tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14920053755583532452024-02-20T06:38:06.211-08:00The Changing Evergreen"Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder." - E.B. WhiteErin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-46071565657847341202012-05-25T03:37:00.000-07:002012-05-25T07:21:18.274-07:00A Tale of Two Cities: Berlin and Rome<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 24px; font-weight: bold;">Falling in Love and Saying Goodbye</span></div>
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<b>Berlin was the last city that captured my heart. </b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-VgczUITTjlMkNl4mjFvRNgApTla3mIeSKt2D6BtHUMc99mNQBgnWx2y2lmpom_c8j3MxGqdcW5lXrKwX5UZs-u2T9SbJilarWDkYajnpOYEzKsyiUGr_KV6Y3-elhN0m9c0XhLqR-N1g/s1600/IMG_5028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-VgczUITTjlMkNl4mjFvRNgApTla3mIeSKt2D6BtHUMc99mNQBgnWx2y2lmpom_c8j3MxGqdcW5lXrKwX5UZs-u2T9SbJilarWDkYajnpOYEzKsyiUGr_KV6Y3-elhN0m9c0XhLqR-N1g/s320/IMG_5028.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Berlin's beauty may not be traditional, <br />
but it's there for those who take the time to<br />
seek it out -- sometimes in unusual places <br />
but always ready to surprise and delight.</td></tr>
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We met three years ago, our relationship a little rocky at
the outset. Fresh from the American countryside, I wasn’t ready to navigate its
public transit or investigate its loud nightlife, dancing in the dark
under neon lights throbbing music spilling out of discos. Wandering around the
expansive city, I couldn’t understand how so many American offerings dotted the
streets: Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts, McDonalds, Burgerking. Where was I again?</div>
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Living on the outskirts of Berlin, a low-key student housing
complex in the southwest corner, I found the city’s first redemption outside
its so-called center: Saturday morning runs around Lake Schlactensee (and
evening swims there as well), long Sunday morning tram rides across town to
attend a small church plant, and frequent stops for German <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eis</i>, a delicacy akin to American ice cream, but much better. </div>
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By the end of the first summer, we were on good terms,
Berlin and I. I wouldn’t call it love, but maybe acceptance. Acceptance and
common interest. Interest that would keep growing over the next two years,
heightening with each visit, crescendoing in 2011, when I moved there again and
claimed I never wanted to leave, though leave I did. </div>
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<b>Then I met Rome. </b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin-I8wm-HP0wS9zp39uZecsslDq493_I5KS-Y1pTdI7BbN9qPR6b8A9MeopRvy5HIwgTW75bJcV3s4rLfdJsyIjh5-OThLqo7GAKlipuqAAir_stdtdRDK3W3gvXb6MOQ8jKF1_BZju3JP/s1600/IMG_6367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin-I8wm-HP0wS9zp39uZecsslDq493_I5KS-Y1pTdI7BbN9qPR6b8A9MeopRvy5HIwgTW75bJcV3s4rLfdJsyIjh5-OThLqo7GAKlipuqAAir_stdtdRDK3W3gvXb6MOQ8jKF1_BZju3JP/s400/IMG_6367.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seeing the Colosseum in real life was a highlight of my few hours in Rome, <br />
although next time I'll need to factor in enough time to explore its interior as well.</td></tr>
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Whereas Berlin took its time claiming my heart, Rome was
love at first sight, all ancient monuments and pillars jumping off history book
pages studied long – now live and large with every glance. International enough
to excuse my absent Italian, big enough to encompass its touring crowds, Rome
promised the wisdom of the ancients, long hours reflecting atrocities inflicted
within its center, but, most importantly, a forward-looking mien seeking to
combine the best of the old with the excitement of the new.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Unfortunately, we only had eight hours to spend together. I
walked and walked and walked – taking thousands of photos along the way – unable
to wipe a silly grin from my face. Heightening my enjoyment of this too-short
rendez-vous were a couple particular experiences, moments where I absolutely
wanted time to stop. Most notably: gelato.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0GJvurtjTqan2Oo4uZyyqyW7Cq6bYcMs9PKK91yF_DXIPv_PyEGLoFB0TDtG8ZhbhdDihzEkoM2MC9P4t7SXjbF-TYca31V5OrihVSjrIrL1CRI7IWbVPixufOp2uyC3uc3XAq88pvcsu/s1600/IMG_6421.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0GJvurtjTqan2Oo4uZyyqyW7Cq6bYcMs9PKK91yF_DXIPv_PyEGLoFB0TDtG8ZhbhdDihzEkoM2MC9P4t7SXjbF-TYca31V5OrihVSjrIrL1CRI7IWbVPixufOp2uyC3uc3XAq88pvcsu/s200/IMG_6421.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first gelato: pure bliss.</td></tr>
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Pictures are revealing, and according to countless
snapshots, coffee and ice cream are my weaknesses. When I’m holding one of the
two, I always look the happiest; Rome had both of most excellent quality.
For years, I’d dreamed of tasting gelato in Italy, something I’d heard was ten
times better than any imitation. In the US, when Baskin Robbins unveiled its
31-flavor lineup, it took me ages to decide which scoop I
wanted to eat, although I could usually cancel out a few. In Rome, however,
when I stumbled into a gelato shop, hints of my first Italian espresso
still lingering on my tongue, I would have liked to order one scoop of
everything. Since I could have never selected only
two, I asked for a recommendation: Nutella and
Amerana Cherry. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsPKrsB_BloaPumAsg5syDDvw8eSGmSSB7nHLNkiLK6uV23ygwLWpJj-2Az2ZHa56R-adMqH50HtN3cdDr5Rfj2UULvLBEK5QknOaL9Iib7a4F39WlZ27oWrZkK_Pe3tMVQae3zJNcAggw/s1600/IMG_6426.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsPKrsB_BloaPumAsg5syDDvw8eSGmSSB7nHLNkiLK6uV23ygwLWpJj-2Az2ZHa56R-adMqH50HtN3cdDr5Rfj2UULvLBEK5QknOaL9Iib7a4F39WlZ27oWrZkK_Pe3tMVQae3zJNcAggw/s200/IMG_6426.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trevi Fountain: throw a coin<br />
into the turquoise basin and<br />
it's rumored you'll return to <br />
Rome someday. Yes, please!</td></tr>
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Admittedly, I’d been singularly-focused on my gelato search, so I hadn’t paid attention to my surroundings – until I
stepped back out into the bright Italian sun and realized I was standing in
front of famed Trevi Fountain. Due to pickpockets, keeping your eyes open is
generally advised in Rome, especially in very popular areas, but right then, I
couldn’t help closing my eyes in absolute bliss. Face upturned to the warm sun,
breathing in fresh waffle cones and sweet ice cream, I dipped my plastic spoon
into the creamy concoction – and wanted time to stop.<br />
<br />
Right. There. Forever.</div>
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It’s rumored that if you toss a coin into Trevi Fountain,
you’ll return to Rome again. After I scraped the last possible drops of gelato
from my cup and threw the empty container away, I tossed my own wishing coins
into the clear water. Throughout the afternoon, my continued wanderings took me up and down the Spanish
steps, around the pillared Pantheon, and through cobbled alleys where warm
Mediterranean yellows and oranges crumbled off ancient buildings – a perfect
mess.</div>
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My silly grin, it stayed until I boarded the Leonardo airport express
train, heading for my transfer to <a href="http://www.travelbloggersunite.com/" target="_blank">TBU (Travel Bloggers Unite)</a>. To personify the rain that started falling
almost as soon as my train left the station as the tears of a city sad to see
me go is surely an exaggeration, although it really rained. For my part, it’d have been silly
to cry after such a brief visit, so instead I just prayed a little
legend would come true: that my future would, indeed, hold a return trip to
Rome. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihp8GRQfjdj9jNM7a3UV1nFsBGXc5bujNmQ9qTYfueVqIWLbfYCTFVyfxj5GyeqbNTjHWKZxTT7xfnUXb7XCQ_fx68m7ro5vTRjHjmBsWELoAee7z8ibNx8Sz40SiW-QTeBsoWfu31j0wV/s1600/IMG_6464.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihp8GRQfjdj9jNM7a3UV1nFsBGXc5bujNmQ9qTYfueVqIWLbfYCTFVyfxj5GyeqbNTjHWKZxTT7xfnUXb7XCQ_fx68m7ro5vTRjHjmBsWELoAee7z8ibNx8Sz40SiW-QTeBsoWfu31j0wV/s400/IMG_6464.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wandering streets like this in Rome made my heart so happy: <br />
the crumbling yellows were sunshine to my eyes, everywhere I looked.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Being back in Berlin, however, isn’t merely a wish – it’s
reality that’s manifest itself many times over. In fact, right now I’m settled
into a forest green corduroy chair in <a href="http://www.espresso-ambulanz.de/" target="_blank">Café Ambulanz</a> at Oranienburger Tor, my
favorite city haunt for coffee and pastries, writing about the last three
years’ travels. Undoubtedly my best three months of the last 22 were the ones
spent discovering Berlin from the inside out -- living its sunny days walking
along the Spree River and watching the rainy ones from inside its coffee shops;
attending press conferences and writing about the on-the-street opinions of residents; talking long with new-friends-turned-best-friends,
sometimes in German, sometimes in English. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHwr2y88wGdJO_BX6byUqcUZMYNh-5hlkQ6D7JZwdO_MbqjOZWujS2ZHyBQdS_jy1OPzLbKyJXgsQBhExvXNA72nJW_6GyBImVh6KLzY0au-7heimkrAH9QdsRsZfW-7enHm8r7QCJhZmU/s1600/IMG_4327.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHwr2y88wGdJO_BX6byUqcUZMYNh-5hlkQ6D7JZwdO_MbqjOZWujS2ZHyBQdS_jy1OPzLbKyJXgsQBhExvXNA72nJW_6GyBImVh6KLzY0au-7heimkrAH9QdsRsZfW-7enHm8r7QCJhZmU/s400/IMG_4327.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I <3 Berlin. <br />
Especially this view taken from the relatively new Humbolt Box, a modern piece of architecture <br />
temporarily holding space on the Berlin skyline while the old city palace is being rebuilt. <br />
In the picture: the TV Tower and the "Red City Hall."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Yes, those three months were when I fell in love with
Berlin, each return visit a reminder of the best days past. But <b>the biggest
difference between Berlin and Rome</b> is now becoming apparent. Departing from
Rome left a quick sting, like an injection needle being removed at the doctors –
all the necessary ingredients left deep inside my skin. Saying goodbye to
Berlin, however, is like finishing a cherished book: closing the cover on
unique combinations of people and places that have rooted themselves into my
memory, necessary knowledge as I continue on but redundant if repeated right away. Reading the same book again over and over would likely unveil new nuances,
but it would also miss much of the breadth offered by other volumes. Maybe
there’ll be a sequel someday or perhaps I’ll pass through the pages again, but
as much as I love Berlin, both the reading and remembering, it’s time – for now
– to return the book, to leave, and to say goodbye. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvvftV2gMBtXZSp6bKkPK6JiTNq5PD8ci50s947LY2WDrftRf3qXtNm8ckDDCrLSJSkkRDw1NrRc8GS1ugbCN_LwrXUEKYEBzPrhfAZQpOfNVnPjfeNLwfo3bEpr8a_BATEpWDXi5rhvxb/s1600/IMG_5023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvvftV2gMBtXZSp6bKkPK6JiTNq5PD8ci50s947LY2WDrftRf3qXtNm8ckDDCrLSJSkkRDw1NrRc8GS1ugbCN_LwrXUEKYEBzPrhfAZQpOfNVnPjfeNLwfo3bEpr8a_BATEpWDXi5rhvxb/s400/IMG_5023.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking along the Spree River behind the Eastside Gallery, one of my<br />
favorite places to spend a sunny afternoon in Berlin.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-45546848378271129372012-04-13T05:26:00.009-07:002012-04-16T12:30:53.804-07:00Dreaming in French: Why I Want to Revisit Paris<h4><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3e3535;"> or</span></h4><h2><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3e3535;">Why I want to "Go With Oh" to Paris</span></h2><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoYayZcObP9euQQjbW8gXHaM1YArSZuMyhUAxPzufZ83zNazVfx0TxHx6ITwBKzKdlidBywEbNSVH8eeOykCCX8TrbpaK1AejYbP6QjI0kaYnja5WA4WrVTUfQsw3Ni6_gnWwiu_r3MREt/s1600/Screen+shot+2012-04-16+at+12.16.58+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoYayZcObP9euQQjbW8gXHaM1YArSZuMyhUAxPzufZ83zNazVfx0TxHx6ITwBKzKdlidBywEbNSVH8eeOykCCX8TrbpaK1AejYbP6QjI0kaYnja5WA4WrVTUfQsw3Ni6_gnWwiu_r3MREt/s200/Screen+shot+2012-04-16+at+12.16.58+PM.png" width="200" /></a><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3e3535;">The deadline for the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3e3535;"><a href="http://www.GowithOh.com/" target="_blank">“Go With Oh”</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3e3535;"> spring blogger competition just ended (but make sure you check out their Web site for continued competitions and awesome prizes!!!), but my entry lives on in blog format: </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3e3535;">the story of a trip that was and the dream of a trip to be…</span></span><br />
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</i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Je veux aller á Paris parce que j’adore française.</i><br />
