My Second Time (on the Brocken)

In the 3 a.m. darkness, we tumbled out of the car into the black parking lot—half a dozen sleepy students, shivering in the black morning. Overhead, the constellations danced in their pristine clarity, silver drops fading as they neared the half-circle moon, light for the first leg of our journey.

Not quite sure which way to wander, we made our way toward the woods, staying on a wider path. The white gravel crunched underfoot, loudly, while the forest around us slept, still.

Walking on into the darkness, I kept my eyes focused ahead, trying to ignore the foreboding thoughts vying for my attention. The 10 p.m. phone call the night before had seemed like a good idea: an invitation for adventure, a once-in-a-lifetime chance not to be missed. Only, the engulfing trees and obscure hour added adrenaline to the situation, an edge of fear that made me stick to the center of the group, counting the steps till daybreak.

A little over an hour later, the birds welcomed the lightening sky in a chorus of chirping song. We stopped to shed our extra layers and consult the GPS, wondering how the kilometers seemed to stretch on far past their usual boundaries. Not wanting to wait too long, we resumed our drowsy march along the mild grade.

Further on, we finally found a sign, visible in the predawn glowing. However, its etched numbers brought dismay: 3.5 kilometers to the top, a distance that would press us hard against the 5:09 a.m. sunrise. To the left, twin concrete lines streaked sharply up the mountain, remains of the tanker paths, reminder of not-so-distant past.

As the skies grew lighter, the group dissipated along the trail, three striking a brisk tempo toward the summit and two lagging behind. I found myself isolated for the last half hour trek, focusing on keeping sight of the ones ahead but still carefully measuring my pace, wary of a false step’s effects on a weak ankle.

Meeting the Harz Narrow Gage railroad tracks, our path meandered left, and I wondered if we’d make it at all, worried the early morning would be a waste. Suddenly, though, I rounded a corner, encountering the silhouette I knew so well: the signature towers crowning the Brocken’s summit.

Already the sky was turning golden, and early morning airplanes streaked salmon fire, long glowing strokes slashing through endless expanse.

Finally, I hit the pavement: 100 meters to the summit. The last time I walked this stretch of asphalt, fog shrouded our figures while sweeping rain hindered our advances. This morning, the wind appeared to accompany my ascent, but the sky remained blessedly clear—a blank canvas ready to be filled with the most beautiful of paintings. Straining my eyes ahead, still sleep weary, I searched for the sun.

Slowly, I climbed, eyes skimming the row of trees to my left, which were fencing off the sloping hillside. Then, all at once, a hole in the branch-to-branch wall. 

I caught my breath as I stared at the blazing sun, red orb hovering under luminous layers of golden, pulling up the deep purples.

From that point on, my eyes feasted on the show, nature’s masterpiece a reward for our early journey. When I reached the summit, I stopped and stared, mesmerized, snapping photo after photo of the sunrise, momentarily immune to the wind’s icy fingers sneaking through my fleece jacket.

Sunrise on the Brocken, northern Germany's highest point.
May 24, 2011

Almost as an afterthought, I wondered at the buildings on the Brocken—their colors and shapes this time dominating the hilltop, which had been white-washed in fog on my previous visit.

Eventually, the cold prevailed, and I joined my fellow trio of travelers, who were already huddling inside a small stone shelter, safe from the wind, watching the last traces of fiery red dissolve into yellow dawn. 

When the other two joined us, we opened our packs and shared our meager fare, breakfasting on apples, chocolate cake and cookies, complimented by a variety of beverages. Sitting on a wooden bench, I craved coffee, fighting sleep’s heavy pull, feeling daunted at the thought of hiking back down.

A quarter after 6 a.m., when shimmering goldenness had enveloped the mountaintop, erasing the vibrant strata in swathes of light, we gathered our belongings and started our descent. 

Taking the trail I knew from fall, we picked our way down the bouldered hillside, the enormous rocks presenting more of a challenge for me this time around.

