, soba, and Sriracha.

Another high point:  Waving at the US Embassy (the building, though inanimate) and staring longingly at “American soil.”

True high point:  Sister pointing at bike stand and asking, “Does that sign mean ‘no horses allowed?’” No, sister, that is a store logo for Rossmann (something like a German Walgreen’s). But I kind of get the mental connection between “park your bike here” and “don’t park your horses here.”

But technically, sister, it looks more like a centaur.

 

. . .

The sadness of saying goodbye to my sister in Berlin was lessened by my being reunited with another member of my family the next weekend.

My Godsister, arriving in Münster an hour before me all the way from Vienna, was to meet me on my platform. No cell phone communication possible. No Godsister-to-Godsister GPS. No knitting to solve my problems.

Have you ever played “Where’s Waldo?”

Well, I got off the train. I looked left. I looked right. And I immediately spotted her bright pink hat and purple jacket.

“Jerilyn!” I yelled, heart racing and hair flying.

“Adrianna!” she yelled right back, neither of us caring much about decorum or stately train-platform behavior.

That’s some good ol’ American greeting and wrestler-strength hugging right there.

We then joined several other Americans in the CBYX program, and together we peeled potatoes, made cranberry sauce, and laid out a table setting fit for a king and his entire court (complete with floating candles). 

The day before I had put my canned pumpkin and cornbread mix to good use. It was my first time ever to make pumpkin pie, and I had to improvise a bit. Pre-made pie crust is not to be found in Germany (really, neither are pies in general), so I made it from scratch. Pie tins aren’t common either, and the closest thing I found in the store (a Torteform) was going to cost me €30, so I said no-thank-you and bought two cake pans on clearance, one in the shape of a heart and another in the shape of a slice of cake the size of my face. I wasn’t about to shell out €12 for a rolling pin, either, so I twisted off the cap of my water bottle (for which I had ironically paid $20 at my university’s bookstore).

In the end, there was no football game on the TV, and our families back home were sorely missed. But, every bite of that meal tasted like Real Thanksgiving. And my pies were genius.

If anyone wants to make a movie out of my life story, here are some suggested film titles:

Berlin & Münster:
The Girl on Fire (i.e. The Girl Not in Germany Anymore)
&
The Hunger Games (i.e. Thanksgiving)

Wherein I peel my finger instead of the potato...

Sorry to be so blunt, but, my mother is the best cook in the world. And she's had this crazy notion recently that we should start a YouTube channel, where we'd host a mother-daughter cooking show. It'd probably go something like:

Step 1:  Adrianna learns how not to burn the onions.
Step 2:  Adrianna learns how not to slice off her fingers.
Step 3:  Adrianna blunders and Super Mom saves the day.

Because let's face it, when our generation leaves home for the "real world," we are faced with the dilemma of stretching our budgets on frozen, prepared lasagna and ramen. Or, we learn how to cook.

It's been more than 6 years since I left the nest, and this fledgling can successfully cook "x" number of dishes, which Mom has coached from home via telephone. ("Mom, I'm at the supermarket. Now... what should I buy?") Being in Germany means Mom is no longer on speed dial, but no sweat -- I'm a born and raised Texan and cooking chili is in my blood.

I cry uncontrollably when I cut onions. Hence the swimming goggles.

Here in Weimar I'm living in apartment-style housing for students. In my humble little kitchen, I have the basics -- a sink, a stove, and a water kettle -- and, as of late, a microwave and a toaster, the latter of which I picked up on the curbside and will soon be receiving an intense antimicrobial makeover. The first time I tried to use the fancy two-burner stove, which is a completely flat surface, burners and on/off buttons and all, I accidentally put it on child lock. And guess what? The company website doesn't have an instruction manual, which rendered me stove-less for a good half hour. An unforgivable oversight on their part. (And if any of you are laughing at me for not being "adult" enough to undo child lock...)

In any case, one night I'm making a big pot of chili and stoked to be using one of my newest Ikea purchases -- a peeler. Prior to owning this wonderful tool, I was peeling carrots and potatoes with a small knife, the good-ol'-fashioned Bronze Age way.

