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?

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…being frustrated and confused by cultural differences.

…feeling small and lonely.

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

A random sculpture found
while wandering in Werni.

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

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

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

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

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

Fresh Air, If You Please

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 kippen.

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.

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 dicke Luft (thick air), I’ve learned to prepare for an imminent wave of the outdoors to come rushing through a fully opened window.

Quite remarkably, this phenomenon actually has a name: Lüften. 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.

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.

Lüften, 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.

In fact, lüften 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.

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?

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.

Lüften, 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.

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.

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.

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.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go crack my window—the air’s been sitting still just a tad too long.

Steps

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

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

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

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

They stood before the opening bus door.

"Ok, one big step!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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