The familiar pain picked up in my knee, the muscle overcompensating for my still-recovering ankle, and I adopted a Dory-like mantra: Just keep walking, walking, walking.

Despite the adamant weariness weighing me down, I still marveled at the spring green, highlighting the grass, the trees, the bushes. Washed in dawn’s brightness, the forest welcomed our return, all of the earlier morning’s menacing gone.

We arrived back at the car at 8 a.m., quieter than at our departure five hours earlier and perhaps more tired as well. As the car wove its way back towards Wernigerode, I sighed into my seat, squinty-eyed exhaustion meeting smiling contentment.

Welcoming the morning, watching the sunrise—it was worth the work.

Being a Fulbright English Teaching Assistant in Germany is...

…sitting in a small boarding house room with 3 eighth graders, taking 2 hours to translate 3 cupcake recipes into English, and watching them polish off the bag of “real American” Starburst jelly beans I brought for them to try.

Side view of the school,
conveniently located on
Johann-Sebastian-Bach Str.

…playing the ten-fingers “I have never” game with my English reading group. They liked it so much we played it twice. This on the heels of a hot-seat question game. I now know what several of my students would do if they were the opposite gender. Interesting.

…being mobbed every day in the school courtyard by cute little 5^th graders who have a million questions . Did I mention they’re absolutely adorable? It warms my heart.

…walking to get ice cream in the city at night with two tenth graders while I quiz them on characterizations for their upcoming test.

…spending Friday afternoons drinking tea and reading my favorite teen books with an especially advanced student.

Sometimes it seems like being a teaching assistant encompasses everything BUT teaching. Don’t get me wrong—I DID spend a Monday evening tutoring session working through verb tenses with a 7^th grader. (Can AMERICAN 7^th graders even differentiate between present progressive and present perfect? Didn’t think so.) However, the life I lead here in the Harz Mountains is anything except for ordinary.

Landesgymnasium für Musik in Wernigerode, Germany--
the school, where I spend my "teaching hours" each week.

I spend time strolling among historic rainbow-colored half-timbered houses, consider a walk up to the CASTLE a normal activity and ride my bike to-and-from school along a railroad track where a steam-powered train—complete with black clouds pouring out of the smoke stack, water dripping onto the gravel as the train races past and stops traffic as it crosses through one of the three four-way intersections in town, and a whistle that momentarily drowns out ALL other sounds—passes through multiple times a day. Especially when the sun shines, I constantly have the feeling I’ve wandered into the setting of some fairy tale.

To be honest, there are times I wish this WERE a fairy tale so that I could slam the book shut, end the “adventure” and be back in Oregon—immediately. Being a Fulbright English Teaching Assistant in Germany is also…

…spending hours of my life online, “talking to my computer” and staying up ridiculously late in order to keep in touch with family and friends back home.

…getting sick innumerable numbers of time and spending whole weekends in bed.

…being frustrated and confused by cultural differences.

…feeling small and lonely.

At home, for instance, I may never sit in my kitchen, watching rain pelt down outside, accompanied by rolling thunder rumbles, and wonder just how I am going to get back to school for afternoon activities (Biking in thunder is probably a bad idea; walking half an hour one way isn’t an incredibly attractive option with a very. slowly. healing sprained ankle; even limping uphill to the bus stop 10 minutes away doesn’t help very much), but I would also never experience everything positive I listed above if I didn’t work through the everyday.

A random sculpture found
while wandering in Werni.

Precisely this may be the value of Fulbright’s worldwide exchange programs. Lasting cross-cultural connections don’t happen from abroad, and, especially in Germany, they need time to be planted, grow and bloom—to weather through the seasons.

Fulbright applicants are allowed to choose their own country, which provides just as much of a safety net or comfort zone as the individual chooses. When I decided to return to Germany, I had an idea of what I’d face, but living here long(er) term has still made a difference. My day-to-day life is occasionally so bizarre that I wouldn’t believe it if I weren’t experiencing it.