Yes, it was a beautiful experience, that thrill of modern technology, the blade of the peeler slicing through potato skin like the wing of a hang glider slicing through air. Soaring. And cutting right through my index finger. Suddenly, blood. Lots of blood.

Ow, ow, ow, ow.

I hadn't yet thought to buy band-aids so I had to improvise, folding up a tissue and securing it with packing tape, which was the stickiest thing I had (next best option: post-its).

Ok, minor set back. No problem. Ignore throbbing pain and proceed with adding spices. (Companion music: The Real Group's "Chili con carne.")

I open my precious supply of chili spices, mailed with TLC from Texas, and take an anticipatory whiff of the chili powder. Ah, good ol' Texas -- whoa! Whoa. Whoa, whoa, wooow, my nasal passages are burning. Maybe that was a bad idea. Next I'm grabbing more tissues to try to blow out the chili powder, but God knows the little particles have already made it to my lungs, which are also feeling the heat. "Gargling" my nostrils in water also doesn't help and only reminds me of learning how to dive (unsuccessfully).

(Yes, Mom, I know you wrote "use with care" on that particular ziploc bag. I've failed you as a daughter!)

Complete disaster averted, in the end I've got my chili. I've got my jalapenos. I am happy.

This tiny little experience is just one more reminder that I still have so much left in the world to learn. And that's just in the kitchen! As soon as I step out my door, there's a whole big world out there.

What motivates the students who live in this building with me? What life paths brought them to study at the renowned Bauhaus University or at the Weimar Musikhochschule? How is it that in Germany, after the age of 10, schoolchildren can be appropriately "sorted" into the next level of education -- that at such an early age, it is already determined that all who attend either Realschule or Hauptschule instead of Gymnasium will never go to university?

Is it wrong that I call myself an "American," even though the Americas consist of the greater part of the Western Hemisphere? Only in Germany have I first heard that it's more politically correct to identify as a "U.S.-American." But then, what about the European Union? Not all European countries are a part of the EU.

With all this recent activity about Obamacare and passing a congressional budget on one side of the Atlantic, and anger at the NSA's data plundering (of even the German Chancellor's cell phone) on the other, I asked myself, what if CBYX got nixed? What arguments could persuade Congress to continue this exchange of 75 American and 75 German young professionals? And I got to thinking, I hope that by my being here in Germany -- as a "cultural ambassador" of sorts -- that the Germans I meet can speak with a real, everyday American. That together we can find the most basic, fundamental common ground: I like eating French fries, too. I like reading novels, too. I like to take walks and ride my bike in nature, too. That together we can look beyond our political, economic, and social differences to see that we are all human beings.

Who are susceptible to peeling their fingers.

Happy 23rd Birthday, Germany!

Ok, so that's maybe a bit misleading. Navigating the winding streets of Germany, peppered with Medieval churches, is a daily visual reminder that many of the structures surrounding me are centuries (if not millennia) older than the United States, which officially gained its independence with the signing of the 1783 Treaty of Paris. (Happy 1-Month-Belated 230th Birthday, US of A.)

In fact, October 3 is a national holiday because it commemorates the reunification of East and West Germanies. So if we're talking about reunification, maybe we Americans should be celebrating May 9, the officially declared end of the Civil War. Hmm. (Happy 148-Day-Belated 148th Birthday, US of A.)

Today also marks Day 3 of my second phase in Germany. (Oh yeah, it's also Day 3 of the government shutdown. Good thing Congressional funding for this program was passed on last year's budget....) I've said a teary goodbye to Cologne, my host family, and all of my wonderful companions at language school. Thanks to Cologne, I am now here in Weimar with German recipes, (theoretically) better German, and ready to rock this town with my mountain bike. (Thanks to my buddy Jerilyn, said bike has a killer Disney/Pixar Cars bell.)

