Steps

"Zwei (two)!" said the Grandpa triumphantly to his small grandson, as my friend and I boarded the bus headed for the Wernigerode train station. We wobbled down the aisle past the counting passengers to our seats as the bus started down the street; the conversation behind us, however, continued as the bus passed the next--empty--station without slowing down at all.

"There isn't anybody out today because of the cold," the Grandpa explained. "They're all inside their houses sleeping."

His observations were not especially interesting, but his running commentary didn't cease until we had arrived at the stop for "Western Tor," the family's destination, at least for the bus part of the journey.

"Hurry, hurry," Grandpa urged the little boy out of his seat as the bus rocked to the side of the road. "We'll get out here and then go the rest of the way by foot."

They stood before the opening bus door.

"Ok, one big step!"

With that admonition, the little boy leapt out of the bus, and the automatic door sprang shut behind him, leaving the family outside to continue their journey home.

I turned back toward the window, starring at the sidewalks, a fresh coating of powdery snow perfectly outlining the footsteps of the people who, despite Grandpa's theory, were indeed out that blustery afternoon.

Normally, I wouldn't have thought twice about Grandpa's last comment or about the black prints showing through the thin film of snow covering the sidewalks--but it wasn't the first time steps had been brought to my attention that day.

Earlier that morning, the pastor had opened the church service by announcing the sermon would be about steps: steps toward truth, steps we take toward God, steps in life. I was definitely a little confused at first, second-guessing the meaning of the word "Schritte," wondering if I'd heard correctly.

I had. Only the ordinariness of the idea caught me off guard.

Usually, I only pay attention to my own steps when something's wrong. When I'm tired. When my feet hurt. When I'd rather be sitting than walking.

For the first time in my life this winter, I've been paying attention to my steps because my feet have been COLD. Walking through the snow will do that, I guess, as will waiting in below freezing temperatures for buses that are over 10 minutes late, and slowing being covered by snow--something like standing under a giant salt shaker.

The other steps I've been pondering, though, are those on the road to adulthood. Because unlike the grandson on the bus, I don't have an overly-watchful grandfather dictating my every move. My steps are made, largely, independently. Whether or not they're made deliberately may be questionable at times, but regardless of the impetus, the outcome (and the consequences) belong to me. Especially in Germany, where I not only depend a great deal on my feet for transportation but also individually determine how to use the time not spent in the classroom, planning my route is important.

With national stereotypes of efficiency and punctuality (although I've wondered about that one a few times since the snow started), Germany's not necessarily a county you would consider laid back. However, compared to the previous picture of my rat-race, on-the-go all-the-time mentality, for me the pace of life has slowed drastically since crossing the Atlantic.

For the last couple years, I've been running (figuratively) so hard and fast that I haven't had time to slow down, look at a map, or think about where I'm going. For that matter, I've missed the significance of being in the places I've been. Moving to another country might seem like a big step to some people, but I'm pretty sure in my case it was just a flying leap off a cliff--I'd been hurdling toward the edge, and there wasn't really a better option by the time I jumped.

When I landed, heavily jet-lagged and a little disoriented, I finally woke up to what I was experiencing...and stopped in my tracks. I wanted to experience the beauty of the lush green woods shading into a vibrant yellow, set off by the orange carnations tumbling out of flower boxes. And when the first snow turned those woods white, I, like Robert Frost, wanted to stop and stare, entranced by the soft flakes muting the landscape.

Nonetheless, I, too, have promises to keep, engagements to fulfill, and miles to go before this year's up. And three months into this adventure, I think I'm starting to find a steady tempo: although it's alright to schedule some down time (breaks are important, after all), you have to keep walking if you want to get anywhere in the end.

Choir Concerts and Frisbee-Colored Chaos

I was pushing against time, again. Skidding to a stop in front of Landesgymnaisum's second building, the Lyceum, I hopped off my bike, fiddled with the lock and greeted the school administrator, who was standing guard outside the doorway under a bright orange umbrella, welcoming the last trickle of late comers. After finding a spot for my jacket among the long row of outer garments, worn against the chilly November evening but stowed away during the performance, I made my way up the stairs toward the voices and heat emanating from the large, open room—painted pink and white and accented with glowing globular lamps. Seating was already scarce this Saturday evening, although the occasion was technically invitation-only, and I was happy I'd reserved a seat for the Rundfunk Jugend Chor's "open rehearsal"--their last official practice before heading on tour to Vietnam.