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Last summer, I met the renowned City of Light for the first time; however, she must have been asleep.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On a quick five-city-stop trip with my mom, a short vacation between two years of teaching English at a German grammar school, Paris was by far my most anticipated destination, but it also disappointed me the most.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We spent the majority of our measly five hours in the French capital being bussed around, listening to our tour guide Michelle’s adorable accented English highlighting the attractions as we whizzed by:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">“See, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">l’Arc de Triomphe</i>…”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;">“See, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">le Muéee d’Orsay</i>…”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;">“See, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">la Tour Eiffel</i>…”</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiRboWCIUldnSN7zAF0UJ015JvPAUYaKTFz9cAmeHIVnWdlNGNfeyTSlY1oq41SQKqFPTovB0rgdydwtJER9nGyn1QEoBX3U9tEuoUxWSqPGDZT6g4FHSImCZnmlaeAuQo0UgQIBaOrKbW/s1600/IMG_3365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiRboWCIUldnSN7zAF0UJ015JvPAUYaKTFz9cAmeHIVnWdlNGNfeyTSlY1oq41SQKqFPTovB0rgdydwtJER9nGyn1QEoBX3U9tEuoUxWSqPGDZT6g4FHSImCZnmlaeAuQo0UgQIBaOrKbW/s400/IMG_3365.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grey on Grey: Tourists crowd in front of the Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris on a dreary June day.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Unfortunately, by the time we were deposited in front of the venerable Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris, its courtyard crowded by a bevy of international tourists vying to feed the flocking pigeons or marvel at the grey gothic-inspired arches and flying buttresses, the sky had taken on a matching shade of colorlessness, foreshadowing the rain that would darken our remaining hour’s stay in a city known for luminescence.</div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Slowly shuffling through the expansive cathedral, I paused to photograph spiral candle stands glowing under the magnificent rose-shaped stained glass windows, the muted shafts and flickering tea lights the brightest sparks we would see that day.</div></div></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7EiVdopFyFMHveaz9T8e9lDP2sKaf1KDQPXi9c5UGBgUu6LTOui7LAGZZpohbJ_cc0ckEHXkVAvZviBz2X1zzwEdF9ut5IcIe8ViW7OtzvyRXAiqmjUEpx330G3OZ_RuOouJady9j26xS/s1600/IMG_3373.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7EiVdopFyFMHveaz9T8e9lDP2sKaf1KDQPXi9c5UGBgUu6LTOui7LAGZZpohbJ_cc0ckEHXkVAvZviBz2X1zzwEdF9ut5IcIe8ViW7OtzvyRXAiqmjUEpx330G3OZ_RuOouJady9j26xS/s400/IMG_3373.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The two large rose-shaped stained glass windows opposite each other inside the cathedral tell the complete story of the Bible: one window represents the Old Testament, the other the New Testament.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Not having enough time to discover the true brilliance of Paris and being stuck centrally in the most heavily tourist-populated locales made for a mediocre encounter with the city Hemingway raved over in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Moveable Feast</i>. At the Eifel Tower, my mom and I made a mad dash down the green, umbrellas extended, to capture a few shots with the world-famous icon before our bus departed.</div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Despite the dreary day, the undoubtedly majestic details of the buildings we did see left me speechless, but my muteness notwithstanding, an important element – even more important than the lack of light – was missing from my mini-trip to France: French. </div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Since I was a little girl, I dreamed of learning French, fascinated by its lilting liaisons and curvaceous script. Nonetheless, when I reached high school and signed up for my first foreign language, French was sadly not on the proffered elective list. So I settled for German – a decision that would lead me, down the road, to my living situation of the last two years, a tiny town nestled in Germany’s hilly Harz region.</div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Childhood dreams die hard, though, and I embraced the chance this year to learn with the same students I teach. Graciously, the French teacher at my school agreed to let me attend biweekly classes with the eighth grade (If only we were as enthusiastic about starting language study earlier in the US), practicing my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Merci</i>’s and building the foundations of language use.</div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Therefore, I would love to revisit Paris, immersing myself fully in the grand City of Light awake and at her best, living locally in an apartment, not only to explore undiscovered corners of the city – sidewalk cafés, sprawling gardens, endless fashion and art – but to personally encounter the magic of French, a language that’s captivated me from the beginning but has thus far eluded my grasp.</div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">My 5-point wish list for Paris</b></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></div><ol><li style="text-align: left;">Breakfast in a different bakery every day to sample <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pain au Chocolat</i>. I would describe the results of each day’s delectable buttery chocolate treat, picking my favorite at the end of the trip. (Without a doubt, I’d check out Au Levain d’Antan and <a href="http://www.legrenierapain.com/en/welcome" target="_blank">Le Grenier à pain</a>, winners of the 2011 and 2010 best baguette award, respectively).</li>
<li style="text-align: left;">After finishing my delectable breakfast, I’d buy a baguette to go and spiral through the Parisian arrondissements, stopping at the open-air food markets, perhaps the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Marché Bastille</i> in the 11<sup>th</sup> Arrondissement on Thursday or Sunday or the Marché d’Aligre on Tuesday through Saturday morning, to test my French with the vendors and purchase fresh cheese and meats for an afternoon picnic.</li>
<li style="text-align: left;">A visit to Paris wouldn’t be complete without taking in some art. Since the impressionist painters always interested me the most, the <a href="http://www.musee-orsay.fr/en/home.html" target="_blank">Musée d’Orsay</a> is at the top of my list, with its collection including works by Monet, Renoir, and Degas. Tickets for 18-25 year olds cost a very reasonable €6.50, or if I time my visit right, I could visit for free on the first Sunday of the month.</li>
<li style="text-align: left;">During my stay, I plan to sample the famous Parisian dish Duck Confit, perhaps at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.bouillon-chartier.com/" target="_blank">Bouillon Chartier</a></i>, a historical and tastefully decorated French brasserie with reasonable prices and typical everyday French cuisine.</li>
<li style="text-align: left;">However kitschy my last item may sound, what better way to experience Paris’s luminescence then by ascending the Eiffel Tower at night to gaze over the expanse of twinkling lights. The <a href="http://www.city-discovery.com/paris/tour.php?id=4095" target="_blank">Skip the Line Sunset Eiffel Tower Tour</a> is rather pricey at €50, but experiencing the top in a small group not exceeding 20 people and avoiding the hours-long wait at the bottom may be worth the money.</li>
</ol><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ydua_TIGMY-rOAiT9HvxJkvyJIC_ca-vyEtWBL1Dr_ZTst3paHlaxIbiy2jApawETneWSYmMK04eMsBN8Lw2caXarg-bhI4Q6I1CCcZsDW4yvhwwuEOb2ZaXtgM14rNUk7P-A-RdXKoa/s1600/IMG_3422.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ydua_TIGMY-rOAiT9HvxJkvyJIC_ca-vyEtWBL1Dr_ZTst3paHlaxIbiy2jApawETneWSYmMK04eMsBN8Lw2caXarg-bhI4Q6I1CCcZsDW4yvhwwuEOb2ZaXtgM14rNUk7P-A-RdXKoa/s400/IMG_3422.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wet but determined, my mom and I used our 15-minute stop at the Eiffel Tower to run <br />
far enough down this path to capture a full view of the well-known landmark. We <br />
may have been a few minutes late back to the bus, but at least we got our pictures!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">Read other great entries for the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3e3535;"><a href="http://www.GowithOh.com/" target="_blank">“Go With Oh”</a> spring blog competition by checking out their <a href="http://pinterest.com/gowithoh/bloggers-go-with-oh/" target="_blank">Pinterest</a> page. Happy Traveling!</span></div>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-22384505708775290992012-03-11T04:59:00.002-07:002012-03-11T05:04:01.142-07:00Beating the German Viruses for the Umpteenth Time<div class="MsoNormal">A week ago, I was huddled up in a coat and two scarves at Frankfurt’s Commerzbank Stadium, cheering on the home team to a rather mediocre 1-0 victory. While I was excited about my first live German soccer/football experience, the swirling cigarette smoke and currywurst fumes made me woozy rather than wound-up, and I was a little worried about the cold I’d felt coming on for the last day and a half.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">By the time the game ended, and we were running along the pathway to the parking lot, determined to beat the rush of fans that had kept my friends trapped in hour-long gridlock the last time they’d visited the stadium, I knew I was in trouble. Jogging a couple hundred meters left me out of breath, and the coughing started not long after we’d gotten in the car.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Monday morning, I spent a miserable 3 hours in trains headed back to Wernigerode, and not long after I’d arrived, I was texting teachers and students, canceling all of my responsibilities for the day. On Tuesday, I wasn’t any better (healthier), and before you know it, my sick “day” had turned into a week: 7 long days of battling the German viruses. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In other words, besides sleep, my week looked like a whole lot of this:</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb-3tCXK8po_kLazmZp82WTypenB3-dLdqvlCx49LhZfe4d0VvV5G-sxq3NN-gbQebqVaQZ6lERfegOK7KFdFIAIolUznY3Jv7WNIwcFN2ux-4JlxrIvRB9ydpIUPkVqdq4Mu1Ch_gzgE0/s1600/IMG_5839.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb-3tCXK8po_kLazmZp82WTypenB3-dLdqvlCx49LhZfe4d0VvV5G-sxq3NN-gbQebqVaQZ6lERfegOK7KFdFIAIolUznY3Jv7WNIwcFN2ux-4JlxrIvRB9ydpIUPkVqdq4Mu1Ch_gzgE0/s400/IMG_5839.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The contents of my self-assembled survival kit:<br />
Burt's Bees (from home), Kamill hand lotion, Heiße Zitrone Vitamin C packets, Grippostad C<br />
cold medicine, Soft & Sicher tissues and Ricola sugar free sage throat lozenges. Ready, fight!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">To be perfectly honest, I’d never considered myself prone to illness, before I moved to Germany, that is. Sure there’d be the almost inevitable cold at the end of the term, post finals, but nothing major. Last year, it seemed like every other weekend had me holed up in bed with a cold. I’ve had more problems with unexplained stomach aches this year, but apparently all the viruses were just waiting to team up on me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Due to my less-than-desirable but considerable experience with colds last year, I felt, at least, semi-prepared to take on the bug this time around and had assembled a survival kit of sorts.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Grippostad C: </b>In the states, I loathe cold medicine because the shaky, dizzying side effects are almost worse than the illness itself; however, this cold medicine pretty much fights against everything, effectively, sans nausea. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Heiße Zitrone:</b> To me, the cold version of this drink is the only thing in Germany that tastes remotely like the lemonade from home and, to the Germans, it’s a veritable magic potion of disease fighting powers, packed with Vitamin C. Empty a few packets into a glass for a new spin on the “If life gives you lemons….” saying!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The rest of my survival kit consists of items you’d find in the U.S., too, but apart from the Burt’s Bees chap stick (one of the few things I’ve consistently imported), the German equivalents are somewhat superior in my mind. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Soft & Sicher tissues</b>: Perhaps it’s the super thick paper itself or the multiple layers, but the German equivalent of Kleenex are super soft and heavy duty. When I blew my nose, I could be certain it’d stay in the tissue and not blast through into my hands. </div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Kamill hand lotion:</b> Nonetheless, since I’d wash my hands every time I blew my nose (frequently), my poor skin was drying out like raisins, necessitating repair care. The orange “express” version leaves your hands instantly soft, but the green tube with chamomile extract is another favorite. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Ricola’s sugar-free sage drops: </b>I didn’t need to suck on too many throat lozenges last week – thankfully, a sore throat was one of the precious few symptoms I didn’t have – but I was prepared, just in case. In the past, my apartment has been littered with the little purple and white wrappers after many bouts with bugs.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Finally, a week later, I’m feeling ready to return to society, though I’ll still have my tissues close at hand. And, of course, it can’t hurt to keep drinking lemonade…er heiße Zitrone, right? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What experiences have you had fighting bugs in foreign lands? And what country-specific remedies have you found to help get you healthy again?</div>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-45046415908528942882012-01-16T01:53:00.000-08:002012-01-16T01:57:34.334-08:00Ode to Oregon, IntroductionI’ve grown up telling people about the place I call home. Month-long childhood summertime visits to the grandparents in muggy, flat Wisconsin were an introduction to the glowing wonder of fireflies but also an opportunity to correct relatives’ incorrect pronunciation (“It’s not called Ore-Uh-Gone!”) and extol our mountainous, green tree-filled world where warm summer days were merely hot, not humid.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrJAxZspQOGAJ3TgHxZdg4JfQZsrP8q8agYYzfXwO_vq69Oi_YGC5VOF-BCLymY9dC29phdf2hBHSG6aj_7YdlwiKMcD_wZMN8dCz1fEodVFu-zF4ZsGzCxYH3YQGtR7YMIGW5wwYcDdoO/s1600/mountain.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrJAxZspQOGAJ3TgHxZdg4JfQZsrP8q8agYYzfXwO_vq69Oi_YGC5VOF-BCLymY9dC29phdf2hBHSG6aj_7YdlwiKMcD_wZMN8dCz1fEodVFu-zF4ZsGzCxYH3YQGtR7YMIGW5wwYcDdoO/s400/mountain.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view of Oregon's Mt. Hood rising large above the landscape <br />
