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.

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.

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!”

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.

A Loss of Expectations

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy May Day 2011.

"Lisbon is our Greece"

Five months after arriving in Germany, I packed a bag, tucked my passport into my purse and headed for the airport. However, instead of flying home, a friend and I decided to ditch Germany for sunnier skies elsewhere in the European Union.

Initially, we'd wanted to go to Greece. The stories, history, architecture and sunny beaches we'd heard about appealed to us even before the long, cold German winter set in. Then Nessa went to the travel agency and received bad news: Greece is miserable in February.

Trying to cinch a business deal be helpful, the travel agent suggested either Lisbon, Portugal, or a city in southern Spain. To be honest, I wasn't entirely thrilled with either choice. Greece was on my "to visit" list for the year, and I'd never had even the slightest inclination to visit the most western members of the Continent. Besides that, I'd apparently never studied Portugal in history, picturing something akin to a remote tropical jungle. What would we do in Lisbon, I wondered?

Fast forward a few weeks. I was visiting some of my German friends and mentioned Lisbon as a pending option for winter break. Their response surprised me. Phrases like "a beautiful old European city" contrasted sharply with my initial image. When I visited Nessa a short while later, we looked up some pictures online. Needless to say, the "jungle" quickly replaced itself with castles, cathedrals and coastline. About 10 minutes into our research, we were both hooked. She set up another appointment at the travel agency and booked our trip.

European travel, though, has been a bit of a learning curve for me. I should have realized this a few years ago when I accompanied a German to New York, but the difference eluded me then. Maybe it's because camping vacations, visits to relatives and weeks at the Oregon coast comprised my childhood vacations--you don't necessarily have to pack tons of sightseeing into days centered around hiking or crafting or reading or fishing. Nonetheless, when you visit a place where there are important historical sights, the rule of the game is simple: planning, planning, planning (and don't forget good walking shoes).

Anyways, I missed the message my first time in New York and barely salvaged a week in Vienna two years ago; San Francisco last summer was a little better; however, this time, I began serious planning well in advance. German style.

Perusing the local library's resources
proves an affordable way for the initial
planning and research. Even slightly
outdated travel guides can offer a good
jumping off point for those interested
in first-time visits to a foreign city.

The public library offered me two travel guides on Lisbon as well as a compact German-Portugeuse dictionary. I soon fell into an evening routine of googling "Lisbon," "travel," "things to do" or combinations of all three. The weekend before our trip, I was thrilled when The New York Times ran its signature "36 hours" travel piece on Lisbon. That's what I call perfect timing.

Forty minutes before our airport-bound train rolled out of the station en route to Lisbon, I was drinking coffee in a bookstore in Leipzig Hauptbahnhof, leafing through their collection of travel guides--just in case I'd missed something. Up until the moment of departure, I invested myself fully in the mission of finding everything important to see, do and eat in Lisbon and the surrounding areas.

By the time we finally flew out of Leipzig, I not only knew Lisbon was definitely not a jungle, but I had also quenched my reservations about how we'd fill our time. In fact, I actually was wondering how we'd manage to fit it all in!

Nonetheless, if planning is the strategy for traveling well, flexibility is the key for winning the game. If you can perfect the flexibility technique, the final scoreboard will result in the most rewarding component of travel: discovery.

Despite its inherent importance, no amount of planning can predict what will actually happen when you arrive on location, especially if it's at 5 p.m., your body thinks it's 6 p.m., and all the restaurants happen to be closed until dinner starts at 7 p.m. Welcome to Lisbon.

Before the trip, I'd read snippets about tipping, about drinking the water, about navigating the city--but somehow, I'd forgotten to find out about the city itself: its timetable, its history and its people. Realizing the challenge, but determined to push forward, we reviewed our game plan.

In our case, planning meant having a hotel and knowing the bus line to take us there from the airport. Flexibility meant wandering through the city, starving, until we found a grocery store that sold the best bananas of our lives. Combined with some crackers and cheese we bought to ward off the hunger pains until we could patronize the pizzeria next to our hotel, we kept walking toward the water, hoping for something to pop up.

Suddenly rounding a corner, we stumbled into a gorgeous, three-sided square--a huge arch fabulously lit up in subtle tones of pink, framing an impressive statue of a horseman, stunning in shades of green. The best part? The fourth side of the square segued seamlessly into the darkening waves of the Tagus River, stretching lazily along the city's edge, interlaced with bridges, spotted with ferries toting passengers to the shores beyond, where long rows of bright lights beckoned, crowned by a figure with outstretched arms flooded by spotlights and towering above the opposite river's edge.

Stunned by the sight, we went to the stone wall along the river, claimed two seats and sat down, enjoying the view, no longer worried about our delayed dinner. Our flexibility had been rewarded. Discovery complete.

The statue in the middle of Terreiro do Paco (literally "the dirt square"), recently renamed Comercio Square, was the first monument in Portugal to represent someone still living at the time, in this case, a celebration of King Jose I and the successful reconstruction of Lisbon after the devastating earthquake in 1755.