Weimar, the "cultural capital" of Europe, is in the Bundesland, or province, of Thuringia, 15 minutes away by train from the provincial capital, Erfurt. Weimar was also a part of the former East Germany, which from 1949 to 1990 was the post-WWII half dominated by Soviet influence. Living conditions were radically different in the two Germanies. Berlin was divided down the middle, eventually so by a hideous concrete wall (1961). Between East and West Berlin lay a no-man's land decorated with barbed wire and studded with land mines, the wall covered in graffiti of discontent.

So when people asked me, where are you moving at the end of September?

I answered, oh, Weimar.

Oh, that used to be in East Germany.

And I didn't know what I was supposed to expect upon getting here. My train dropped me off at the central station, and as I walked around the city, my first impression was that -

Erfurt is beautiful!

By law property owners cannot alter the facades (and possibly the rest of the architecture) of buildings. The result is a picturesque snapshot of what Walt Disney might have copied to make Epcot Germany.

Greetings from Erfurt! Everyone here is totally normal!

And did you know that Martin Luther (of Reformation fame) studied and became a monk here in Erfurt? Here, in this church:

I would guess this church is Lutheran.

And he laid on top of this stone (before the altar) to take his religious vows:

"Over, sideways and under / on a magic carpet ride"

But, more on Erfurt later. Back to Weimar.

Ok. So Day 1 in Thuringia, I'm enjoying a lovely candlelit dinner of onion goulash and Thuringia-style dumplings with the 2 other "Amis" (pronounced AH-meez) stationed here and our wonderful, wonderful helper from the CBYX program.

Sorry about the iPad-shadow. That's embarrassing.

After I'm stuffed, my bike and I take the train back to Weimar. Don't worry, y'all. While I still had Wi-Fi I took some screenshots of Google Maps on the tablet so I'd know how to get home.

Ha. I thought I was so prepared.

FALSE.

Remember when, back in sentence #2, I described those lovely, wandering roads?

Well, they wander.

Reason #1 I got lost on the way home:

If you ignore the part of the United States that used to be the original colonies, but don't ignore Manhattan, you'll notice that a lot of the roads make sense. That is, they form a grid of nice parallel and perpendicular lines. A lot of that is due to the Land Ordinance of 1785, when the Founding Fathers wisely systematically squared up the land west of the Original 13.

In Weimar (and in many European towns), this is not so. Take for example a screenshot for the directions back home:

Um, left toward Ackerwand, then left toward Ackerwand. Right toward Ackerwand, then right toward Ackerwand??

Reason #2 I got lost on the way home:

It was dark. Couldn't see the street signs well.

Reason #3 I got lost on the way home:

There weren't many street signs to read.

I mean, really?? I looked everywhere, desperately, for a sign at intersections, on the sides of buildings on street corners. And even when I was able to find a sign, it was small and hard to read. And I mean, even if I was able to find Ackerwand, how would I know when to turn left (and turn left the second time)?

How I got home:

I asked every pedestrian I came across (few and far between, as it was around 10:00pm) for directions. Thank you, kind citizens of Weimar!

Day 2, getting home, but worse:

Given that today is a national holiday, everything is closed. Meaning, I had to buy everything I'd need from the supermarket on Day 2.

So I take my screenshots of how to get to Rewe from the train station. And I get there without too much distress. Upon arriving, the windows of the building look only half-illuminated, if at all. I poke my head around, and there's a dark, horror-movie like entrance with discarded shopping carts.

Uhhh. Did this place shut down without Google Maps updating itself? If Rewe is closed, I won't have any luck anywhere else - Aldi, Netto, Lidl, they're already closed. No food for October 3.

Oh! There's a woman on the street!

Excuse me, is this Rewe closed down?

Oh, no! The entrance is around the back, past the parking lot. That back there is the old entrance.

Ooooooh.

Whew.

I have less than an hour before closing to get milk, juice, butter, flour, bread, vegetable oil, produce, a sponge, dishwashing soap, handsoap... all the staples that I didn't have in my empty apartment.

Success! Found everything! (Except coconut milk, for the curry I was planning to make.)

My wares cover the entire length of the checkout conveyor belt, and it begins to dawn on me how ambitious this shopping trip is turning out to be. I start mentally practicing how to explain in German that I'm new in town.