I left home, hoping to gain a fresh perspective, form new friendships, try out the EFL and Teaching Writing classes from senior year at WOU, improve my German, gain a million stories to tell and see some of the world.

It’s only been eight and half months, but I have accomplished all of that in full. Remaining time—however long—will enrich this understanding and, I’m sure, provide another hearty helping of both deeply confounding and utterly exhilarating times. Fulbright may be far from “normal” life, but it’s an amazing ride.

If traditional transportation doesn't suit your needs, you can hop on one of these horse-drawn wagons, operated year-round in Wernigerode. In winter, try a sleigh ride through the snow-covered woods!

A Loss of Expectations

Oftentimes the best things in life are the ones that were not expected. Why do you think so many guys try to keep their proposal plans a surprise? (Not that I have any experience there, but I imagine that’s the case.)

The feeling’s no secret, though. You go to the cinema, not necessarily crazy excited about the film you’re about to see; then you thoroughly enjoy it and walk out feeling satisfied. Compare this situation to the movie you’ve heard rave reviews about and don’t end up liking. Or the big screen production of your favorite book. Have I made my point?

I love surprises, but as a life-long planner, I rarely leave untouched time in my schedule to experience the unexpected. Thinking I, of course, know my tastes and desires, I hesitate to venture outside of my well-kept, neatly trimmed set of ideals. Well, at least I used to hesitate.

These days—eight months abroad and counting—life seems to have a way of mixing up the pitches, throwing circumstances higher and lower, faster and slower, and, finally, simply lobbing them over the plate where I’m standing, doubled over from the exhaustion of calculating my next move. I expected to come into the game and hit a home run. Learning the hard way (maybe even striking out a time or two) wasn’t part of the plan. Perhaps that’s what makes up the game, though—you can prepare all you want, but you’ll still have to execute, a spontaneous reaction to the play that can make or break end results.

Today, I chose baseball as my metaphor specifically because it’s one of those surprises in my life. A little more than a year ago, I realized I’d let twenty years of life slip by without understanding this “All American Sport,” and I determined to change that. With a little (ok, a lot) of help, patience and coercion, I ended up standing along the railing at AT&T Park in San Francisco, Calif., in August 2010 , cheering the Giants on through eleven exciting innings and watching a winning team during their World Series season.

What I especially love about baseball, though, is that conversations with my expert friends continue to open up the intricacies of the sport in fresh ways. Strategy bursts the seams of every game—little tricks and bits of knowledge that spread themselves amidst the sport's pristine green turf, white lines and dusty diamonds. In addition, I have a new team to cheer on. Following the Giants online occupies a significant amount of time, especially considering they play 29-of-31 days this month. Good grief! Truthfully, though, I enjoy it, particularly because I didn’t expect it.

***

Another case of surprise was my recent trip to Switzerland. Unlike Lisbon, where I was venturing into totally foreign territory, I was counting on a bit of home in this case, namely my friend Brittany: an American married Swiss transplant. Visiting friends this time meant I didn’t feel the need for prior preparation and research. I was happy to discover whatever she showed me.

On my overnight train there, I started thinking about Switzerland, home to Heidi, Lindt chocolate, and the Alps. I knew I wanted to see the pristine white peaks and was hoping for a few strolls around clear glacier-fed lakes, but other than that, my expectations were strangely non-existent.

The end result? I was blown away by the beauty reverberating throughout the varied contours of the striking landscape. Spring had arrived in Switzerland a few weeks earlier than here in the Harz, and the intense color and light of the breath-taking vistas—ranging from Alpine ridges 10,000 feet above sea level to verdant green valleys to impossibly clear lakes and rivers to sunlight-bathed soy fields, sparkling yellow squares rolling over the pastoral hills—shocked me with joy. Literally an electrocution of happiness, intensified only by the company and laughter that accompanied my 6 day vacation.