has always taken my breath away and symbolized "home."</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">When I first travelled to Puebla, Mexico, in 2004 (my sophomore year of high school), I’d tucked picture postcards into my carry-on – visual aids to pass out to new friends, to show the children where I lived. Over the 8-day trip, dusty vistas and graffiti-covered walls changed to tropical vegetation and sharp drop-offs, muddy foot paths where we carried bags of sand and stone bricks half a mile down a mountain…and then back up the other side. I encountered bugs bordering on Tolkien-size proportions and ate virtually none of the native food as I counted down the days to the packaged – sterile – products awaiting me “in the States.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As a kid, though, I took the wonder of my home state for granted. Of course, we’d go snowmobiling in the winter: loud, gas-smelling machines shooting along pristine white mountain paths to one of many frozen lakes, solid glasslike surfaces sparkling in the cold, cold sunshine. And weekend trips to the beach were, naturally, par for the course: chewy salt-water taffy sticking to our teeth while the real salt water shimmered underfoot, toes turning blue in the cold, cold surf.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh2Umyx2Auw72V-dARumNYG3QhkapgodoJRYiknw9bcKQzXuse2LWHgJhpO_9oYJuRIzdDGRNWwXw6FJjQ0CkwukGlgWNeJBN9v-4gNMfYLxUZEWQ8gVoEY0IJNU_EK3ZdsgsM0GtPHK6i/s1600/beach.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh2Umyx2Auw72V-dARumNYG3QhkapgodoJRYiknw9bcKQzXuse2LWHgJhpO_9oYJuRIzdDGRNWwXw6FJjQ0CkwukGlgWNeJBN9v-4gNMfYLxUZEWQ8gVoEY0IJNU_EK3ZdsgsM0GtPHK6i/s400/beach.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my favorite spots to spend a summer day is Pacific City, Oregon. <br />
Climb the infamous dune for this outstanding view of the ocean's expanse.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes we’d drive over the mountain to Eastern Oregon, a wide dessert expanse, brown and dusty in summer and snow-packed with delight in winter. Kah-nee-tah was always a favorite destination, the warm hot springs-fed pools a treat even my mom enjoyed. Other times, we’d head north to the Columbia River Gorge, its majestic waterfall-lined walls laced with hiking trails and jaw-dropping vistas over the river below.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Growing older, I caught the travel bug, loving years where I’d fly multiple times to other states for college volleyball tournaments, journalism conferences or family reunions – and eventually, I’d move abroad for a couple years, relishing the time where riding trains rushing across country borders was nothing extraordinary. All around the world, cities and countryside have stirred my heart. I’ve visited important historical landmarks, reflected on buildings broken and left as testaments to the carnage of war, and stood incredulously before intricate castles and ornate cathedrals that existed centuries before Lewis and Clark even discovered the Pacific Ocean.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nowadays in my small-town Germany English classes, I like to tell the students that Oregon pretty much has everything: ocean, deserts, waterfalls, mountains, lakes, rivers. And whenever I flip through calendar brochures or travel guides, I always exclaim, a little longingly, “It <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really does</i> look like that!” Splendid sunsets, glowing mountain peaks, cascading waterfalls – all within reach, all part of the package. I’ll even take the dreary rain, inherent to the West Coast, wet but nonetheless endearing.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxLrcvfw0hgy2FNDiPmF9qijRjqEIHEFwwEaTdRuMyrF3NJGgtPjat2VxDii6gXxPp-4iYO4m3DHRba9V9IwVjUGLm04g3sYz25Z4-VnZTyZal9cp9NOn2qB_V3_vtEFupNvRUuJdSK9sw/s1600/river.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxLrcvfw0hgy2FNDiPmF9qijRjqEIHEFwwEaTdRuMyrF3NJGgtPjat2VxDii6gXxPp-4iYO4m3DHRba9V9IwVjUGLm04g3sYz25Z4-VnZTyZal9cp9NOn2qB_V3_vtEFupNvRUuJdSK9sw/s400/river.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even on grey days, the Columbia River Gorge is beautiful, and breathtaking<br />
vistas make the winding drive along the old Scenic Highway worth the trip.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes, I’ve asked myself why I ever want to leave, though honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever stop being amazed by the beauty of the world – the lure of adventure and exploration is a hard urge to silence – but even though my heart has been enraptured by global stimuli, its permanent earthly residence is unmistakably secure: Oregon – the end of the trail, a place for dreamers, home.</div>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-79159644957231413152012-01-11T12:03:00.000-08:002012-01-11T12:43:19.010-08:00On LayoversWARSAW, Poland – Warsaw Chopin Airport is a desolate place. Perhaps its somber mood is accentuated by my demeanor upon arrival – as my last layover of the day, an almost 3-hour pause before take-off to Berlin, Warsaw is less than a choice destination – however, the atmosphere does little to redeem itself. Narrow grey corridors slide seamlessly into windows slanted obtusely outwards into more grey, the cloudy skies smoldering into charcoal while I wait.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7FjV_6KBS-q859ZBl2YxKwmBp6BU98uw5qcbuJ0GmLC5orW7MiI0i1oea26lZtN1_I-wMwfZyS9Ret3vKL20cU0J4LXeqETVdLktHzSmaFVuQ-iW7CSmPd3TxAjak-IJdeOxaPOOtW-2F/s1600/IMG_5688.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7FjV_6KBS-q859ZBl2YxKwmBp6BU98uw5qcbuJ0GmLC5orW7MiI0i1oea26lZtN1_I-wMwfZyS9Ret3vKL20cU0J4LXeqETVdLktHzSmaFVuQ-iW7CSmPd3TxAjak-IJdeOxaPOOtW-2F/s320/IMG_5688.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gate 45, Warsaw Chopin Airport. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">The grey areas of life, those muted tones between black and white, right and wrong, if only they were as easy to navigate as the deep orange accents and scattered posts where bold white numbers label the gates. Although maybe these color bursts would be as offensive in my moral consciousness as they are here, breaking up the otherwise monotone scheme. I’d rather move like the clouds, slipping softly through smudged skies, grey like the walls and rows of metal chairs whose polka dot design is illusion – the punched-out holes only show through to drab carpet beyond.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course, being situated at the very last gate, the fingertip of the airport’s spindly arm, adds to the isolation. As I lug my 25-lb. baby blue Jansport backpack down the long corridor, the advertisements for duty free purchases, snacks and, naturally, the omnipresent McDonalds leap off their posters, loud English letters attracting international consumers. But when I acquiesce to their offer, my exchange with the barista at Empik Café proves less than accommodating to my non-Polish speaking self. I utter barely three words: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">small black coffee</i>, simply wanting something to stave off the fatigue that has followed my flight across the continents. She seems dissatisfied with my request, stringing together words in Polish as I slowly shook my head.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“With milk. Café Latte. Americano?” she queries, voice heavily accented.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, just coffee. Black.” I repeat. And “small,” when she asks again about the size. “Oh, and can I pay in Euro?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes, but I give you Polish zloty for the change.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When my coffee rings up under €3, I pull a half liter of sparkling water from the cooler in front of the register, using the single €5 bill tucked in my wallet to cover my purchase and hopefully provide enough caffeine-induced energy to propel the last leg of my 20+ hour marathon journey. Mostly because the Polish change is irrelevant to me, I toss the remaining cents onto the tip plate and carry my dripping cup of coffee back down the hall to the still empty gate.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Year in the World</i>, Frances Mayes wrote that travel allows release because “you are insignificant to the life of the new place. When you travel you become invisible if you want […] When travelling, you have the delectable possibility of not understanding a word of what is said to you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Perhaps I’m not as seasoned as Mayes in navigating countries and tongues; perhaps I’m still too fresh from the coddling comfort of Christmas break at home in Oregon. Nonetheless, insignificant and invisible are not normally attributes I strive to achieve. And not understanding what is being said usually proves more frustrating than liberating. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But perhaps travel itself is somehow separated from the limbo of layover – this strange in between of times and places, whose experience, yes, aura, is so closely connected to what awaits after the next flight but also to its present location.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In Chicago, for example, I was happy to play the obsolete observer, though the bustling crowds were upbeat, and my cell phone kept me company – a last round of texts fired off over the hour before the device would hibernate for the next six months.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, however, the silence is not soothing. Far from loved ones, I crave connection, not anonymity. If pure waiting is purgatory, I am relieved there’s an end. If separation is Hell, I am beyond thankful for Heaven and, more so, for the One who has promised to never leave, even when a journey is solo or an airport lonely.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Slowly, the differentiation between exterior and interior has heightened – artificial lights steadying the hue at Gate 45, while outside details disappear into darkness. I’ll be on my way again shortly, headed this time not for another round of waiting but at last for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">arrival</i>, the journey complete.</div>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-32630125297074815592011-11-14T05:53:00.000-08:002011-11-14T06:09:19.365-08:00Learning by teaching<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Full of mixed feelings, I packed my bags in Berlin two weeks ago and traded my skyscraper sunsets for castle sunrises. Literally.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My journalist life involved late nights, city lights and a full schedule of cultural events. My teacher existence means early morning alarms, coffee-fueled lessons and afternoons of grading, prepping and gazing at the hilltop castle out my window.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I was leery of returning to the quiet provincial life. Something about the fast-paced city seems to suit me well, and the days of interviews and writing excited me more than standing in front of a chalkboard.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nonetheless, the transition back to the Harz has gone well so far. It’s helped that I’ve done this before, that I knew what to expect. Being familiar with the curriculum allows me to develop creative ideas before it’s too late and, hopefully, make learning a little more fun. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course, that’s not always the case. Even in the first two weeks, there have already been distinct ups and downs.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>A successful lesson:</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBwp0m2YyF8fNPD9fgk85q-j7y_g17PkH8MYilVxGG2WCqjCGGCtb1tsrBViyoV0ZYUF2un6i6bhVFINA1inbFIHMBUeGOswfG2AvWeRr1Lg_uwMYNRj4J_OrmuzmpidaeI7kkTAx-aCtg/s1600/IMG_5417.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBwp0m2YyF8fNPD9fgk85q-j7y_g17PkH8MYilVxGG2WCqjCGGCtb1tsrBViyoV0ZYUF2un6i6bhVFINA1inbFIHMBUeGOswfG2AvWeRr1Lg_uwMYNRj4J_OrmuzmpidaeI7kkTAx-aCtg/s200/IMG_5417.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The delicious spread, waiting to be<br />