50-pounds or so of everything imaginable stuffed in my backpack and slung over my shoulders in three tote bags later, I teeter precariously down the street on my poor bike, squeaking from the sheer weight of it all.

Fortunately, I didn't exactly get lost getting back home. But it was still dark. And I couldn't see any street signs. And I had a refrigerator on my back.

"Keep going, Adrianna. Keep going," chanted my inner voice, willing my legs to pedal forward to a better-lit street.

"No more! Please, no more!" screamed my lower back muscles.

I mean, I didn't even know my lower back muscles could get that involved during a bike ride.

I made it to my street and finally allowed myself to walk the rest of the way, half falling off my bike while I steadied myself.

There. There's the building. There are the front steps. Down go my groceries before the front door while I park my bike out back, laser-eye-ing through the corner of the building to ward off potential hobos who would dare to steal my €40 worth of groceries that I sweat and toiled to lug home.

The groceries are still there, then carried upstairs, stuffed in the fridge and cupboard, and all I want to do is take off layers, despite it being 48° outside.

Well.

I'm in Weimar.

The Election in Germany (for 4th Graders)

Freebies from info stands of various German political parties, including a surprise from Die Linke:
"We leave no one hanging."

Language barrier aside, politics is hard enough to understand. But even so, it's been all around me, as Germany has been abuzz with talk about the general election, which takes place in less than 24 hours.

Here's the thing about learning a foreign language. When the only spoken and heard words you have at your disposal are in that language, you supplement communication with body language, stick figure drawings, and sound effects. It's a lot like playing Charades. Or Taboo, except that you don't even know what the taboo words on the card mean so it doesn't make any difference, and you end up giving a description that sounds like: "the thing that's on the thing you put your head on when you sleep" (pillow case).

In other words, my German is at about the level of a 4th grader.

In the case of the election, I've been collecting photographs of campaign posters. Suddenly and simultaneously, starting about a month ago, a whole legion of them sprang up -- on telephone poles and on trees, on the walls of subway stations, and on brochures left in neighborhood doorways. But it ought to be said that political campaigning in Germany is strictly regulated. The word that comes to mind is "kontrolliert," an adjective meaning "checked, policed, or controlled."

It only took a couple weeks in Germany to notice that I was hearing this word -- a lot. And as a native English speaker, it sounds as if everything is being controlled, wherein "control" has a negative connotation, so I often have to remind myself otherwise.

Many things are "kontrolliert": the quality of tap water, that pedestrians/cyclists/motorists don't cross red lights (even as a jaywalking pedestrian you can get a ticket), and so on.

The guys going around the buses and subways, checking (sometimes undercover, in plain clothes) passengers for tickets, are known as the "Kontroller." (It's a sort of honor system to use the public transportation system. There's no such thing as running a ticket through a turnstile, which honestly saves quite a bit of time, but if you're caught "schwarz fahren," which literally means "black traveling," that is, without a valid ticket, you can be fined €40.)

The politically-focused section you skip if you're already getting bored

Before we go on to the campaign posters, a little background on the parties themselves:

Unlike in the US, where we have only two main political parties, the Germans have a multi-party system, in which a coalition of parties must form in their parliament in order to form a ruling majority. The usual suspects are:

1. The Christian Democratic Union (CDU)/Christian Social Union (CSU): the party of current Chancellor Angela Merkel. Among their goals are fiscal conservatism and tax cuts. (More similar to the American Republicans than Democrats.) The CSU exists only in Bavaria, the "special" Bundesland (or province) in southeastern Germany. They always ally themselves with the CDU, which does not exist in Bavaria.
2. The Social Democratic Party (SPD): the main opposition party, more focused on social justice. (More similar to the American Democrats.)
3. Die Grünen, or the Greens, who originally started as a party with its primary focus on protecting the environment and developing sustainable energy. In the Free and Hanseatic City of Hamburg, this election they also want the state to take over the energy grid.
4. Die Linke, or the Left, wants, for example, a nation-wide standardized minimum wage, which does not currently exist. Some trade unions regulate self-determined minimum wages within their respective fields.
5. The Free Democratic Party (FDP), which is "liberal" in an unexpected way for Americans. They are liberal because they rally for a freer (a.k.a. less state-controlled) market. They also support major businesses, something an American would associate with the Republicans.