It was practically perfect, mostly because I ventured in willing to experience life as it came. Admittedly though, the attitude was not entirely by choice.

***

Four days before the commencement of my adventure, I badly sprained my ankle—first time ever—at my bi-weekly volleyball group. Sitting on the bench along the gym wall, my black knee-high sock awkwardly protecting my skin from the ice pack attempting to subdue the rapid swelling, I watched the others continue to play and started crying. Not because it hurt (it did). Not because I was terrified of my imminent trip to the German emergency room (I was). But because the simple false landing had probably ruined some of my most-anticipated plans over the next month (it had).

An hour later, after my fellow players had finished their game and cleaned up, my ankle still hurt so badly I couldn’t make it out to a teammate’s car. He carried me—piggy-back style—to the waiting car and got a wheelchair when we arrived at the hospital. Thankfully, everything went amazingly smoothly once inside, and within an hour, I was talking to the doctor, post scan, about the ramifications of the injury. Nothing was broken, but the swelling and pain could take up to six weeks to subside; I’d need to wear a brace during subsequent athletic activities; and I should stay off it as much as possible for the foreseeable future.

Once I was home, lying on my bed, leg propped up on my all-purpose grey travel pillow, my plans started falling apart. First—and perhaps most personally devastating—the half marathon at the end of May I’d registered for, paid for and was diligently training for would no longer be a possibility for me to complete. Secondly, the days spent hiking and evenings spent playing volleyball with my friend in Switzerland would have to be re-invented (think days spent riding trains and evenings spent icing my ankle on their couch). Thirdly, my weekend trip to Hannover to see the last home basketball game of the UBC tigers was cancelled. Finally, the 11^th grade lesson planned with my friend Jordan to compare American and British English—LIVE—was postponed.

Nothing earth-shattering, but all rather disappointing, nonetheless. A trio of days spent in bed, longingly watching the sun laze its way across blue skies, wishing I could enjoy the weather by doing something! My trip to Switzerland came and went, with the added daily itinerary item of studying the bruising and swelling paint blue, purple and red rainbows across my ankle, foot and toes. Then, to top it all, I got sick. Again. Health has not been my friend since I’ve been in Germany.

It wouldn’t have been so bad except that I was supposed to visit Nessa (my fellow Fulbrighter and adventurer) over the weekend and except that today is May 1.

Two years ago, I found out that the Germans have a holiday on the first day of the fifth month when my friend posted facebook pictures of his wife’s family’s annual hiking tour. Two years ago, university classes were cancelled on May 1 due to an outbreak of Swine Flu on campus. Two years ago, my friends and I escaped to the beach for a day of laughter, playing and sunshine, and I adopted the holiday officially.

Since then, I’ve looked for ways to celebrate my new favorite day of spring. It’s possible that today was the German holiday I was looking forward to the most. I knew I’d spend it outside, preferably hiking, definitely with friends and assuredly not working.

Maybe I should have known it was doomed when it fell on a Sunday. I didn’t get the day off of school because it was already the weekend. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to do anything else I wanted to either. The weather would have been perfect for hiking. At 8:30 a.m., I woke to a cloudless blue sky accosting me from outside my window, then I coughed for five minutes straight, turned off my alarm and decided to stay home for the day. No church. No hiking-turned-walking. No May 1.

The story ended a little happier, but it was despite my expectations. Today didn’t meet them and it didn’t succeed them. In fact, it failed them, but I was still surprised on a couple accounts: Basking, after all, in the eruption of spring green and flowers during a short walk to eat warm broccoli casserole in the sunny bungalow on the hill with two friends and writing outside on the blue bench behind my house, serenaded by the brook dancing along its rocky bottom and the birds rejoicing in spring. Perhaps it's time to stop expecting and start experiencing. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

Happy May Day 2011.