A Tale of Two Cities: Berlin and Rome

Falling in Love and Saying Goodbye

Berlin was the last city that captured my heart.

Berlin's beauty may not be traditional,
but it's there for those who take the time to
seek it out -- sometimes in unusual places
but always ready to surprise and delight.

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?

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 Eis, a delicacy akin to American ice cream, but much better.

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.

Then I met Rome.

Seeing the Colosseum in real life was a highlight of my few hours in Rome,
although next time I'll need to factor in enough time to explore its interior as well.

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.

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.

My first gelato: pure bliss.

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.

Trevi Fountain: throw a coin
into the turquoise basin and
it's rumored you'll return to
Rome someday. Yes, please!

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.

Right. There. Forever.

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.

My silly grin, it stayed until I boarded the Leonardo airport express train, heading for my transfer to TBU (Travel Bloggers Unite). 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. 

Wandering streets like this in Rome made my heart so happy:
the crumbling yellows were sunshine to my eyes, everywhere I looked.

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 Café Ambulanz 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.

I <3 Berlin.
Especially this view taken from the relatively new Humbolt Box, a modern piece of architecture
temporarily holding space on the Berlin skyline while the old city palace is being rebuilt.
In the picture: the TV Tower and the "Red City Hall."

Yes, those three months were when I fell in love with Berlin, each return visit a reminder of the best days past. But the biggest difference between Berlin and Rome 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. 

Walking along the Spree River behind the Eastside Gallery, one of my
 favorite places to spend a sunny afternoon in Berlin.

Dreaming in French: Why I Want to Revisit Paris

                                         or

Why I want to "Go With Oh" to Paris

The deadline for the “Go With Oh” 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: the story of a trip that was and the dream of a trip to be…


Je veux aller á Paris parce que j’adore française.

Last summer, I met the renowned City of Light for the first time; however, she must have been asleep.

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.

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:

“See, l’Arc de Triomphe…”

“See, le Muéee d’Orsay…”

“See, la Tour Eiffel…”

Grey on Grey: Tourists crowd in front of the Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris on a dreary June day.  

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.

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.

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.

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 A Moveable Feast. 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.

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.

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.

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 Merci’s and building the foundations of language use.

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.

My 5-point wish list for Paris

1. Breakfast in a different bakery every day to sample Pain au Chocolat. 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 Le Grenier à pain, winners of the 2011 and 2010 best baguette award, respectively).
2. 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 Marché Bastille in the 11^th 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.
3. A visit to Paris wouldn’t be complete without taking in some art. Since the impressionist painters always interested me the most, the Musée d’Orsay 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.
4. During my stay, I plan to sample the famous Parisian dish Duck Confit, perhaps at Bouillon Chartier, a historical and tastefully decorated French brasserie with reasonable prices and typical everyday French cuisine.
5. 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 Skip the Line Sunset Eiffel Tower Tour 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.

Wet but determined, my mom and I used our 15-minute stop at the Eiffel Tower to run
far enough  down this path to capture a full view of the well-known landmark. We
may have been a few minutes late back to the bus, but at least we got our pictures!

Read other great entries for the “Go With Oh” spring blog competition by checking out their Pinterest page. Happy Traveling!

Beating the German Viruses for the Umpteenth Time

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.

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.

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.

In other words, besides sleep, my week looked like a whole lot of this:

The contents of my self-assembled survival kit:
Burt's Bees (from home), Kamill hand lotion, Heiße Zitrone Vitamin C packets, Grippostad C
cold medicine, Soft & Sicher tissues and Ricola sugar free sage throat lozenges. Ready, fight!

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.

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.

·      Grippostad C: 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.

·      Heiße Zitrone: 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!

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.

·      Soft & Sicher tissues: 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.

·      Kamill hand lotion: 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.

·      Ricola’s sugar-free sage drops: 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.

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?

What experiences have you had fighting bugs in foreign lands? And what country-specific remedies have you found to help get you healthy again?

Ode to Oregon, Introduction

I’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.

The view of Oregon's Mt. Hood rising large above the landscape
has always taken my breath away and symbolized "home."

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.”

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.

One of my favorite spots to spend a summer day is Pacific City, Oregon.
Climb the infamous dune for this outstanding view of the ocean's expanse.

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.

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.

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 really does 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.

Even on grey days, the Columbia River Gorge is beautiful, and breathtaking
vistas make the winding drive along the old Scenic Highway worth the trip.

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.