Last Sunday in the Bavarian provincial election, both the Greens and the FDP made poor showings. (In fact, the FDP won zero seats in the provincial parliament.) Though that only affected the local government, some are saying it also indicates waning support for those parties in the region. If in the national election tomorrow they fail to garner sufficient votes (at least 5%), the resulting coalition in the Bundestag may be different from what it is today -- the CDU/CSU + FDP.

Supposing that the CDU/CSU maintains its position with leading votes but the FDP - its current coalition colleague - doesn't earn enough to give the CDU/CSU a house majority, the CDU/CSU will have to find itself a new partner. In recent history, the party with the next most votes and least estranged political platform, aside from the FDP, is the SPD. It is thus possible to imagine that the new Bundestag will be ruled by a Grand Coalition of the CDU/CSU and SPD.

But wait. Did anybody catch the debate between CDU and SPD leaders Merkel and Steinbrück? Did anybody hear them swearing up and down that they would never work with the other? Should there be such a grand coalition, it should prove very interesting to see the politicians backtrack.

Why you should really read this post

While the bigger parties continue to fight, let's not forget the little guys. Germany has more than 30 registered political parties. And, for your enjoyment, here's a 4th-grade-friendly collection of photographic propaganda, featuring some of the more eyebrow-raising little guys. (The big guys have pretty hum-drum slogans, like, "So that Germany stays strong." Uh huh.)

1. Die Partei

"Protesters" march just outside the Hamburg Central Station, carrying posters with slogans such as, "Overcome contents!"

In Hamburg I witnessed a "party bus" (ha, get it?) just outside the central station. A hodgepodge group had gathered around a bus blasting pop hits, carrying bottles of beer and homemade posters. Of these, it was obvious they'd been made from the posters of other parties, cut in half, flipped around, and then Sharpied with their own slogans, such as, "Enough is enough" or "More of everything." Many Germans are baffled by their existence, not knowing what exactly their aim is. But that's probably the point. At the very least, they are amusing in their satirical approach to campaigning.

A "Partei" member offers a patrol officer a beer.

"Bring the Wall back - Out with Merkel!
Wall in Merkel!"

2. BIG

Another peculiar party that has caught my attention is the Bündnis für Innovation und Gerechtigkeit (BIG), or, the Alliance for Innovation and Justice. Ironically enough, the BIG Partei isn't big at all, in terms of party members. As far as I can tell, their platform includes advocacy for diversity and anti-adoption by gay parents (possibly opposing aims...).

"Every child has the right to a father and mother."

3. Die Piraten

Lastly, as a send-off, one last poster from the Pirates, a party focused on Internet freedom and transparency in the government:

"I'm against corruption, and you?"

---

Disclaimer: I am not a political scientist or expert of, well, anything. So please excuse any possible inaccuracies. Thanks.

"I am not a visitor."

" Night and day, you are the one / Only you beneath the moon, under the sun "

Yes, the Cologne Cathedral (or, in German, the Kölner Dom) is quite a sight. Your first impression is that it reaches unbelievable, majestic heights and stretches from east to west, farther than you could possibly imagine, especially knowing that construction began in 1248.

But this post is not about experiencing the Dom as one of the day's 20,000 visitors. Today, I was not a visitor.

No, I'd been to the Dom several times before. In fact, my very first full day in Cologne, my HM brought me here. We took the subway, and as I made my way out of the main station, I could see through the station's floor-to-high-ceiling glass main entrance, wondering at the full height of the Gothic structure, which was not visible until we were outside.

I mean, wow.

I'd also been to the Dom twice before for Mass and another evening for an organ concert, which the cathedral hosts every Tuesday evening during the summer, free to the public. On these evenings the pews, the kneelers, and even floor space are packed. Locals who know better bring lawn chairs. The air is filled completely with the reverberating sighs and groans of the organ.