Dressed in shimmering orange velvet dresses and classic black-and-white tuxedos, the students sang brightly to the audience, their pink cheeks reflecting the warmth from the stage lights and their excitement about the coming adventure—a trip which marks the 35th anniversary of Germany and Vietnam’s diplomatic relationship and gives these 36 students the opportunity to experience an exotic locale through participation in a cultural gala.

Since the students begin every class period at school by singing one of their choir songs (in two, three, or four part harmonies), I'd heard several of the arrangements before, but I enjoyed the additional refining touches added at the conductor's hand. Now that I've been at the school for two months, I also knew a lot more of the students performing on stage, and both of the girls who sang solos are in my 11th grade class.

I’m not a teacher, well not technically, but I thrive off the relationship aspect of the job. And, as an “assistant,” I can bypass some of the authority issues faced by actual trained teachers; for instance, instead of Frau Huggins, all of the kids know me simply as Erin. Hugging my students in the foyer after the concert, enjoying the smiles on their faces and congratulating them on a well-delivered performance, I realized again how lucky I am to be placed in Wernigerode, where community is encouraged and fostered, not estranged.

A little later, I got on my bike again, pedaling the short distance to my friend Jordan's apartment. He's also a language assistant, but he gives the students at his school in Ilsenburg (the neighboring town) a bit of a different perspective, starting with his very British English. We were both planning on attending the Hoch Schule's "Sportler Party" that evening, and Jordan had invited me for dinner beforehand. Over warm noodles with sausage and cream sauce, we laughed about our past few weeks of teaching, including recent mornings we'd both had where nothing had gone right: his due to a glitch in the clock function on his cell phone, mine due to oversleeping and a teacher forgetting to tell me about a change in the schedule.

Shortly before 9, we headed to the gym for the party—a gathering for students who participate in sports at the local college (or, in my case, for friends of those students). Our friend Steven was still at the admissions table when we got there; shortly thereafter, he assumed duty at the low-key bar. As an extra surprise, I bumped into my roommate Franzi, who was also part of the evening's festivities. 

Franzi’s dance group was the first presentation following the obligatory introductions and honorary recognitions. A red phone booth replica provided the backdrop for the dance number, which was framed by a pair of scraggly bare-branched trees. I was standing on a bench near the back of the crowd in order to see over the heads of all the people, and I enjoyed the creativity the group presented through its routine. After it wrapped up, I was excited to see what my friend’s Frisbee team had produced.

Even though German punctuality is practically a national code of honor here, the scheduled slot for Steven’s Frisbee group had already long elapsed by the time the dancers began mingling with the crowd again. The DJ started pumping louder music, and swirling bodies swallowed the open space at the front of the gym, swaying and jumping to the vibrating beats. Normally I'm not a huge fan of the "club scene"—blame a bad first experience or a conservative upbringing—but this party brought together the elements I do actually enjoy: friends, laughter, fun music, and, most importantly, ample smoke-free space.

I think it was well after 11 when the moderator's microphone crackled back to life, and she urged the students to make space in the front again for the combined performance by the Frisbee team and the body shape group.

Although the debut wasn’t quite spectacular, the swirling disks had a mesmerizing effect, glowing red, white and green as they soared back and forth across the gym. The body shapers bent their limbs in a choreographed dance, the music played, and the Frisbees flew. Sometimes the plastic discs hit the ground, rolling a short detour before resuming their endless arcs, curving high overhead or slicing low to the ground, always in motion—the one element perhaps that united not only the performers but also the evening.

Much later, after the general crowd had spread out again, dancing into the wee hours of the morning, Steven and his friends resumed their Frisbee play near the back of the gym. Somehow, it fit.

Whereas the rich velvet gowns, shimmering in the concert hall’s clear light, had reflected the richness of the choir’s program earlier that evening, these illuminated discs, sailing through the darkened clusters of people meeting and separating in a chaotic continuum, embodied the atmosphere of the later event: the pandemonium of “everything goes”; the forgetfulness of the world outside four walls; the simple swish, drowned by the music pulsating, bodies twirling, drinks flowing. In disordered confusion, the simplest of cycles emerged.

Catch. Release. Repeat.

Visit the following links for more information about Landesgymnasium and to hear a sample of the choir's work: Evening Rise.

An American Afternoon in Leipzig

It had been a stressful morning.

