"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.

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.

Choir Concerts and Frisbee-Colored Chaos

I was pushing against time, again. Skidding to a stop in front of Landesgymnaisum's second building, the Lyceum, I hopped off my bike, fiddled with the lock and greeted the school administrator, who was standing guard outside the doorway under a bright orange umbrella, welcoming the last trickle of late comers. After finding a spot for my jacket among the long row of outer garments, worn against the chilly November evening but stowed away during the performance, I made my way up the stairs toward the voices and heat emanating from the large, open room—painted pink and white and accented with glowing globular lamps. Seating was already scarce this Saturday evening, although the occasion was technically invitation-only, and I was happy I'd reserved a seat for the Rundfunk Jugend Chor's "open rehearsal"--their last official practice before heading on tour to Vietnam.

Dressed in shimmering orange velvet dresses and classic black-and-white tuxedos, the students sang brightly to the audience, their pink cheeks reflecting the warmth from the stage lights and their excitement about the coming adventure—a trip which marks the 35th anniversary of Germany and Vietnam’s diplomatic relationship and gives these 36 students the opportunity to experience an exotic locale through participation in a cultural gala.

Since the students begin every class period at school by singing one of their choir songs (in two, three, or four part harmonies), I'd heard several of the arrangements before, but I enjoyed the additional refining touches added at the conductor's hand. Now that I've been at the school for two months, I also knew a lot more of the students performing on stage, and both of the girls who sang solos are in my 11th grade class.

I’m not a teacher, well not technically, but I thrive off the relationship aspect of the job. And, as an “assistant,” I can bypass some of the authority issues faced by actual trained teachers; for instance, instead of Frau Huggins, all of the kids know me simply as Erin. Hugging my students in the foyer after the concert, enjoying the smiles on their faces and congratulating them on a well-delivered performance, I realized again how lucky I am to be placed in Wernigerode, where community is encouraged and fostered, not estranged.

A little later, I got on my bike again, pedaling the short distance to my friend Jordan's apartment. He's also a language assistant, but he gives the students at his school in Ilsenburg (the neighboring town) a bit of a different perspective, starting with his very British English. We were both planning on attending the Hoch Schule's "Sportler Party" that evening, and Jordan had invited me for dinner beforehand. Over warm noodles with sausage and cream sauce, we laughed about our past few weeks of teaching, including recent mornings we'd both had where nothing had gone right: his due to a glitch in the clock function on his cell phone, mine due to oversleeping and a teacher forgetting to tell me about a change in the schedule.

Shortly before 9, we headed to the gym for the party—a gathering for students who participate in sports at the local college (or, in my case, for friends of those students). Our friend Steven was still at the admissions table when we got there; shortly thereafter, he assumed duty at the low-key bar. As an extra surprise, I bumped into my roommate Franzi, who was also part of the evening's festivities. 

Franzi’s dance group was the first presentation following the obligatory introductions and honorary recognitions. A red phone booth replica provided the backdrop for the dance number, which was framed by a pair of scraggly bare-branched trees. I was standing on a bench near the back of the crowd in order to see over the heads of all the people, and I enjoyed the creativity the group presented through its routine. After it wrapped up, I was excited to see what my friend’s Frisbee team had produced.

Even though German punctuality is practically a national code of honor here, the scheduled slot for Steven’s Frisbee group had already long elapsed by the time the dancers began mingling with the crowd again. The DJ started pumping louder music, and swirling bodies swallowed the open space at the front of the gym, swaying and jumping to the vibrating beats. Normally I'm not a huge fan of the "club scene"—blame a bad first experience or a conservative upbringing—but this party brought together the elements I do actually enjoy: friends, laughter, fun music, and, most importantly, ample smoke-free space.

I think it was well after 11 when the moderator's microphone crackled back to life, and she urged the students to make space in the front again for the combined performance by the Frisbee team and the body shape group.

Although the debut wasn’t quite spectacular, the swirling disks had a mesmerizing effect, glowing red, white and green as they soared back and forth across the gym. The body shapers bent their limbs in a choreographed dance, the music played, and the Frisbees flew. Sometimes the plastic discs hit the ground, rolling a short detour before resuming their endless arcs, curving high overhead or slicing low to the ground, always in motion—the one element perhaps that united not only the performers but also the evening.

Much later, after the general crowd had spread out again, dancing into the wee hours of the morning, Steven and his friends resumed their Frisbee play near the back of the gym. Somehow, it fit.

Whereas the rich velvet gowns, shimmering in the concert hall’s clear light, had reflected the richness of the choir’s program earlier that evening, these illuminated discs, sailing through the darkened clusters of people meeting and separating in a chaotic continuum, embodied the atmosphere of the later event: the pandemonium of “everything goes”; the forgetfulness of the world outside four walls; the simple swish, drowned by the music pulsating, bodies twirling, drinks flowing. In disordered confusion, the simplest of cycles emerged.

Catch. Release. Repeat.

Visit the following links for more information about Landesgymnasium and to hear a sample of the choir's work: Evening Rise.