Today I went again for Mass. Attending a German-language Mass is a lot like attending an English-language Mass, except that there are only so many phrases and words during the sermon you can understand -- that's why you start to space out, and most of the hymns don't have a regular meter, and after the first verse of the hymns you have to keep one finger on the musical notation and another finger on the subsequent verses that are printed below the music, and they pronounce Latin with a German twist.

When you attend a German-language Mass at the Kölner Dom, be prepared for the bouncer, who filters the faithful from the tourists as they bottleneck their way down the central aisle, swerving around gaggles of flashing cameras and diving through the white noise of multilingual awe. Today, as I approached the bottleneck, the bouncer was making his usual announcement, in both German and English:

"Only for worship, please. No visitors."

Side note:  Actually, that's kind of misleading, now that I think about it. He should really say, "No tourists," or perhaps, "No distracting, non-worshiping, non-Bible-curious tourists," as churches generally welcome visitors. That's kind of the idea. All are welcome. In fact, today's gospel reading (Luke 14:1, 7-14) encouraged us to invite even "the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind."

I had heard this before so I simply kept walking, but I was cut off by the bouncer's arm right as I was about to pass, like a candy cane-striped gate that unexpectedly lowers at a railroad crossing when all you want to do is drive home.

Mr. Bouncer repeated his mantra, "Only for worship."

Okay, so here's what I'm thinking at this particular moment.

Yes, I heard you. I understood you both times, in German and English. I am here to worship. Do you have a problem with that? Or do I just look too much like an Asian tourist for you to handle?

Never before today had I felt so self-aware of my "Asian-ness" in Germany as I did just then. Feeling irritation building inside of me, I looked him in the eye and said simply (in German), "Yes, exactly." Yes, I know, thanks very much, that's what I'm here for.

He said an "entschuldigung" ("excuse me") and his arm of barrier became a gesture of please come forward.

Oh, but boy was I pissed. I sat on a pew, a bit shaken and not liking the feeling of being racially profiled. I was determined, however, to not let it bother me. I was there because I wanted to find peace on a Sunday morning. I was there to sing with joy.

Yet, I understood that he was doing his job. With eight masses a day and tens of thousands of sheep to sort, one can't help but organize all of that data into general categories. And in the past he'd probably had to stop a good deal of clueless Asian tourists wanting to snap photos of the stained glass windows.

My anger was now redirecting itself from the bouncer to the hordes of Chinese tourists around the world who chatter loudly, block pathways whilst taking photographs, and generally don't exhibit much of the kind of decorum that is valued in the Western world.

Okay, I thought, that's not helping, either. And I knew I couldn't blame a poor Chinese soul for walking down the aisle, trying to see more of a spectacular architectural treasure, when in all likelihood they didn't understand the message that had been said in German and English. Who knows...?

In the end, I could forgive the misunderstanding and was able to peacefully participate in the service and soak in the sounds of Barber's Adagio for Strings (as transcribed for organ) during communion.

I mean, wow.

Still, perhaps for future use and as a preventative measure I'll hang a sign around my neck that says something to the effect of:

"I am not a visitor."

          I am not a "visitor."
          I am, in fact, an American student, who happens to have Asian heritage and would thus like to apologize, on their behalf, for any rude Chinese tourists you might have encountered. My ancestors apologize, too.
          I am here in Germany with the support of the German and US governments.
          I am a musician and sing all of the hymns louder and more confidently than anyone else in this 85,000 sq ft cathedral.
          I have music degrees from M.I.T. and Yale. (Admittedly not relevant.)
          Also, just by the way, I am Catholic.
          Peace be with you.

---

Disclaimer:  This piece is not meant to illustrate animosity, but rather to serve simply as an anecdote.

Wherein I learn how to buy salt and butter.

So, 18 hours of relative pronouns, adjective endings, and subjunctive II later, the first week of language school is over. We've debated the pros and cons of movie theaters, spoken in passive voice about city planning, and -- for a hair-raising fifteen minutes -- argued (in English, oops) whether a dress shirt is called a "button-down" or a "button-up." (Poll: Which do you say?) Perhaps this Wikipedia article would interest my American colleagues.