Admittedly, I am not a morning person, but I'd dutifully set my cell phone for a 5 a.m. wake-up alarm and somehow managed to get myself out of bed, shivering to the bus stop in the dark predawn a few minutes before 6 a.m. Twenty minutes later at the train station, I ordered a nuss-nugat croissant (one of the benefits of leaving the house without sufficient time for breakfast) and a coffee to go, intending to finish the scalding hot drink on my train scheduled to leave at 6:45 a.m.

Since it was too cold to wait on the platform, I meandered over to the doors leading outside, double checking the bright yellow departure listing. Happening to catch bits of a conversation between a young man leaning against his parked bicycle and a woman with curly blond hair, animatedly gesturing despite the early hour, I started to feel uneasy. He was supposed to have been at work in a town an hour away five minutes prior; she was considering alternative travel options. The Bahn strikes I'd heard about the night before but was hoping would pass over Wernigerode had already started causing chaos.

At 6:35, the loudspeakers on the track platform rumbled to life: "Attention ladies and gentlemen on platform one. The train to Halle Hauptbahnhof scheduled to leave at 6:45 a.m. has been cancelled."

Great.

I looked at the departure schedule again, hoping to find something different than what I already knew was there. The next train to Halle left at 7:39--if it even came at all--with the connecting train arriving in Leipzig at 10:19, nineteen minutes after I was supposed to be at my meeting.

I gently shook my paper coffee cup, weighing its contents and debating whether I could go back into the bakery and sit at a table since I now had at least an hour's wait in front of me. I took my empty cup back into the bakery and sat at the counter, pulling out my book to pass the time. Shortly before 7:30, I heard a noise, and saw a train pull up to the platform. The crowd of people--including bike guy--rushed out of the train station. Jumping off the stool, I threw my book into my bag and hurried to follow. Pausing only to double check the electronic orange letters on the side of the train (Halle), I entered the train and found a seat. Texting my friend, I told her I was on my way and asked if she'd notify the organizers that I would be late.

Two and a half hours later, my train pulled up to Leipzig Hauptbahnhof. The switchover had gone without a hitch in Halle. Now I just had to find my way to Wilhelm-Seyfferth-Str. 4. Thankfully, I'd traced the route on my map the night before. More or less without any detours, I arrived at the correct address and saw an American flag fluttering its red, white and blue against an ornate stone backdrop: the U.S. Consulate.

Figuring out how to enter the property, however, proved slightly complicated. I walked halfway around the barricaded grounds before realizing I had to go through the red and white roped off fence. And handing my passport to a uniformed German police officer seemed counter-intuitive to the fact that I was visiting a place designated for American citizens.

Once inside the security check point, I removed all the "forbidden items" (phone, camera, water bottle) from my bag and then played a guessing game with the guards about what other metal item (my wallet) was lingering in my bag and masquerading as a hazy blue rectangle on the scanner screen. I'm not sure if they quite believed me, but they let me through anyway, and I was escorted into a roomful of people--the other Fulbrighters just beginning their introductions. In English.

I have to admit, when I saw that the day's itinerary, after the formal program at the consulate, included an English tour through the Zeitgeschichtliches Forum in Leipzig, I was a little hesitant. The last time I lived in Germany, I spurned my mother language almost completely, hoping that if I refused to speak anything but German, my proficiency would expand exponentially. Whether or not it was a successful endeavor remains somewhat questionable. I do know, however, that my linguistic inflexibility (both refusing to speak English and being unable to always completely express myself in German) negatively affected relationships with fellow students. Although I'd resolved to be less militant about which language I spoke this time (I'm here to teach English, after all), missing opportunities to practice German, such as the museum tour in English, still rubbed me the wrong way.

However, by the time I'd listed to the other Americans introduce themselves, caught up with my friend, enjoyed a bagel lunch and a few too many cookies from the snack table, I wasn't worried anymore about the fact that I was not speaking German. In fact, once we arrived at the museum, I enjoyed our guide's insight into the story of East Germany portrayed in the 3,000+ item exhibit. I'd been to the museum once before, wandering through the gallery for two-and-a-half hours, but this time, our guide made it come to life.

Especially memorable was her recollection of shopping in the DDR. She told us that shopping every day after work was necessary--just to see what the stores had in new that day. The display of sample electronics--a phone, a cassette recorder, a radio--carried special meaning for her.