devoured by hungry students.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">The first unit in the 8<sup>th</sup> grader’s books (which focus the entire year on the USA) is about New York. My first day back in the 8m1, the students read an excerpt about New York delis and bagels. Deciding on a hands-on approach, I asked the class teacher if we could stage a bagel breakfast – as a surprise – for the students.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Enthusiastically, he agreed to my plan and provided financial backing for the breakfast treats. I made arrangements with the self-serve bakery, pre-ordering 26 bagels for a 7 a.m. pickup, bought cream cheese and spent an evening designing the deli menu board. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">The day of the deli extravaganza, I pulled myself out of bed at 5:45 a.m. – undoubtedly the hardest part of the endeavor – biked to the bakery where I picked up the bagels, and, after a few minutes of confusion during which I carted my bags of supplies between the two buildings trying to figure out which classroom we were in, I found the correct room, shooed the students into the hallway and set up shop.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdBKThP5AjWEkuZwkUYhF0zn9yfmzMkcmmFXlzWh8HbxAY4RCrxpsm0IpcJqGp7dFeiE-6qsmItIZYv9CFQG-EhooQTv6-hKZRl0K04MG7xD5jLnTemv6UEFoiqinCpQpNURn3HM2k0y8p/s1600/IMG_5418.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdBKThP5AjWEkuZwkUYhF0zn9yfmzMkcmmFXlzWh8HbxAY4RCrxpsm0IpcJqGp7dFeiE-6qsmItIZYv9CFQG-EhooQTv6-hKZRl0K04MG7xD5jLnTemv6UEFoiqinCpQpNURn3HM2k0y8p/s320/IMG_5418.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The makeshift deli, ala German grammar school style. On the sign "Bagels: Breakfast the American way!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Granted, everything was a bit provisional. Once the other teacher arrived, we experimented with locations for hanging the sign, finally securing my poster board with magnets to the dusty green chalkboard. The white table was a little small, dwarfed by the surrounding classroom, and the offerings seemed meager to my super-sized ideas.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But excitement and imagination are beautiful components of language learning, and the bagels seemed to bring out both elements in the students, even at 7:30 a.m. All of the students present participated, ordering in English and eagerly munching their American breakfast. They also accurately discussed the differences between my American customer service persona and the German standard.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Assuredly there will be weeks when the monotony of vocabulary quizzes and grammar review will quench the novelty of having a “native speaker” in class, but I hope that simple surprises, such as bagels for breakfast, will add highlights to English lessons.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGQbK2B9WzU5ZrudQRmNCSeS9rU5sS7JYnEpvISVbeehZm5BmSTHNx3ijrtSR84qoAZ9YdOl5cGECsbZa7unUXP0-VZIC6aeNN9QpYM_Qs5ZKfQ-Jd8eD2_rrAyIVzBdMYrbX8t3CQXpf2/s1600/IMG_5419.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGQbK2B9WzU5ZrudQRmNCSeS9rU5sS7JYnEpvISVbeehZm5BmSTHNx3ijrtSR84qoAZ9YdOl5cGECsbZa7unUXP0-VZIC6aeNN9QpYM_Qs5ZKfQ-Jd8eD2_rrAyIVzBdMYrbX8t3CQXpf2/s320/IMG_5419.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clearly, this is the best use for bagels. My students can definitely make me laugh.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><b>A (not so) successful lesson:</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While I am inherently qualified to add insight and ideas into the 8<sup>th</sup> grade curriculum by virtue of my American citizenship, I have to work a little harder to relate to the 7<sup>th</sup> grade’s yearly topic – namely, the United Kingdom. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Their first topic this school year is London. Unfortunately, the one quick day I spent touring the grand old city last summer hardly grants me expert status. And my relationship to British English is rocky at best – the extra “u’s” and single “l’s” often threatened my credibility at the newspaper in Berlin.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxHT6vrZ-mBONxrzk7fARzlatGaMe64c4ZZz0w-jhvHyMVXHyVeUUZHN-tlYdpEmgGS-V9OgpOZZPd2_rItIS-WNDeFz9eYlHqkILpxwaJxP8dS7jajW0DZwt9o_ZYZr68tXi5AozDsU30/s1600/IMG_3542.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxHT6vrZ-mBONxrzk7fARzlatGaMe64c4ZZz0w-jhvHyMVXHyVeUUZHN-tlYdpEmgGS-V9OgpOZZPd2_rItIS-WNDeFz9eYlHqkILpxwaJxP8dS7jajW0DZwt9o_ZYZr68tXi5AozDsU30/s200/IMG_3542.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tourist only.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Nonetheless, I pride myself on the excellent research skills I gained from my bachelor degree and subsequent journalistic experience. Thus, I was delighted to discover a fabulous feature in Britain’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Telegraph</i>, which seemed perfectly suited to a roomful of youngsters learning about England’s capital: <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/destinations/europe/uk/london/london-in-your-lunch-break/8785065/London-in-your-lunch-break-Westminster-Cathedral-bell-tower.html">London in your lunch break</a>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d chanced by the column one afternoon during my internship at The Local, while perusing the internet for interesting stories, and had thought it would make an excellent teaching tool. The teacher was on board with my idea, so I copied the text, carefully citing the publication and author, and then pared it down to a more manageable size.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Geared up for the classroom debut, I handed out my carefully prepared copies and asked a student to start reading out loud. However, instead of the enthusiasm and engagement I expected, the students seemed to find interest in everything but the text. Getting them to concentrate was like pulling teeth, and no matter how many pupils I caught off guard with the popcorn style reading, each one still stumbled to find his or her place.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We didn’t get through all of the new vocabulary on the sheet before I abandoned my plan and moved on. I was frustrated with their disrespect and poor following skills, and then the other teacher told me the text had probably been too difficult. I replied it wouldn’t have been so difficult if the students had simply paid attention, but she told me they didn’t pay attention well when they couldn’t understand.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aha.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My indignation instantly subsided, like the foam on a pot of boiling water rapidly receding after the lid is removed, as I considered her comment. She wasn’t mad, of course. I’d given her the text beforehand, and she’d also thought it to be suitable. I was just disappointed my preparation hadn’t translated into the same results as the bagels.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Although I’d be all for it, eating authentic food every lesson would quickly have negative effects on wallets and waistlines. Somehow the language has to speak for itself.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve been doing this teaching thing for a year, but I’m no expert yet. Ten months under my belt have lent me a little confidence, but I have to deal with setbacks, too, and realize lessons don’t always pan out the way I visualize. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thankfully, there is always another chance.</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBwyXJkhmAEsjyfLK0Wjjf2KWYJcKFTy4vhTYC5-ZLyMODK_wxsauGBU517MpsSut-PkHWecUbFnbiiL1dItTlHnLSg4hi5UnGY14lwINKqRBHt3o2qTp0O0mggSqPZDEpR5Y6orrC4bdd/s1600/IMG_3506.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBwyXJkhmAEsjyfLK0Wjjf2KWYJcKFTy4vhTYC5-ZLyMODK_wxsauGBU517MpsSut-PkHWecUbFnbiiL1dItTlHnLSg4hi5UnGY14lwINKqRBHt3o2qTp0O0mggSqPZDEpR5Y6orrC4bdd/s400/IMG_3506.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The London Eye. Taken June 2011.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-42670076152263728242011-09-28T15:22:00.000-07:002011-09-28T15:23:54.934-07:00Poland: land of pottery and pierogies<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Introduction: </i>Being in Berlin is, of course, splendid, but this month’s travel itinerary filled up in surprising – and very unexpected – ways. Since the beginning of September, I’ve spent time in four different cities and three different countries. Wait, what?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">For the record, the cities are Zurich, Vaduz, Magdeburg and Boleslawiec. The corresponding countries outside of Germany, for those not tipped off by the cities, are Switzerland, Lichtenstein and Poland. I’ve been just a little busy. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">To my point, though. While all of these countries and the corresponding outings deserve posts, the most recent excursion takes precedence in my memory. Without further ado, I give you POLAND.</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal">Arriving in Poland has always been rather unusual for me – the two times I’ve journeyed over its borders, that is. The first time, I simply meandered over a bridge, the Oder River spreading its long blue tendrils out underneath, while I savored the sensation of walking into a different country. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The second time, though, I zipped past the welcome signs in the back of a 7-passenger automobile, truly alerted to the change of country when my smooth ride transformed into a roller coaster of bumps and constant vibrations running up my legs. Road upkeep obviously occupies a different priority level in Poland than in Germany.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Conversation for me and the girl sitting beside me on the back seat soon became hopeless, and I simply stared out the window, lulled by the monotonous –though neither sonorous nor soothing – grinding of wheels on unkempt road. Thankfully the signs were interesting. Despite neighboring Germany, Poland has an extremely foreign language, and I could only guess at the pronunciation of words with unknown vowel combinations and figures.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We’d left early in the morning, and even though I’d inhaled the coffee contents of my travel mug, the pre-7 a.m. departure, combined with the prolonged jarring, had left me somewhat groggy, spurred on only by the promise of two illusive p’s: pottery and pierogies.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmuGHPRqXM4pAYi9DwjHBeHvDefwmWam5B9B4JhxeQbVR9cuXXSRV0ir031YYtkB7t3YdHdnRsjpkMksErYs30vwFvbkS_lXglHYUMlCTv3wU-kx6_iUVA8swUZK6v3QAh8j2yJv15gJCR/s1600/IMG_5006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmuGHPRqXM4pAYi9DwjHBeHvDefwmWam5B9B4JhxeQbVR9cuXXSRV0ir031YYtkB7t3YdHdnRsjpkMksErYs30vwFvbkS_lXglHYUMlCTv3wU-kx6_iUVA8swUZK6v3QAh8j2yJv15gJCR/s400/IMG_5006.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boleslawiec, a city flowing (and overflowing) with pottery. With such a sign welcoming <br />
visitors, it's obvious that the shopping experience will be a delight.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Before the trip, I had a vague idea of what both entailed. One of my friends, and the organizer of this particular trip, has outfitted her entire kitchen with the cheerful, brightly colored pottery: plates, mugs, baking pans and all. And, two years ago, when I’d made the trek over the bridge, I was pretty sure I remembered the evening ending with stuffed-doughy goodness. If those particular delicacies were known as “pierogies,” I was set to be happy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nonetheless, I wasn’t prepared for the pure abundance and sheer beauty of the pottery shops. As we entered the first store, encountering the row upon row of blues, reds, yellows and greens in all sizes and shapes, I quickly realized one thing: I had not brought enough cash for this shopping adventure.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWEky6L-xqinXoj-GfNymDYbOdRy_lsRPuL5QnoaXylreo8CkFIJHe0knERQdiYnynYxxSDIcHFAnkeiWemQ225sNWMewJqqBgafvyNpLbnG87abAvv7W4eVVwHhAiXhbXiS2ISH7K2y88/s1600/IMG_4998.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWEky6L-xqinXoj-GfNymDYbOdRy_lsRPuL5QnoaXylreo8CkFIJHe0knERQdiYnynYxxSDIcHFAnkeiWemQ225sNWMewJqqBgafvyNpLbnG87abAvv7W4eVVwHhAiXhbXiS2ISH7K2y88/s320/IMG_4998.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pottery-lined shelves, pottery-covered floors, pottery<br />
everywhere you looked! Such a feast for the eyes and<br />
such fun to dream about dishes and decorations, compar-<br />
ing finds with friends and handing over the cash.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">I’d imagined casual pottery perusal, hoping, at best, for a Christmas present or two. But I met such an overload of dream-inspiring dishes that I could have spent all day (and all my money) drooling over the exquisite patterns. We spent the morning walking from shop to shop, comparing designs and prices and making tough differentiations between wants and needs. It may have been all wants in my case, but in the end, I settled on a beautiful pie plate, adorned with flowers and polka dots. After all, I’d missed having a pie plate several times over the last year, resorting, at times, to sticking a foil-covered stove pan into the oven for my culinary creations. Furthermore, pies are about as American as you can get, and baking them is almost a cultural obligation for school events. At least, that’s how I justified my purchase.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Following the first hours of admiring the gorgeous displays, we headed to the restaurant for lunch – an affair that did not disappoint. Based on recommendation, I ordered the spinach garlic pierogies. By the time the food arrived, I was hungry enough for the flavor to peak, and the small pouches of goodness covered in a delectable cream sauce were well-worth the resulting stomachache (Note to self: Do not leave lactose pills at home when travelling abroad for the day). Each mouthful was filled with flavor – exactly the right amount. Thanks to generosity and table trades, I also tried the meat and onion cheese varieties, though I was thoroughly satisfied with my personal choice.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLfZ9FgnZPf6Po1VOzc3gRijSWg7egqm781A0gnqh5T6hmep4uCLR7QQMA5RlQxmE_BpxGi8xDQWdoEHgBGS5YSuQXAYrsJQc1S_rOEUpFv4no1zqJJIbZwbx0b4Q1a5q40uN4r7t15wSd/s1600/IMG_5002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLfZ9FgnZPf6Po1VOzc3gRijSWg7egqm781A0gnqh5T6hmep4uCLR7QQMA5RlQxmE_BpxGi8xDQWdoEHgBGS5YSuQXAYrsJQc1S_rOEUpFv4no1zqJJIbZwbx0b4Q1a5q40uN4r7t15wSd/s400/IMG_5002.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Every shop we visited had outdoor displays, showing off samples of the goodies to be had inside. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">The afternoon concluded with a few last minute dashes to the closing shops. Saturday’s early evening meant we were free to head back to Berlin around 5 p.m., toting our treasures and still smiling about our delicious lunch…or maybe that was just me. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx8x6XAvwZlCKM685cpxZFLBid4NGmKxdBBNi2ZxIns7k4pNL4FiOMMgu0RQK1FTeB52VB7_TLRwry8Xmu-NjToqKOS2VpiIE3stAIZY3MPF2N35SeOuv9jCi73lGhuLDzvbpBbSkrmQk3/s1600/IMG_5000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx8x6XAvwZlCKM685cpxZFLBid4NGmKxdBBNi2ZxIns7k4pNL4FiOMMgu0RQK1FTeB52VB7_TLRwry8Xmu-NjToqKOS2VpiIE3stAIZY3MPF2N35SeOuv9jCi73lGhuLDzvbpBbSkrmQk3/s320/IMG_5000.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I fell in love with these dishes but, unfortunately, lacked the financial <br />