The 75 CBYX American participants at three different locations of the Carl Duisberg Centren, a German language learning school.

As far as confidence in my spoken German goes, the general trend this past week has been upward. Some days are better than others. Yesterday, for example, I was complimented on my pronunciation. But also yesterday, I wasn't sure how to talk to the dog. (What does one say instead of "good girl"? Probably not an exact translation...)

Really, the first week has been full of "firsts." For example, the first thing I did yesterday was to clean a German toilet -- something I've never done before. Yesterday I also ate blackberries off a wild bush for the first time. And the day before, for the first time I tried Georgian wine. (As in Georgia the country, not the state.)

It was really good.

The aforementioned toilet and I live on the 4th floor (which is a German 3rd floor) in a lovely neighborhood in the part of Cologne known as Nippes, which is north of the city center and east of the Rhine River. My host family consists of my host mom (hereafter known as H.M.), her teenage daughter (my host sister, or, H.S.), and their cat (H.C.).

My H.C., welcoming me home.

A couple nights ago I asked my H.M. if she needed anything from the grocery store, as I was paying a visit to Aldi, mostly in order to buy distinctly non-German peanut butter.

God Bless America.

"Well," she said, "we're out of salt and butter."

"Great, I can get those."

Then, thinking I ought to be careful, I sagely inquired, "What does the salt come in? A bottle? A box?" After all, not only do the Germans speak a different language, (almost) never jaywalk, and not go shopping on Sundays (because all the stores are closed), their food also comes in different packaging, as I observed during a previous shopping trip. (For example, it is not unusual that mustard should come in a toothpaste-like tube.)

"Well, it comes in a paper box. And I like to use sea salt."

"Ah, ha!" I thought happily to myself. "Good thing I asked, as I might have gone and bought otherwise."

"As for the butter, it comes in a package about this big," my H.M. motioned with her hands.

"With or without salt?"

"Without."

"Great, I'll be back soon!"

And so I arrived at Aldi, with my handwritten shopping list of two items. You know, in case I forgot.

Now, the first thing one does when one finds oneself in an unfamiliar grocery store is to get ones bearings. After all, every grocery store stocks dairy, meats, spices, and so forth in different places. This is not so different from the American way.

That is to say, no need to panic just yet.

I see, here's the butter section. It's refrigerated, and that makes sense. But wait, that's not butter is it...? No, that's margarine. And what is this strange thing called "Rama"? Is that the German version of I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Butter? Oh, here! Here's the real butter. But does my H.M. want the "original Irish" butter? Or the butter made from "the best Dutch milk"? I somehow settle for the Irish, maybe because I'm grasping for something familiar, and Irish people speak English. (More or less.)

It takes me about another five minutes to find the salt.

Ok, I see sea salt in a paper box. That must be it. But there's also sea salt in a cylindrical container, and this type is crystallized, whereas the salt in the paper box is finely granulated. Also, it's sea salt "mit Jod." It's sea salt with "Jod." What is Jod? More importantly, does my H.M. even want Jod???

I despair and handle my Angst by considering my other options for salt, which after another five minutes I realize none of which are sea salt. I hold onto the information I do know like a lifeline, grab the paper box, and exhale while marching to the register.

(N.B. There are a whopping 8 types of Euro coins:  €0.01, €0.02, €0.05, €0.10, €0.20, €0.50, €1 and €2, wherein the €0.02 and €0.05 denominations are basically big and bigger pennies, the European nickels/dimes/dimes-x-2/half dollars are gold instead of silver, and they have a "Sacagawea-slash-Susan-B.-Anthony-slash-why-can't-the-U.S.-Treasury-standardize-the-face-of-the-dollar-coin" x 2 coin.

(P.S. to the N.B.: And yes, unfortunately, I'm still a complete novice at swiftly picking out the right coins when confronted at the register.)

So, moral of the story?

Not until my H.M. confirmed that I had bought the right things did I realize Jod must be -- iodide.