Übersetzung: An open letter to the St. Martin School

Even though you all surely breezed through my letter in German, here's the translation (you know, just so that you can be sure that you understood all those 46 letter words):

To my wonderful coworkers,

It's hard to believe that my time at St. Martins is already at its end; three months couldn't have flown by any faster. My internship at the school wasn't the standard for you guys: I was the American, who was spread out between all the grades, who all of a sudden showed up on crutches, which were all of a sudden decorated, who only stayed until Christmas. As a result, I didn't have the opportunity to get to know a lot of you and I often found myself on the edge of the action without a specific task to fulfill.

However, that was ok for me, because I still learned so many things in the last three months that I can use and integrate into my daily life. I would like to share a short list of these things that I learned at St. Martins, things that are now indispensable to me:

I. When Patricia doesn't eat because she's distracted, when Süsänn asks the same question for the tenth time in the past two minutes, or when Pascal just stands in the bathroom and stares at you despite the fact he's told you four times that he needs to go, then the natural reaction is to get angry. Yet you learn quite quickly that that isn't the proper solution. You have to have patience (even when you think that you're already patient, it's almost always better to be even more patient) and always keep in mind that our students have a completely different perception of the world.

II. I have never worked with children, but in the last three months through the close contact that I've had with them, I've learned to better understand children and to regard them as human beings. Handicapp here or there, children can surprise us and they do everyday. Teaching isn't a one way street, at St. Martins is no exception to this rule - St. Martin children are complex, smart in their own way, full of potential and we can learn a lot from them as our fellow humans.

III. Children help adults to re-recognize the small beautiful things in life that are often lost in the shuffle. I wouldn't say that I had a poor imagination when I came to work at St. Martins, but through the time I spent with the children I saw that the world had in fact lost some of it's magic in my eyes. Now I appreciate again that cloud movements can be spectacular, that a carpet with streets and buildings on it can be a real city, that Tolga in a foam barrel in the gym is the funniest toy in the world. Beauty is truly everywhere, in every child, in every snowflake, natural or handmade.

IV. For me, one of the biggest challenges was that everything happened in German. Just as I thought that my German had gotten strong enough, I realized that there were a lot of people at the school who spoke no German at all. Since then, I've learned a ton of Franconian. Cool, huh?

V. The last thing that I would like to share with you guys is simple: The people who work at St. Martin School are true heroes. I want to eventually become a doctor, but I saw time and time again while working at the school that you don't need a medicine license to heal somebody. Society needs organizations like St. Martins and thereby included are people like you all who give everything for the school. Sometimes the work is exhausting, sometimes the rewards and progresses are hard to see, but be sure that what you do is invaluable and appreciated. I am so happy that I got the chance to work with you all.

I thank you all very much for the opportunity I was given. Mr. Zinsmeister took a risk when he gave me the ok to do an internship at the school. I can only hope that my time here brought you all something too and that I wasn't the only one who came away with something.

I have traveled quite a bit and along the way I have seen and experienced quite a lot. However, I am more that sure that working at the St. Martin School is one of the most important experiences that I've ever had, and that's due to you all and the kids. Again, thank you!

All the best,
Reid Haflich

Ein offener Brief an die St. Martin Schule

Meine lieben Mitarbeiterinnen und Mitarbeiter,

Ich kann es kaum fassen, dass meine Zeit an der St. Martin Schule schon zu Ende ist; drei Monate könnten nicht schneller vorbei fliegen. Mein Praktikum an der Schule war nicht so was Normales für euch: ich war der Amerikaner, der überall zugeteilt war, der plötzlich mit Krücken gekommen ist, die plötzlich geschmückt waren, der nur bis zu Weihnachten geblieben ist. Aufgrund dessen hatte ich nicht die Gelegenheit viele von Euch kennen zu lernen und oft fand ich mich am Rand ohne eine spezifische Aufgabe.

Aber das war für mich egal, weil ich trotzdem in den letzten drei Monaten so viel gelernt habe, Sachen die ich für den Rest meines Lebens nutzen und im täglichen Leben integrieren kann. Ich will euch kurz einige Dinge mitteilen, die ich an der St. Martin Schule gelernt habe und jetzt für mich unentbehrlich sind:

I. Wenn Patricia nicht isst, weil sie abgelenkt ist, oder wenn Süsänn die gleiche Frage zehn Mal in zwei Minuten stellt, oder wenn Pascal im Bad stehen bleibt und dich anstarrt, obwohl er dir vier Mal gesagt hat, dass er aufs Klo muss, dann ist die natürliche Reaktion sich zu ärgern. Aber man lernt sehr schnell, dass das nicht die richtige Lösung ist. Man muss einfach Geduld haben (auch wenn man denkt, dass man Geduld schon hat, es ist fast immer besser noch geduldiger zu sein) und man muss immer wieder daran denken, dass die Schuler eine komplete andere Wahrnehmung von der Welt haben.