means to purchase them and the physical space in my suitcase to transport <br />
them back to the United States. Oh well, one can always dream.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">All in all, Poland for a day was well worth it, for those in the vicinity and with the means – by car, by foot, by train – I’d recommend the outing. Just remember your “p’s!”</div>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-6479722257249745242011-08-12T10:26:00.000-07:002011-08-22T15:05:19.709-07:00Trading Places, The Germany EditionI apologize that the blog has been slow recently. The biggest reason (excuse) is that I've moved from my little town in the Harz to the capital of Germany. In slightly more picturesque detail, that looks like this:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">trading this well-known landmark</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0LGiLPlzM9g_HT-GAtJe8NWSg32dpzWnRk0Pd9B6Q2US4FwEiAUI-vfq26GDLX9gj-Vrtl-bVMAr7NH6_2zUpsYf7r5x-03BhPgr5lrlD7ybjBtt_gXdsEjHDn8OY48OwbRwtUkLQhUha/s1600/IMG_2465.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0LGiLPlzM9g_HT-GAtJe8NWSg32dpzWnRk0Pd9B6Q2US4FwEiAUI-vfq26GDLX9gj-Vrtl-bVMAr7NH6_2zUpsYf7r5x-03BhPgr5lrlD7ybjBtt_gXdsEjHDn8OY48OwbRwtUkLQhUha/s320/IMG_2465.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Brocken, Schierke<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">for this one</span></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioF7pvNoLAc9z1RD5c2wckRjaJo_E9avsm1itfxvoEl7AT-FRY94ejDe6iytRedb_GBya6kf28RD74xkFKxQk3CPK0BBFPZBj10wow1tuETi3ghUliwCub2IOvOfCsnuh5ja4jGXm_KKox/s1600/tvtower.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioF7pvNoLAc9z1RD5c2wckRjaJo_E9avsm1itfxvoEl7AT-FRY94ejDe6iytRedb_GBya6kf28RD74xkFKxQk3CPK0BBFPZBj10wow1tuETi3ghUliwCub2IOvOfCsnuh5ja4jGXm_KKox/s320/tvtower.jpeg" width="241" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">T.V. Tower, Berlin<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The move has also encompassed quite a few more changes--the pictures above simply exemplify the matter. If you're unfamiliar with Germany's make-up, though, here are some of the ramifications.<br />
<div><ul><li>Berlin enjoys the title of "greenest" city in Germany. Nonetheless, for the last 11 months, I was living on the edge of a national park. As far as I could see, there were trees, trees, trees! Now, I'm living on the 6th floor of an enormous concrete apartment building (don't worry, there are large blocks of random color to add style!?), and my view--aside from the four lanes of traffic running under my window, the small park basketball court across the street and the boxy yellow tram winding behind the parking lot--encompasses more of the same industrial living complexes. Hello, city!</li>
<li>Transportation in Wernigerode consists of my feet, a bike and, occasionally, during especially inclement weather, the bus. In Berlin, those three options are only the beginning. Here, my handy little "Monatskarte" (monthly transportation ticket) also allows me free use of the U-Bahn, S-Bahn, Metro Tram and regional trains within my zone. The rain that's been pretty much steadily falling for the last two weeks doesn't affect the pace of life much with that many choices.</li>
<li>Shopping! Oh. my. goodness. While I've never been an at-the-mall-every-single-weekend type of girl, I do enjoy convenience (aka, having the ingredients/things I want at my constant disposal). While there are still some items I'll have to live more or less without while in Germany (Ziplock bags, chocolate chips, Tillamook cheddar cheese, Enchilada sauce), I admit it's been wildly comforting to see multiple Starbucks on a weekly basis (too expensive to indulge that often, but still reassuring), to walk into a shopping complex (one of hundreds, that is) with enough stores in one building to equal the offerings of the entire city of Wernigerode and, last but not least, to have options for buying groceries after 8 p.m. AND on Sundays. Excuse me if this is blasphemous, but, "Hallelujah!"</li>
</ul><div>Of course, my job title has also changed--hence the move. Taking a three-month hiatus from my status of assistant teacher, I'm back in the world of journalism, working as a reporting intern at the English online newspaper <a href="http://www.thelocal.de/" style="font-style: italic;">The Local</a>.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Fortunately, my start date at the paper coincided with a Germany-wide movement, remembering the 50th anniversary of the construction of the Berlin Wall. This meant right away I was able to cover two extremely interesting stories (In case you missed them, the links are <a href="http://www.thelocal.de/society/20110804-36751.html">here</a> and <a href="http://www.thelocal.de/society/20110810-36855.html">here</a>).</div><div><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9xJrAl_d3pEMLpSDqvVpUXeh1GNf_ijQCNpa68r354R1Aj46xkkYyqvLalOVdmfDnAKwFixT3oBF27jrqVyR3y2RfLpyo-AH2GKhGqWulzUGk1v5DLKL3i0GA393eJ_839lSxnJDvI3ai/s1600/berlinermauer.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9xJrAl_d3pEMLpSDqvVpUXeh1GNf_ijQCNpa68r354R1Aj46xkkYyqvLalOVdmfDnAKwFixT3oBF27jrqVyR3y2RfLpyo-AH2GKhGqWulzUGk1v5DLKL3i0GA393eJ_839lSxnJDvI3ai/s400/berlinermauer.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">East Germany, under the communist Soviet regime, started construction on what would become the Berlin Wall on August 13, 1961. Today, remnants of the wall are found behind their own fences--preserving the barrier as a reminder.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div>At any rate, being back in Berlin has allowed me to experience more in two weeks than I probably did in two months in Wernigerode. Both had their seasons (read <a href="http://thechangingevergreen.blogspot.com/2010/12/steps.html">here</a>), but I'm thrilled to be back up to game speed for the time being.</div><div><br />
Viele Grüße aus Berlin!!!</div></div>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-11968307734991755382011-07-23T04:48:00.000-07:002011-08-01T13:17:07.980-07:00More than a Marathon<div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTZkrT0qDHifIRumso1NMXZjrC8Qsyuek74wO-zxhdwsvi-bpsjmazJO7mxTvtNz-IVGztt0Y9BcPP4aVbDhAKSpbLNdKHVc1PINDV-2DyeOMHwt4KBli3Iv7mMCRGPe_t2LAPj5sH7pLz/s1600/IMG_4183.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTZkrT0qDHifIRumso1NMXZjrC8Qsyuek74wO-zxhdwsvi-bpsjmazJO7mxTvtNz-IVGztt0Y9BcPP4aVbDhAKSpbLNdKHVc1PINDV-2DyeOMHwt4KBli3Iv7mMCRGPe_t2LAPj5sH7pLz/s200/IMG_4183.jpg" width="150" /></a>Over two months remain until the 34<sup>th</sup> annual Harz Gebirgslauf, a traditional running event that’s drawn around 3,000 yearly participants to the Harz National Park every second weekend of October since 1978, but Christiane Schierhorn (55) has already considered which race she’ll participate in this year. For Schierhorn and her husband, Christoph, both long-time residents of Wernigerode, Germany, the question is not of participation—he’s competed in the event all 33 years, she all except for in 1980 and 1983, when she was pregnant with the couple’s two children—but simply selection of the most fitting race for their current life situation.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The location alone would justify the trip and entrance fee for most athletes. With a start edging Hasserode, Wernigerode’s western city component, the 2 km children’s run, the 5 km, the 11 km, the half marathon as well as the 10 and 25 km hiking/Nordic walking competitions foray through woods golden with bright fall leaves, past small forest ponds and, for the longer stretches, up over lookout points offering views of the red-roofed neighboring villages, windmilled farmscape and to northern Germany’s highest point, the Brocken. Especially aspiring athletes can do more than glimpse the Brocken in passing, though. The Brocken Marathon leads participants on a path straight up to the 1,142 m summit (3,743 ft) before curving back down into Wernigerode.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The Schierhorns, however, add another level of personal importance to the race: it was the catalyst that brought the couple back together again, leading to their eventual marriage.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Although Schierhorn had been in the same class with Christoph at Gerhard Hauptmann Gymnasium, one of three grammar schools in Wernigerode, they were only a couple for six months before breaking the relationship and beginning university studies. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In 1978, Schierhorn was home on break from her university in Potsdam and happened to run into Christoph, looking at the large posters advertising the first Harz Gebirgslauf. The premiere event offered three distance categories: 13km, 23km and marathon.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5w8zzUZEr6_xSKnb3AsAh7V9CTfwczZSK65Irg_EFQWjwuHs9m65Q2pVK2ouSQWHSlkpPLrIPJNBmnBnUJi52XkCmNm8mSljISHWxLCtJZqtqtW_prQUcSOMYmGEgemfFoN1v6xpCJqtV/s1600/IMG_0290.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5w8zzUZEr6_xSKnb3AsAh7V9CTfwczZSK65Irg_EFQWjwuHs9m65Q2pVK2ouSQWHSlkpPLrIPJNBmnBnUJi52XkCmNm8mSljISHWxLCtJZqtqtW_prQUcSOMYmGEgemfFoN1v6xpCJqtV/s400/IMG_0290.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Advertising in Wernigerode for the 33rd annual Harz-Gebirgslauf.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">“I knew [Christoph] was very keen to take part in this sports event,” Schierhorn said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She also knew that if she registered herself as well, she would be able to meet him again in Wernigerode that October, something she was extremely keen on. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Today, Schierhorn boasts a slew of athletic achievements, including two marathons and a 90 km cross-country ski race. When she registered for that first 11 km, though, she wasn’t a runner at all.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Motivated by the desire to impress Christoph and to improve her body image, she took her training seriously, running different circles every day in the forest bordering her Potsdam dormitory. At last, she reached a training distance of 8 km.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“If I managed 8 km, I can manage more,” she thought.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Her reasoning proved correct as Schierhorn successfully completed her race, ranking 2<sup>nd</sup> fastest in the women’s division.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“My [now] husband was very proud, and we were a couple again,” she summarized.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The combined draw of romance and race continued to attract the couple, married in July 1980, turning the event into a family tradition. Both of the Schierhorn’s children have also participated in the race, though more infrequently than their parents. Schierhorn always prepares a special cheese and spinach pasta for the Friday night pre-race dinner, and the family celebrates with friends after the race on Saturday, enjoying cake, coffee and tea. Occasionally, they’ve also attended the Harz Gebirgslauf-sponsored “Sportlerparty.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Christoph, who has completed the marathon 6 times and the 11 km 19 times, collects the annual results booklets, carefully highlighting the times of family and friends.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s like a hobby for him—he reads all the results, reads all the names,” Schierhorn explained.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She enjoys the atmosphere, the people and the weather, which, with few exceptions, has almost always been sunny.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-n70pqC_8_MPzID_GrexlR1lAfQaxbJxDEbMEI7upGqKlnKK7UGeVba4uhOl2GrJyUuksdeUciJwMKWgyAH1cbdlwWDyJMR6giyWvyBbLqIDKjxKKyA9F8_UW2vgUley5FsCdJCHu9D2I/s1600/IMG_0192.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-n70pqC_8_MPzID_GrexlR1lAfQaxbJxDEbMEI7upGqKlnKK7UGeVba4uhOl2GrJyUuksdeUciJwMKWgyAH1cbdlwWDyJMR6giyWvyBbLqIDKjxKKyA9F8_UW2vgUley5FsCdJCHu9D2I/s400/IMG_0192.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">October in Wernigerode offers an spectacular array of brightly-colored trees. <br />
Combined with the 4,000+ participants, the beautiful location in the Harz <br />