"My family applied for a phone over twenty years before we received one," she said, "after the fall of the Berlin Wall. The DDR had nothing to do with it."

And the recorder sitting behind glass panels had been her dream as a teenage Michael Jackson fanatic.

"The store in town would only get ten of these things," she recalled. "A line of 300 people would form, everybody wanting one. Only the first ten people got one. Every time I went to town, I was too late. I never got one."

Probably I would have still been able to understand her story had she spoken in German, but the soft lilt of her English added sensitivity to her words. It also made me realize, that as an affluent American, I could not comprehend what it would have been like to be a teenager in East Germany before the re-unification. But perhaps that's what words are for--to bridge the gap between cultures and show that even if we cannot assimilate fully into the traditions and language of each other, we can listen and learn to value experiences vastly different from our own.

After the tour ended and our tiny group disbanded. I headed toward the train station with my friend, stopping by Starbucks where she met another friend and I ordered a drink, not placing much importance on the action itself.

Something about clutching a 16 oz. Starbucks cup and stepping out into the brisk air, striding along a grassy corridor bordering the city sky scrapers, felt so quintessentially American, though. I've practiced the same motion countless times--in Portland, in Seattle, in Atlanta, in New York--and the familiar grip around the ridged coffee sleeve, the tick of my heels against the cement, and especially the frothed milkiness of my vanilla chai caused the minute to transcend the muted German from passerbyes. More than a comfort food (drink), more than a luxury indulgence, more than a political statement about the organizations I support or don't--my single grande chai latte was, in fact, the continuum between old and new, something refreshingly familiar in the face of unknown surroundings.

Over the next nine months, I expect to learn more about the country I've immersed myself in. I anticipate meeting people, hearing stories, and building relationships. In the end, though, it won't be about becoming German, it will be about remembering the experiences and appreciating the resulting growth. The constant stretching and evaluating and reexamining myself and my world views can be a little overwhelming at times, but I have to remember that's normal, and the more I stretch out of my comfort zone, the more I grow. Shared humanity is, of course, a natural connection to my current environment, but sometimes it's also as simple as a cup of Starbucks coffee.

Sipping Starbucks in a sunny park outside of Leipzig Hauptbahnhof.

My First Time (on the Brocken)

We set out under drizzly grey skies, bundled into mittens, scarves, hats, and three or four layers of jackets against the breeze brushing our exposed faces, reddening our noses and cheeks. Starting up the mountain, we choose the paved road. Although the road is closed to motor traffic, several bicycles sounded their warning bells, as the bikers themsleves, clad in shiny spandex lighting bright against the grey backdrop but looking far too thin for the weather, painstakingly pedaled up the steep grade of the highest mountain in northern Germany.

After 20 minutes or so, we turned off the main thoroughfare onto one of the many trails to the top: Eckerlochstieg. I'm no stranger to sharp inclines, being, afterall, a native of the Pacific Northwest, where hiking trails abound in the Willamette Valley, Columbia Gorge, and Pacific Coast; however, the path upon which we embarked was...different--if you can call it a path at all, that is. Large boulders jutted out of the ground, snaking a slow curve up the slope and providing the natural equivalent to a month's, no, a year's worth of excercise on the fitness center stair-stepping machine.

The rain had subsided a little by the time we passed a group of hikers huddled around an older man signing autographs. Turns out, he was the hiking guide Benno Schmidt, better known as ''Brocken Benno'' for his daily treks up the mountain--at the time of this post, 6,140 round trips--regardless of rain, wind, snow, or, presumably in summer, extreme heat. He was already heading back down the mountain, so we didn't pause long, resuming instead our steady uphill climb.

Halfway up, we encountered the first traces of fog--cotton white puffing out from behind wet green brush, squeezing between trees, and rolling over bushes as it slowly erased the landscape of the higher altitudes. We walked onward into the enveloping mist, re-donning the caps and mittens we'd removed earlier in the heat of exertion. Beyond the slick wooden railing, damp greens and greys muted together--components of the famed mystique and intrigue of the Harz Mountains, home to the Hexen (witches) of folklore and inspiration to famous authors and poets.

Snippets of German literature popped into my thoughts: from Goethe's Erlkönig, the father, riding, perhaps, through these same woods; his son fading in and out of consciousness; the suffocating fog concealing the Erlkönig's malcious advances. 