On Layovers

WARSAW, 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.

Gate 45, Warsaw Chopin Airport. 

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.

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: small black coffee, 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.

“With milk. Café Latte. Americano?” she queries, voice heavily accented.

“No, just coffee. Black.” I repeat. And “small,” when she asks again about the size. “Oh, and can I pay in Euro?”

“Yes, but I give you Polish zloty for the change.”

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.

In A Year in the World, 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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 arrival, the journey complete.

Learning by teaching

Full of mixed feelings, I packed my bags in Berlin two weeks ago and traded my skyscraper sunsets for castle sunrises. Literally.

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.

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.

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.

Of course, that’s not always the case. Even in the first two weeks, there have already been distinct ups and downs.

A successful lesson:

The delicious spread, waiting to be
devoured by hungry students.

The first unit in the 8^th 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.

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.

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.

The makeshift deli, ala German grammar school style. On the sign "Bagels: Breakfast the American way!"

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.

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.

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.

Clearly, this is the best use for bagels. My students can definitely make me laugh.

A (not so) successful lesson:

While I am inherently qualified to add insight and ideas into the 8^th grade curriculum by virtue of my American citizenship, I have to work a little harder to relate to the 7^th grade’s yearly topic – namely, the United Kingdom.

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.

Tourist only.

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 The Telegraph, which seemed perfectly suited to a roomful of youngsters learning about England’s capital: London in your lunch break.

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.

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.

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.

Aha.

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.

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.

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.

Thankfully, there is always another chance.

The London Eye. Taken June 2011.

Poland: land of pottery and pierogies

Introduction: 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?

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. 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.

***

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.

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.

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.

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.

Boleslawiec, a city flowing (and overflowing) with pottery. With such a sign welcoming
visitors, it's obvious that the shopping experience will be a delight.

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.

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.

Pottery-lined shelves, pottery-covered floors, pottery
everywhere you looked! Such a feast for the eyes and
such fun to dream about dishes and decorations, compar-
ing finds with friends and handing over the cash.

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.

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.

Every shop we visited had outdoor displays, showing off samples of the goodies to be had inside. 

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.

I fell in love with these dishes but, unfortunately, lacked the financial
means to purchase them and the physical space in my suitcase to transport
them back to the United States. Oh well, one can always dream.

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!”

Trading Places, The Germany Edition

I 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:

trading this well-known landmark

The Brocken, Schierke

for this one

T.V. Tower, Berlin

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.

• 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!
• 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.
• 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!"

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 The Local.

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 here and here).

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.

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 here), but I'm thrilled to be back up to game speed for the time being.

Viele Grüße aus Berlin!!!

More than a Marathon

Over two months remain until the 34^th 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Advertising in Wernigerode for the 33rd annual Harz-Gebirgslauf.

“I knew [Christoph] was very keen to take part in this sports event,” Schierhorn said.

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.

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.

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.

“If I managed 8 km, I can manage more,” she thought.

Her reasoning proved correct as Schierhorn successfully completed her race, ranking 2^nd fastest in the women’s division.

“My [now] husband was very proud, and we were a couple again,” she summarized.

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.”

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.

“It’s like a hobby for him—he reads all the results, reads all the names,” Schierhorn explained.

She enjoys the atmosphere, the people and the weather, which, with few exceptions, has almost always been sunny.

October in Wernigerode offers an spectacular array of brightly-colored trees.
Combined with the 4,000+ participants, the beautiful location in the Harz
National Park makes the Harz-Gebirgslauf an ideal friendly athletic event.

“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.”

Christoph received a commemorative prize after his 20^th and 30^th 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.

“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.”

At 45, she was also up for the challenge physically.

“It was hard, but it was easier than the marathon in Berlin because I was better prepared,” she said.

Nowadays, the couple both struggles with knee problems, with Schierhorn favoring the walking events in recent years.

“Sometimes I think it’s better to do nothing, but it’s a good tradition,” she said.

And, maybe, an even better story.

***

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: http://www.harz-gebirgslauf.de

Training Hard

Somehow, in the course of three years, I have managed to obtain three little pieces of red and white plastic known as the Bahn Card 50. 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 Germany’s crisscrossed spider web network of railroads so often that the Bahn Card savings more than justify its initial price.

In the beginning, though, Bahn Card or not, railway travel caused me excessive anxiety. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“What?”

“This isn’t a ticket.”

“What!?”

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

My Second Time (on the Brocken)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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