National Park makes the Harz-Gebirgslauf an ideal friendly athletic event.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s a very nice countryside; it’s important because it’s in my hometown,” she said. “I know a lot of the sportsmen and sportswomen. It’s a little bit like a family.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Christoph received a commemorative prize after his 20<sup>th</sup> and 30<sup>th</sup> consecutive participation, and Schierhorn was titled “Miss Harz Gebirgslauf” in 1998. She continued to push herself athletically, completing the Brocken Marathon in 2001 with a time of 4:31:26, five years after finishing her first marathon in Berlin.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“My dream was to manage [the Brocken Marathon] once in my life,” she said. “It was a perfect day—sunny. I had a perfect view on top of the Brocken, more than 70 km.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At 45, she was also up for the challenge physically.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It was hard, but it was easier than the marathon in Berlin because I was better prepared,” she said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nowadays, the couple both struggles with knee problems, with Schierhorn favoring the walking events in recent years.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Sometimes I think it’s better to do nothing, but it’s a good tradition,” she said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And, maybe, an even better story.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This year’s events will take place on October 10, 2011. For more on the Harz Gebirgslauf, including information about routes and registration, visit the official Web site: <a href="http://www.harz-gebirgslauf.de/HGL/Willkommen.html">http://www.harz-gebirgslauf.de</a></div>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-45140192294516489222011-07-01T05:42:00.000-07:002011-07-01T05:43:57.914-07:00Training Hard<span lang="EN-GB">Somehow, in the course of three years, I have managed to obtain three little pieces of red and white plastic known as the </span>Bahn Card 50. <span lang="EN-GB">Yesterday, I transferred 118 Euros to Deutsche Bahn to pay for my third installment of this handy little card. Although the sum is more than meager (especially for my current budget), I use </span>Germany’s crisscrossed spider web network of railroads so often that the Bahn Card savings more than justify its initial price.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the beginning, though, Bahn Card or not, railway travel caused me excessive anxiety. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I’d been in Germany for a week—Berlin to be exact—when my small student troop was bussed to Bavaria on a whirlwind tour. Wanting to visit friends in Hesse on the way back north, I booked a Friday afternoon train ticket from Nürnberg to Kassel-Wilhelmshöhe. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">At the station, once I had left my group and headed into the narrow, grey corridor to the platforms, my heart started racing. Listening to the sleek Intercity-Express (ICE) trains screech into the station, snaking their white bodies into the narrow track gaps, I contemplated their lengthy expanse, wondering how I’d ever find my assigned wagon and seat. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">On my platform 15 minutes before departure, I almost stopped breathing as a train rushed in—10 minutes too early. I frantically jogged the length of the metal cars, searching for my number. Then I noticed the train’s sign: it was not north-bound. Backing away with my suitcase from my almost trip to Zürich, I realized that the trains were more exactly punctual than I’d imagined. In fact, when I looked up again, having worked through my harried thoughts, the train had already screamed back out of the station.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Seasoned tourists may be laughing by now—surely I knew how to navigate the train system. Sadly, during my pioneer venture with Deutsche Bahn, I neither knew about the billboard-wide train diagram posters, nor could I understand the mumbled announcements alerting travellers to platform changes and train delays. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">So concerned was I about missing my train, I nearly doubled over in panic. Instead of completing the internship I was scheduled to start at a local Berlin newspaper, I was about to become one of its headlines.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Nonetheless, I managed to make it onto my train, not to the seat I’d reserved or even the correct wagon, but I found myself exhaling rapidly in a free window seat, watching the landscape sweeping past and concentrating on slowing my heart rate. Popping in my earbuds, I turned on my iPod and attempted to enjoy the ride.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">About 20 minutes later, the conductor ambled through the wagon, checking passengers’ tickets. Handing him the smaller of my two pieces of shiny machine-printed paper, I didn’t bother to take out my headphones, figuring he’d stamp my ticket and move on. However, he angrily returned my paper, sans stamp, and said something that I didn’t quite catch over my music.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“This isn’t a ticket.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“What!?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Panic attack number two. Opening my wallet and shuffling through my overflowing collection of souvenir tickets and receipts, I looked for my ticket. Finally, I handed him the other piece of shiny paper—the longer match to what I’d given him before—only this time the actual ticket, not my reservation. The conductor punched my ticket, glaring, and lectured me on talking over music before he moved on to the next row. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Cheeks flushed in embarrassment, I huddled back into the corner of my seat, already dreading the Sunday leg of my train journey from Kassel back to Berlin. How was I supposed to know the difference between the reservation and the ticket? This was my first European railway venture, and already train travel was confusing and anxiety-inducing!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Three years of trains turned this novice into a pro, though, and other travellers can also easily avoid the pitfalls I encountered on my first trip.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Finding the assigned wagon and seat, per reservation, doesn’t have to involve a timed-to-the-second sprint along the train (an athletic feat made even more interesting when toting one or more overstuffed--and in my case, broken--suitcases). Large signs located in most main stations detail each train’s layout, according to wagon number and platform section. A leisurely walk to the appropriate section will suffice.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieiJFvJCI-z-qVB3R5LPkznDy1jiWeJAuwFcGH4wPPPqpCHWAY_mNmiJZ1N9B26ZIg_q__80Z5GhOkDvrw94MOcn7fxu-3JcWEpP05VyLdW0k_g_Y5f6pgGIRy9iPBjUfogTWWn1Z4zXbP/s1600/IMG_3811.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieiJFvJCI-z-qVB3R5LPkznDy1jiWeJAuwFcGH4wPPPqpCHWAY_mNmiJZ1N9B26ZIg_q__80Z5GhOkDvrw94MOcn7fxu-3JcWEpP05VyLdW0k_g_Y5f6pgGIRy9iPBjUfogTWWn1Z4zXbP/s400/IMG_3811.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Learning to decipher diagrams and signs, such as the ones above in Hamburg central station, will help travelers minimize stress and decide where to stand on the platform while waiting for German trains.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">If, however, penny pinching is more important than paying the small fee for an allocated seat, considering the time of day and date of travel might be wise. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">In December, for example, I substituted my travel bag as a portable chair—crammed between purses, ski bags, Christmas gifts and the other 20 people lodged in the entry area of the ICE train. Railway demand was so hefty that day, Deutsche Bahn eventually kicked seatless passengers off the train, requiring us to wait for replacement transportation due sometime after the other train resumed its journey.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">For solo forays, I often prefer to afford flexibility rather than a reservation, but I’ve also landed seats on the stairs leading up from the closed train doors, and on the floor in front of the bathroom—not the best way to enjoy the pricey ticket or the continuously-changing panorama outside the speeding train.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Identifying travel documents (i.e. ticket, reservation, itinerary) at the station and keeping them handy the first few minutes of the trip will also prevent skirmishes with train personnel. When in doubt, hand over everything to the ticket-stamper—he or she knows exactly which paper is needed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Even though I'll probably spend this July mostly at home in Wernigerode, train travel will undoubtably continue to provide convenient connections for future excursions in the next year, especially now that I've eliminated much of the stress of climbing aboard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-72335619663531061922011-05-28T15:06:00.000-07:002011-05-29T07:24:37.525-07:00My Second Time (on the Brocken)<div style="text-align: left;">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;">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. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;">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.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;">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. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;">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. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;">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.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQvAQB9x0V1wmiLHwNjdMYLePTGF7XlZX4AnR4YdE2c3Lc5pPb4ES1z5Q9Qkn4LrKda1pBK9ieX-pniDl1AGpacphQ7tiUik58FORVSUhizOYbo6MxfLpy0jy4x6fXCKAtrw3jV0-iFgqr/s1600/IMG_2452.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQvAQB9x0V1wmiLHwNjdMYLePTGF7XlZX4AnR4YdE2c3Lc5pPb4ES1z5Q9Qkn4LrKda1pBK9ieX-pniDl1AGpacphQ7tiUik58FORVSUhizOYbo6MxfLpy0jy4x6fXCKAtrw3jV0-iFgqr/s200/IMG_2452.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">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. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;">Already the sky was turning golden, and early morning airplanes streaked salmon fire, long glowing strokes slashing through endless expanse. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;">Finally, I hit the pavement: 100 meters to the summit. <a href="http://thechangingevergreen.blogspot.com/2010/10/my-first-time-on-brocken.html">The last time I walked this stretch of asphalt</a>, 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.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;">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. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;">I caught my breath as I stared at the blazing sun, red orb hovering under luminous layers of golden, pulling up the deep purples. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUkezTvj2cmGfZPoh0pLxEXBfhaEVzfcJeSiLTRU-8wc-v_dHsPJUKtOWT1nR4MpHfVFjTQa6_myicfx2L4nNeQkJRmueHuEtF7HDZQwAyTPaVTvZonac_tSGvvuGbzqNmn3AtuMrZuBYp/s1600/IMG_2456.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUkezTvj2cmGfZPoh0pLxEXBfhaEVzfcJeSiLTRU-8wc-v_dHsPJUKtOWT1nR4MpHfVFjTQa6_myicfx2L4nNeQkJRmueHuEtF7HDZQwAyTPaVTvZonac_tSGvvuGbzqNmn3AtuMrZuBYp/s400/IMG_2456.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;">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.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSVR_aw1eVwqSK-Ld0fzshDqgD6ynMGM16ZIh-eAuMCksJTMK5GVzEO1TOCMTRkf9pDog0uKvcwKbBGyh_Z1o2_oSO6KuJ1u3ROD18LBdswynCkP2nc5m2KARFeY3ABk3_1qArcNjNMEVo/s1600/IMG_2470.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSVR_aw1eVwqSK-Ld0fzshDqgD6ynMGM16ZIh-eAuMCksJTMK5GVzEO1TOCMTRkf9pDog0uKvcwKbBGyh_Z1o2_oSO6KuJ1u3ROD18LBdswynCkP2nc5m2KARFeY3ABk3_1qArcNjNMEVo/s400/IMG_2470.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuZbaJrdHFBbudbNNMZTTA68weymAYf3iYo4u-_4dwM-xE7u_ahZAl_gm6Bw4CLpTskJsGxCHcuoC0B79R3N8A1hxapVJWweSRHuXlhfgqTKlDm6wvke8xhkweYRk7ip6xPc3mGzHiV7sK/s1600/IMG_2483.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuZbaJrdHFBbudbNNMZTTA68weymAYf3iYo4u-_4dwM-xE7u_ahZAl_gm6Bw4CLpTskJsGxCHcuoC0B79R3N8A1hxapVJWweSRHuXlhfgqTKlDm6wvke8xhkweYRk7ip6xPc3mGzHiV7sK/s400/IMG_2483.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Sunrise on the Brocken, northern Germany's highest point.<br />
May 24, 2011</span></span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBvro52fn-q5aZl8YiFiwCuxL9QVl5NqAuYunnrEL3taRRpmxHXd83FQ71VEPNvtR1Qc1t8Dn1GbXcyQHe4mRiSCyc-cISP46sIjmOdKPXYUOMuhbcNOubKX8cHq-0c8L2MJtWIWKJjhWx/s1600/IMG_2465.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBvro52fn-q5aZl8YiFiwCuxL9QVl5NqAuYunnrEL3taRRpmxHXd83FQ71VEPNvtR1Qc1t8Dn1GbXcyQHe4mRiSCyc-cISP46sIjmOdKPXYUOMuhbcNOubKX8cHq-0c8L2MJtWIWKJjhWx/s200/IMG_2465.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;">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.</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">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. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">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.</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtpqvlxv_Qa4wP3atwgL-N4zOgpYTrf0FvExeqilRNOuXHToVekH_eybAf8U0fy-hnmv2tbK-xNwvENqw83JG94BIg8d6UlIXil1Q65ljfDHsxgHecAs9Hjuj4FX-YS8W6ToJTQS2P92vC/s1600/IMG_2495.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtpqvlxv_Qa4wP3atwgL-N4zOgpYTrf0FvExeqilRNOuXHToVekH_eybAf8U0fy-hnmv2tbK-xNwvENqw83JG94BIg8d6UlIXil1Q65ljfDHsxgHecAs9Hjuj4FX-YS8W6ToJTQS2P92vC/s200/IMG_2495.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">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. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Taking <a href="http://thechangingevergreen.blogspot.com/2010/10/my-first-time-on-brocken.html">the trail I knew from fall</a>, we picked our way down the bouldered hillside, the enormous rocks presenting more of a challenge for me this time around.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjQN5nJi3ojwqfyX3313YriwSQppcES6msjA17sMO1VGvx6Rr8kw2qzzBtt_clfbDgt6OL-t1mf3i0H6KuNqOk3RWJgjtUbRODQldFmN2iyhxx7ssHORb114ffpbC96e795zX7Fmwk8UcP/s1600/IMG_2507.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjQN5nJi3ojwqfyX3313YriwSQppcES6msjA17sMO1VGvx6Rr8kw2qzzBtt_clfbDgt6OL-t1mf3i0H6KuNqOk3RWJgjtUbRODQldFmN2iyhxx7ssHORb114ffpbC96e795zX7Fmwk8UcP/s200/IMG_2507.jpg" width="150" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal">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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Welcoming the morning, watching the sunrise—it was worth the work.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOc2SHN0M5xh_fbNkOC2ZQIKfhFXj4FAzdmFlaMbo4mljBYHzLzygs8UjeWhIOTFxXeSzIqvF2wOYFgOavnOeTfxjd75k450bNM9aBP_rRtvA6JNSWz33aGMDGJ0-Py12B21CoBKeo6NYQ/s1600/IMG_2471.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOc2SHN0M5xh_fbNkOC2ZQIKfhFXj4FAzdmFlaMbo4mljBYHzLzygs8UjeWhIOTFxXeSzIqvF2wOYFgOavnOeTfxjd75k450bNM9aBP_rRtvA6JNSWz33aGMDGJ0-Py12B21CoBKeo6NYQ/s400/IMG_2471.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-64849727824525777862011-05-14T02:34:00.000-07:002011-06-30T06:55:48.328-07:00Being 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.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW7PXN4uOOcbki8tBvBHGJbJCeGIzwaPkz1wfds0-bR9eJv6gMp5UOpFdxIYUg3kScU4P2vrF2f4CPM0OOzkrw4r_LN9v65BQc4LQJKzEROqPy3bj-JENUtWOUVwm_J9BARZ3Wyk544Rmk/s1600/IMG_0209.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW7PXN4uOOcbki8tBvBHGJbJCeGIzwaPkz1wfds0-bR9eJv6gMp5UOpFdxIYUg3kScU4P2vrF2f4CPM0OOzkrw4r_LN9v65BQc4LQJKzEROqPy3bj-JENUtWOUVwm_J9BARZ3Wyk544Rmk/s200/IMG_0209.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Side view of the school,<br />