Passing the 700m marker, we emerged again onto the paved road and into the full force of wind gusting our jackets to resemble blow-up inflatable devices. We read signs as we passed them, their frames and words only visible a few inches in front of our faces.

Finally at the top, we headed for a looming dark shadow--on clear days, the signature tower crowning the Brocken; today, shelter from the buffeting gales sweeping the 1,141m summit. Crowding into the tourist hall, we bought lunch, sipped hot coffee and tea, and prepared for the trip back down. Normally, the view from the top extends for miles with Schierke, Wernigerode, and neighboring towns popping up from the rolling hills like a 3D topographil  mat. This time, the landscape offered only its shrouding of thick, milky fog.

We descended more quickly than we'd ascended, and once we re-entered the woods, the fog also rapidly dissapated. The whole way down, wet and laughing, we promised to do it again--on a day more condusive to showcasing the surrounding scenery.

For the first time, however, hiking the Brocken certainly proved memorable. And although, I won't beat Brocken Benno, I plan on more adventures up the mountain before the year is out.

Welcome to Wernigerode

Sitting here, the dining table in my single-room apartment, sipping a glass of hot Fix Waldbeere tea, I'm contemplating the advent of my fifth week in Wernigerode, "the colorful town in Harz mountains." With October's cold air seeping into the leaves and changing their tones from cheerful green to a golden yellow tint reflecting the sun's last autumn appearances, I can see how the name fits. Add to the mix the panoramic view of red rooftops tucked into the valleys of the small town and the various hues of paint decorating the half-timbered houses, for which Wernigerode is famous, and, suddenly, the slogan makes sense.

Wernigerode, Saxony-Anhalt, is known as "the colorful town in the Harz," a designation recognizing
its traditional half-timbered houses and its location on the border of the Harz Mountains.

In some ways, I feel like my observations romanticize the city, but walking around the Lust Garten (pleasure gardens) yesterday afternoon, smoothing over the 400-year-old landscape beneath the fairy tale castle perched on its hilltop abode, I couldn't help but think that Wernigerode is a place for "happily ever after." True, the night life lacks verve (actually, it lacks existence), and shopping is, more or less, constrained to the stretch of Pedestrian Zone spanning Westernstrasse and Breitestrasse. But the traditions that have remained make the town an ideal locale.

For instance, I already mentioned the half-timbered houses that compose basically all of Wernigerode's Innenstadt, their brown lumbered timbers slashing angled designs through white, green, pink, yellow, and red backdrops. Signs throughout the city designate special houses of interest, for example the smallest house, the crooked house, and the oldest house. The Rathaus (city hall) is also a prime example of the beauty of Wernigerode's tradition. In just over a month, I've seen countless couples, clothed in wedding array, descend its front steps to the congratulations of a handful of friends or to the music of a full-fledged band. I've also seen a group of young men littering those same steps with sand and beer bottle tops, carrying a curly black wig and loud floral dress with which to "celebrate" a single friend inside who happened to be marking his 30th birthday. Poor guy was met with the task of restoring the Rathaus to its pristine cleanliness before being whisked away to really celebrate, presumably with enough beer to equal the amount of bottle caps strewn over the steps. Entertainment may be sparse, but the moments of  hilarity catch you off guard with their hearty spontaneity.

The 500+ year-old Rathaus sits prominently in the center of Wernigerode's Marktplatz, offering an attractive location for weddings and other cultural events as well as being featured in the city's landmark attractions.

At any rate, I can't complain about my current location--two minutes from woods that border the Harz National Park: a wonderland of forest hiking trails, hidden ponds, and light-dappled meadows; and half an hour (walking) from the center of town with its offerings of Italian-style Eis, luscious bakeries, and conditeries laden with their buffet of mouth-watering cakes. When I close my front door upon leaving the house, I can look to the left and just make out the silhouette of the towers on top of the Brocken, the mountain formerly marking part of the border between Soviet East Germany and free West Germany. To the right, Schloss Wernigerode rises above the church steeples poking into the air between the town's red-roofed canopy. Especially in the mornings on clear days when I'm lucky, the sky, still pale blue but streaked with luminous pinks and reds, paints a backdrop to the castle that outdoes any artist's rendering: a reason to smile as I round the final corner to school on my bike and, as my mentor teacher described her relationship to the castle, a feeling of being home.

Schloss Wernigerode, situated on a hilltop, is visible from many locations throughout the town, including this panoramic view, taken on one of the main greens in the Lust Garten.