conveniently located on<br />
Johann-Sebastian-Bach Str.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>…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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;">…being mobbed every day in the school courtyard by cute little 5<sup>th</sup> graders who have a million questions . Did I mention they’re absolutely adorable? It warms my heart.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;">…walking to get ice cream in the city at night with two tenth graders while I quiz them on characterizations for their upcoming test.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;">…spending Friday afternoons drinking tea and reading my favorite teen books with an especially advanced student.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;">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<sup>th</sup> grader. (Can AMERICAN 7<sup>th</sup> 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. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSCWwJN-AQPN-5Y99kM8OCzg3xYnx-mgJDeO2AGhwOYtGG0-TZ7VtdjsV474ToJPwkfRKkZLOF59zKRtJI1QgKroNj5sp9XfuCYBPHV_PTIHjbhn7yvZ7yz-exM3hzHut8dqmjdTXW_jQv/s1600/IMG_0210.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSCWwJN-AQPN-5Y99kM8OCzg3xYnx-mgJDeO2AGhwOYtGG0-TZ7VtdjsV474ToJPwkfRKkZLOF59zKRtJI1QgKroNj5sp9XfuCYBPHV_PTIHjbhn7yvZ7yz-exM3hzHut8dqmjdTXW_jQv/s320/IMG_0210.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Landesgymnasium für Musik in Wernigerode, Germany--<br />
the school, where I spend my "teaching hours" each week.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;">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…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;">…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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;">…getting sick innumerable numbers of time and spending whole weekends in bed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;">…being frustrated and confused by cultural differences.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;">…feeling small and lonely.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaflsruiettkyXB2L_yHJVZZ8ZTsgP6VkWyxgmv97m77LmQ80QDOsmO6Aetpx6Wa_hcp6o64PSwl0qVAzPG816DccBFbuunjG6T9OxF0mR38i5BKO6k6A34sOcAqGpBY-kip5uea9hD5E9/s1600/IMG_0214.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaflsruiettkyXB2L_yHJVZZ8ZTsgP6VkWyxgmv97m77LmQ80QDOsmO6Aetpx6Wa_hcp6o64PSwl0qVAzPG816DccBFbuunjG6T9OxF0mR38i5BKO6k6A34sOcAqGpBY-kip5uea9hD5E9/s200/IMG_0214.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A random sculpture found<br />
while wandering in Werni.<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>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. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 300.65pt;">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.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGoKUyVo3aTGnkBrHbetUX2QEL5PFKEw_bcOG2Oia0Q2x7gUoudlbe9rxWpKN9F8Qn_o8at-8aungpggGWbxBbTPpBHs00qPpLtjrQIkq1hFHRv5Hg0BpDrQQwE9Nccj_lxmv6ntgDKY8o/s1600/IMG_0081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGoKUyVo3aTGnkBrHbetUX2QEL5PFKEw_bcOG2Oia0Q2x7gUoudlbe9rxWpKN9F8Qn_o8at-8aungpggGWbxBbTPpBHs00qPpLtjrQIkq1hFHRv5Hg0BpDrQQwE9Nccj_lxmv6ntgDKY8o/s400/IMG_0081.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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!</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-30120109306891129632011-05-01T09:56:00.000-07:002011-05-01T10:03:57.263-07:00A Loss of Expectations<div class="MsoNormal">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.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilkIMC-Zjg6uadcyMMjmUkgy21eWlhwd9S95yvH1fbd60O5CKQwZrcyaaz0ZOzXu4cTeUVeh5dRbyAC1xNqZaKbIzg7zmXyfcMNqfL5mMajkgq6EM4Sx1Z-Ppx0O2rv6lqXZR9JS3FcqMg/s1600/100_4677.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilkIMC-Zjg6uadcyMMjmUkgy21eWlhwd9S95yvH1fbd60O5CKQwZrcyaaz0ZOzXu4cTeUVeh5dRbyAC1xNqZaKbIzg7zmXyfcMNqfL5mMajkgq6EM4Sx1Z-Ppx0O2rv6lqXZR9JS3FcqMg/s320/100_4677.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEA0tTtQlpsMGU7eAaA7usAaqj3bGWLgQ3KGu9D3xt87709aqA93QxYcuutWa-AwMP84sBcVZsu6S8JnWz-n34gWzKP_jsZS3ML03m4Kfgohzh_Ocz3gHBAp3J2G9OO34EuSOLeXJrtwiH/s1600/IMG_1886.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEA0tTtQlpsMGU7eAaA7usAaqj3bGWLgQ3KGu9D3xt87709aqA93QxYcuutWa-AwMP84sBcVZsu6S8JnWz-n34gWzKP_jsZS3ML03m4Kfgohzh_Ocz3gHBAp3J2G9OO34EuSOLeXJrtwiH/s200/IMG_1886.JPG" width="200" /></a>Another case of surprise was my recent trip to Switzerland. Unlike <a href="http://thechangingevergreen.blogspot.com/2011/02/lisbon-is-our-greece.html">Lisbon</a>, 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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg74trH0RHS_8RYs7NIrLnQLGmzduOnibJ-P3HJao8AJ3CNyMLKatNHXnxSIqBcHZC5JVjT-UuPSmKMm7jSIQLtVYwKc-FyHyDenULRp1P_s8BIAYoGxYrxbkbgh8bzhObnhU8MTI2VE7Y2/s1600/IMG_1931.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg74trH0RHS_8RYs7NIrLnQLGmzduOnibJ-P3HJao8AJ3CNyMLKatNHXnxSIqBcHZC5JVjT-UuPSmKMm7jSIQLtVYwKc-FyHyDenULRp1P_s8BIAYoGxYrxbkbgh8bzhObnhU8MTI2VE7Y2/s200/IMG_1931.JPG" width="200" /></a>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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIfdDXCMU_WRcMmUeUmaqI9qfYPynrHpF4pePEZjYsuP2rgdjLMqWt0HAQA_YOzOCKckFKhz_pWDs2kyLnfkTFrXCx7XdVePXN7tIM6k4HRmd1p4ajy7n6I4YeWe_01BrvLHQ4sOqPRD4e/s1600/IMG_2090.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIfdDXCMU_WRcMmUeUmaqI9qfYPynrHpF4pePEZjYsuP2rgdjLMqWt0HAQA_YOzOCKckFKhz_pWDs2kyLnfkTFrXCx7XdVePXN7tIM6k4HRmd1p4ajy7n6I4YeWe_01BrvLHQ4sOqPRD4e/s200/IMG_2090.JPG" width="200" /></a>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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p>***</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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<sup>th</sup> grade lesson planned with my friend Jordan to compare American and British English—LIVE—was postponed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Happy May Day 2011.</div>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-28783599244513972512011-03-19T04:18:00.001-07:002011-03-19T04:20:10.632-07:00Fresh Air, If You Please<div class="MsoNormal">When I was preparing to move to Germany, a friend told me about the wonder of German windows: they open two ways. Indeed, upon moving in to my first apartment, I immediately received a lesson on this technology. Actually opening the windows means swinging the large glass panes inward; with a turn of the handle, though, the windows can also be tilted at vertical slant—a process known as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kippen</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Most German houses do not have air conditioning. For this reason, the heat is very dry inside of the houses—when they actually use the heat, that is. Apparently it’s not healthy to sleep with the knob cranked up to 5 (the highest setting in my apartment), so before bed, the heat is always drastically reduced. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What the Germans also consider unhealthy, though, is a lack a fresh air. When Germans walk into a room, they immediately comment on the air quality. If that remark includes the words <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dicke Luft</i> (thick air), I’ve learned to prepare for an imminent wave of the outdoors to come rushing through a fully opened window.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Quite remarkably, this phenomenon actually has a name: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lüften</i>. Verb. The act of opening the windows in a house or room for a minimal period of 10 to 20 minutes per day to ensure the circulation of clean, healthy fresh air.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the summer, I never noticed the degree to which the Germans honor this rule. Naturally, I welcomed wind wafting through open windows when the sun beat down relentlessly from a clear blue sky. On warm autumn afternoons, slight breezes trickling through the room, ruffling sheets and calendar pages, also created a comfortable atmosphere. However, as the temperatures started dropping into numbers below freezing and the sun entered its winter hibernation, I wasn’t prepared to keep opening—or even tilting—my windows everyday.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lüften</i>, though, is a habit especially noticeable at the school where I work. Students (and, thus, teachers) are not allowed to wear the coats inside the classroom. Nonetheless, after every class period, the teachers crank open the windows to eliminate the “stickiness” from the previous group of adolescents. I, unfortunately, generally enter the classroom about this time—sans coat—and spend the next 20 minutes shivering while I arrange my papers and books for the upcoming lesson.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In fact, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lüften</i> has even been mentioned in pre-teaching announcements. During one class, the teacher vehemently reminded the students to at least tilt open their windows for the required time allotment every day. This practice, she continued, would help ensure continued health through the long, cold winter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Maybe it’s just me, but this so-called wisdom seems to refute every ounce of common sense I posses. Who in their right mind would open their windows—and leave them open—when the ground is piled with a foot of snow and the air temperature hasn’t risen above 10 degrees in over a week?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, I like fresh air as much as the next person—on the way from my house to my car and from my car into whatever building I may be entering. But before I came to Germany, I never thought letting a wave of arctic air into my living quarters was a good idea.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lüften</i>, however, is contagious behavior. Over the last months, I’ve started to cultivate a dog-like sense of smell. Upon entering a room, I start sniffing around, examining the air quality and determining which window needs to be cracked. As soon as I sense the air has been stagnant too long, I fling open a window, or two, or three, desperately lapping up the fresh air. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No matter if it’s cold outside—I have acquired a pile of blankets, a hot water bottle and a teapot that can provide an endless supply of warm beverages. Huddled under a pile of comforters, wearing two sweaters, and sipping steaming tea, I’ve endured many icy 20-minute air-cleansing sessions in my small flat. This, though, is much better than the alternative.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If, for some reason, I neglect to let the prescribed daily amount of fresh air into my room and leave the heat turned on a tad too high, I lie in bed at night with my lights off, panting and imagining myself suffocating from the stifling air. The temporary solution is to drape a soaking washcloth over the freestanding heater grate, all the while making a mental note to throw open my windows first thing the next morning.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Eventually, though, I suspect I, too, will fully succumb to the curious, OCD-like behavior of strictly regulating the air flow in my house—even in the middle of a snowstorm—and consider the habit of properly opening my windows for 10 minutes every day as essential as brushing my teeth. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go crack my window—the air’s been sitting still just a tad too long.</div>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-2000471313622730802011-02-19T13:57:00.000-08:002011-02-19T14:25:47.707-08:00"Lisbon is our Greece"Five months after arriving in Germany, I packed a bag, tucked my passport into my purse and headed for the airport. However, instead of flying home, a friend and I decided to ditch Germany for sunnier skies elsewhere in the European Union.<br />
<br />
Initially, we'd wanted to go to Greece. The stories, history, architecture and sunny beaches we'd heard about appealed to us even before the long, cold German winter set in. Then Nessa went to the travel agency and received bad news: Greece is miserable in February.<br />
<br />
Trying to <s>cinch a business deal</s> be helpful, the travel agent suggested either Lisbon, Portugal, or a city in southern Spain. To be honest, I wasn't entirely thrilled with either choice. Greece was on my "to visit" list for the year, and I'd never had even the slightest inclination to visit the most western members of the Continent. Besides that, I'd apparently never studied Portugal in history, picturing something akin to a remote tropical jungle. <i>What would we do in Lisbon</i>, I wondered?<br />
<br />
Fast forward a few weeks. I was visiting some of my German friends and mentioned Lisbon as a pending option for winter break. Their response surprised me. Phrases like "a beautiful old European city" contrasted sharply with my initial image. When I visited Nessa a short while later, we looked up some pictures online. Needless to say, the "jungle" quickly replaced itself with castles, cathedrals and coastline. About 10 minutes into our research, we were both hooked. She set up another appointment at the travel agency and booked our trip.<br />
<br />
European travel, though, has been a bit of a learning curve for me. I should have realized this a few years ago when I accompanied a German to New York, but the difference eluded me then. Maybe it's because camping vacations, visits to relatives and weeks at the Oregon coast comprised my childhood vacations--you don't necessarily have to pack tons of sightseeing into days centered around hiking or crafting or reading or fishing. Nonetheless, when you visit a place where there are important historical sights, the rule of the game is simple: planning, planning, planning (and don't forget good walking shoes).<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Anyways, I missed the message my first time in New York and barely salvaged a week in Vienna two years ago; San Francisco last summer was a little better; however, this time, I began serious planning well in advance. German style.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 0.5em; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Ub630_rJlnE8F4k5RJ18MhglkBy-uHr5PMB4lOdd9UfSjOjPJIJcoX7ZmUkdhHGH_yRYacKi7pml7_bV4L_DRCVX62nrnW_Ruiw_iof3-_1KFsunL4DpnoE92asx1aNsyJ7nO542990r/s1600/IMG_1653.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Ub630_rJlnE8F4k5RJ18MhglkBy-uHr5PMB4lOdd9UfSjOjPJIJcoX7ZmUkdhHGH_yRYacKi7pml7_bV4L_DRCVX62nrnW_Ruiw_iof3-_1KFsunL4DpnoE92asx1aNsyJ7nO542990r/s320/IMG_1653.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Perusing the local library's resources <br />
proves an affordable way for the initial <br />
planning and research. Even slightly <br />
outdated travel guides can offer a good<br />
jumping off point for those interested <br />
in first-time visits to a foreign city.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The public library offered me two travel guides on Lisbon as well as a compact German-Portugeuse dictionary. I soon fell into an evening routine of googling "Lisbon," "travel," "things to do" or combinations of all three. The weekend before our trip, I was thrilled when <i>The New York Times</i> ran its signature "<a href="http://travel.nytimes.com/2011/01/30/travel/30hours-lisbon.html">36 hours</a>" travel piece on Lisbon. That's what I call perfect timing.<br />
<br />
Forty minutes before our airport-bound train rolled out of the station en route to Lisbon, I was drinking coffee in a bookstore in Leipzig Hauptbahnhof, leafing through their collection of travel guides--just in case I'd missed something. Up until the moment of departure, I invested myself fully in the mission of finding everything important to see, do and eat in Lisbon and the surrounding areas.<br />
<br />
By the time we finally flew out of Leipzig, I not only knew Lisbon was definitely not a jungle, but I had also quenched my reservations about how we'd fill our time. In fact, I actually was wondering how we'd manage to fit it all in!<br />
<br />
Nonetheless, if planning is the strategy for traveling well, flexibility is the key for winning the game. If you can perfect the flexibility technique, the final scoreboard will result in the most rewarding component of travel: discovery.<br />
<br />
Despite its inherent importance, no amount of planning can predict what will actually happen when you arrive on location, especially if it's at 5 p.m., your body thinks it's 6 p.m., and all the restaurants happen to be closed until dinner starts at 7 p.m. Welcome to Lisbon.<br />
<br />
Before the trip, I'd read snippets about tipping, about drinking the water, about navigating the city--but somehow, I'd forgotten to find out about the city itself: its timetable, its history and its people. Realizing the challenge, but determined to push forward, we reviewed our game plan.<br />
<br />
In our case, planning meant having a hotel and knowing the bus line to take us there from the airport. Flexibility meant wandering through the city, starving, until we found a grocery store that sold the best bananas of our lives. Combined with some crackers and cheese we bought to ward off the hunger pains until we could patronize the pizzeria next to our hotel, we kept walking toward the water, hoping for something to pop up.<br />
<br />
Suddenly rounding a corner, we stumbled into a gorgeous, three-sided square--a huge arch fabulously lit up in subtle tones of pink, framing an impressive statue of a horseman, stunning in shades of green. The best part? The fourth side of the square segued seamlessly into the darkening waves of the Tagus River, stretching lazily along the city's edge, interlaced with bridges, spotted with ferries toting passengers to the shores beyond, where long rows of bright lights beckoned, crowned by a figure with outstretched arms flooded by spotlights and towering above the opposite river's edge.<br />
<br />
Stunned by the sight, we went to the stone wall along the river, claimed two seats and sat down, enjoying the view, no longer worried about our delayed dinner. Our flexibility had been rewarded. Discovery complete.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsAv5Fs9DVRRt04y2LTqrxY9v0QL-EAfjnoj7HNLNG1qsXRKtzz5LiPBjAtpVF41fa4Ex2cIvguheMj2diefiJfek67uyPWSaFJJdlUUqMqz6Hg_s9i0KIRaYpVXbPcCRYYolzmSpd7kHR/s1600/IMG_1073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsAv5Fs9DVRRt04y2LTqrxY9v0QL-EAfjnoj7HNLNG1qsXRKtzz5LiPBjAtpVF41fa4Ex2cIvguheMj2diefiJfek67uyPWSaFJJdlUUqMqz6Hg_s9i0KIRaYpVXbPcCRYYolzmSpd7kHR/s400/IMG_1073.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The statue in the middle of Terreiro do Paco (literally "the dirt square"), recently renamed Comercio Square, was the first monument in Portugal to represent someone still living at the time, in this case, a celebration of King Jose I and the successful reconstruction of Lisbon after the devastating earthquake in 1755.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-86957972890158006892010-12-12T14:57:00.000-08:002010-12-12T14:57:15.694-08:00Steps"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.<br />
<br />
"There isn't anybody out today because of the cold," the Grandpa explained. "They're all inside their houses sleeping."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
They stood before the opening bus door.<br />
<br />
"Ok, one big step!"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I had. Only the ordinariness of the idea caught me off guard.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdF1U8Hxbx2LgiJYRRnIHCGKc3WI48RAGrfqtYYd2pS9XRmPsJ2-JbgwwbFTGCapY_g9PFl52hksv9pYTNuT8gLmE7vUyWzykzC0qHbb6QXxyXOIAeerkj72w3aJ0BW03HHWFHhrbBBwi/s1600/IMG_0732.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdF1U8Hxbx2LgiJYRRnIHCGKc3WI48RAGrfqtYYd2pS9XRmPsJ2-JbgwwbFTGCapY_g9PFl52hksv9pYTNuT8gLmE7vUyWzykzC0qHbb6QXxyXOIAeerkj72w3aJ0BW03HHWFHhrbBBwi/s320/IMG_0732.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-6962479254568800632010-11-09T06:00:00.000-08:002010-11-09T06:10:16.277-08:00Choir Concerts and Frisbee-Colored ChaosI 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.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times;">Catch. Release. Repeat.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times;">Visit the following links for more information about </span><a href="http://www.landesgymnasium.de/"><span style="color: #0400f0; font-family: Times;">Landesgymnasium</span></a><span style="font-family: Times;"> and to hear a sample of the choir's work: </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ztY9axePaMc"><span style="color: #0400f0; font-family: Times;">Evening Rise</span></a><span style="font-family: Times;">.</span></div>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-71925073061292276682010-10-28T04:19:00.000-07:002010-10-28T04:19:18.308-07:00An American Afternoon in LeipzigIt had been a stressful morning.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
Great.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
And the recorder sitting behind glass panels had been her dream as a teenage Michael Jackson fanatic.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5CEekIFnyeczNyyysQ94VSWeop6x_cQFWq9E1a6razqWqWCyX2I0sta3QDL7SrG_9aSfrFRP6VE45nXZzBYadnxmiFTFsTRVK7yJ0iSfpLG6Tb1UO7WZevgoiXJ04J0q61l-NpYriNber/s1600/IMG_0115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5CEekIFnyeczNyyysQ94VSWeop6x_cQFWq9E1a6razqWqWCyX2I0sta3QDL7SrG_9aSfrFRP6VE45nXZzBYadnxmiFTFsTRVK7yJ0iSfpLG6Tb1UO7WZevgoiXJ04J0q61l-NpYriNber/s320/IMG_0115.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sipping Starbucks in a sunny park outside of Leipzig Hauptbahnhof.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-13817177205479035072010-10-19T02:36:00.000-07:002011-05-14T03:06:16.120-07:00My First Time (on the Brocken)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJB_ad50WCOulu3eVDU8yLuit_hqldBwSHc9ofTFW2Wj8KqviwjR1S5XDI-jH08ShLCc9exxPuqBm1F-AtM26UA6bCuNlAHXyhnsM8CRcdI1Stdt5TsakUpgvXfsaG68ZA74hAgr9fo1br/s1600/Blog+Picture+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJB_ad50WCOulu3eVDU8yLuit_hqldBwSHc9ofTFW2Wj8KqviwjR1S5XDI-jH08ShLCc9exxPuqBm1F-AtM26UA6bCuNlAHXyhnsM8CRcdI1Stdt5TsakUpgvXfsaG68ZA74hAgr9fo1br/s200/Blog+Picture+2.jpg" width="150" /></a>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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTAGpBb16jZNn8Oz14dK1DmhAtFbJLIuGeirGywDzRl6JoZ2zScUYYyNukExGgZNw5arwQXAqa1jBqVjEeYK-Vr6lYEWUA_UI0HIijw93RTGVSAX4VkP_-idL9Nvd4xKkHrhsCojapovct/s1600/Blog+Picture+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTAGpBb16jZNn8Oz14dK1DmhAtFbJLIuGeirGywDzRl6JoZ2zScUYYyNukExGgZNw5arwQXAqa1jBqVjEeYK-Vr6lYEWUA_UI0HIijw93RTGVSAX4VkP_-idL9Nvd4xKkHrhsCojapovct/s1600/Blog+Picture+3.jpg" /></a>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 ''<a href="http://www.brocken-benno.de/">Brocken Benno</a>'' 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Snippets of German literature popped into my thoughts: from Goethe's <i>Erlkönig</i>, 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.<i> </i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixQevA7x5P97-LeP7JPovGShLeyjLlzYn7ePn1hI1q5nze1hwA-PNAXwm2M7iQTJLZzwxB5vYrK-GWqnh_RVhPuCi5kDImZAUo1fs7Qulb0YatPG1aIameHCXxxvvUzhdF-qiBchZCjK5y/s1600/Blog+Picture+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixQevA7x5P97-LeP7JPovGShLeyjLlzYn7ePn1hI1q5nze1hwA-PNAXwm2M7iQTJLZzwxB5vYrK-GWqnh_RVhPuCi5kDImZAUo1fs7Qulb0YatPG1aIameHCXxxvvUzhdF-qiBchZCjK5y/s1600/Blog+Picture+4.jpg" /></a>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.<i> </i>We read signs as we passed them, their frames and words only visible a few inches in front of our faces.<br />
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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.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>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. <br />
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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.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Zvg_w9EL1MmbQzo1TwuxLpAWZLcB8Ycx0LoCOXrk0QCwTIpzYYFxNuc97XWlY82vhuQZc_7n8sSOQSq0d6-jg8YiayiCMoG8djri4MCTT-4hZ_Pa08rvoG6Xh5OS6VMVGgjDPS2QYYYO/s1600/Blog+Picture+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Zvg_w9EL1MmbQzo1TwuxLpAWZLcB8Ycx0LoCOXrk0QCwTIpzYYFxNuc97XWlY82vhuQZc_7n8sSOQSq0d6-jg8YiayiCMoG8djri4MCTT-4hZ_Pa08rvoG6Xh5OS6VMVGgjDPS2QYYYO/s320/Blog+Picture+1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1492005375558353245.post-54263430098086682112010-10-11T02:43:00.000-07:002010-10-11T11:28:28.594-07:00Welcome to WernigerodeSitting 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.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPptfamppy1GGsrhaXCs1ZyJcKTk_3_kFgLwRpTrHU2O8sFMXi_boyB4cR5VACApVZi-BNZrAz4IZaZ1eaI2er4LQ5zHrqtFT6jALhQSn0V_rOaA41HlJxBhtlgiz-hWPST_chVtBrsF7K/s1600/IMG_0070.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPptfamppy1GGsrhaXCs1ZyJcKTk_3_kFgLwRpTrHU2O8sFMXi_boyB4cR5VACApVZi-BNZrAz4IZaZ1eaI2er4LQ5zHrqtFT6jALhQSn0V_rOaA41HlJxBhtlgiz-hWPST_chVtBrsF7K/s320/IMG_0070.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wernigerode, Saxony-Anhalt, is known as "the colorful town in the Harz," a designation recognizing <br />
its traditional half-timbered houses and its location on the border of the Harz Mountains.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd0lfSEd8uZa9ezlt3G1bXXXvj07FOggBwbO7z3Pf_O1do91scebQydo2gngi781XHT7h0ezd2jWhhLEAXl7o-6QgxlJWbWbx6wa_cypRxY9_jVZB5Q-ZMg1YGwisvpKBhOe04MVzLLTO3/s1600/IMG_0082.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd0lfSEd8uZa9ezlt3G1bXXXvj07FOggBwbO7z3Pf_O1do91scebQydo2gngi781XHT7h0ezd2jWhhLEAXl7o-6QgxlJWbWbx6wa_cypRxY9_jVZB5Q-ZMg1YGwisvpKBhOe04MVzLLTO3/s320/IMG_0082.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4kdDDmZ9HNCg-8Cn-fERd1XJYLlsrN3TlM5vl-K6tM9tuc0G5m9KvyMdrTKNv0_-EffJ9kzRdiudNNa7nyFf4qRwQDSRIcqzHiKRpIJbj7zhUoM1YsJM8aCagkkjDtZh_J4_jiYWLIYwk/s1600/IMG_0265.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4kdDDmZ9HNCg-8Cn-fERd1XJYLlsrN3TlM5vl-K6tM9tuc0G5m9KvyMdrTKNv0_-EffJ9kzRdiudNNa7nyFf4qRwQDSRIcqzHiKRpIJbj7zhUoM1YsJM8aCagkkjDtZh_J4_jiYWLIYwk/s320/IMG_0265.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Erin Hugginshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07494575889991242669noreply@blogger.com0