II. Ich habe nie mit Kindern gearbeitet, aber durch die engen Kontakte in den letzen Monaten habe ich gelernt Kinder besser zu verstehen und als Menschen wahrzunehmen. Behinderung hin oder her, Kinder können uns überraschen und sie schaffen es jeden Tag. Unterrichten ist keine Einbahnstraße, und die St. Martin Schule ist keine Ausnahme – St. Martin Kinder sind komplex, klug in ihrer eigenen Art, voller Potenzial und wir können als Mitmenschen viel von ihnen lernen.

III. Kinder helfen Erwachsenen die kleinen, schönen Dinge im Leben, die zu oft übersehen werden, wiederzuerkennen. Ich würde nicht sagen, dass ich fantasielos war, als ich zur St. Martin Schule kam, aber durch die Zeit, die ich mit den Kindern verbracht habe, erkannte ich, dass in meinen Augen die Welt doch schon ein bisschen ihrer Zauberei verloren hatte. Nun schätze ich wieder, dass Wolkenbewegungen großartig sein können, dass ein Autoteppich eine echte Stadt sein kann, dass Tolga in einem Schaumstofffass in der Turnhalle das lustigste Spielzeug der Welt ist. Schönheit ist wirklich überall, in jedem Kind, in jeder gebastelten oder natürlichen Schneeflocke.

IV. Für mich war eine der größten Herausvorderungen, dass alles auf Deutsch ablief. Gerade als ich dachte, dass mein Deutsch stark genug wurde, bemerkte ich, dass viele Leute an der Schule gar kein Deutsch sprechen. Seitdem lernte ich ‘ne Menge Frängisch. Schön, gell?

V. Die letzte Sache, die ich euch mittteilen möchte ist einfach: Die Leute an der St. Martin Schule sind echten Helden. Ich will eventuell Arzt werden, aber ich habe an der Schule immer wieder gesehen, dass man keine Medizinlizenz braucht, um jemanden zu heilen. Die Gesellschaft braucht Organisationen wie die St. Martin Schule und damit verbunden sind Leute wie ihr, die für diese Schule alles geben. Manchmal ist die Arbeit anstrengend und manchmal sind die Belohnungen und Fortschritte schwierig zu sehen, aber seid sicher, dass das, was ihr macht, unbezahlbar und geschätzt ist. Ich freue mich, dass ich die Chance bekommen habe mit euch zu arbeiten.

Ich bedanke mich sehr für die Gelegenheit, die ihr mir gegeben habt. Herr Zinsmeister hat ein Risiko übernommen, als er gesagt hat, dass ich ein Praktikum bei euch machen darf. Ich hoffe nur, dass meine Zeit euch etwas gebracht hat und ich nicht der einzige war, der etwas daraus mitgenommen hat.

Ich bin ziemlich viel gereist und auf dem Weg, habe ich ganz viel gesehen und erfahren. Aber ich bin mir sicher, dass die St. Martin Schule eine von den wichtigsten Erfahrungen ist, die ich je gehabt habe und das liegt an euch und den Kindern. Nochmals vielen Dank!

Mit Besten Grüßen,

Reid Haflich

I cheated on my Doktor in Ochsenfurt

What would you do for first place? If you're competitive like me, you'd probably do a lot. But what would you do for seventh place...of twelve? Probably not all that much. I mean, at that point you have to own up to the fact that you're worse than half of the other competitors. However, while most people ease up on the gas upon seeing that a top finish isn't in the cards, what do I do for seventh place? I break my knee.

In the last minute of the last game at an indoor ultimate frisbee tournament in Leipzig, Germany I jumped to intercept a pass from an offender waiting in the endzone and landed on a locked right leg. I had caught the frisbee, we won the game (thereby securing a smooth seventh place) and I was whisked away in an ambulance to seek medical attention for my rapidly swelling knee. The EMT's in the ambulance were very nice; at least I think they were. I could only understand every third word of their accented east German which holds very little resemblance to the German I learned in college. It got to the point where I just started asking question after question - about German ambulance technology, their personal journies to becoming EMT's, the history of that bridge that we just crossed - so as to keep them rambling until we got to the hospital. Actually, in the past four months I have become an expert in pretending to understand what people say. Smiles, nods, facial expressions indicating surprise/information processing, appropriately timed exclamations (e.g. Wow! No way! Then what happened?!), or, as perfected in Leipzig, simply asking more questions are all ways to create the effect that you're catching everything when really you haven't the foggiest notion what's being said.

My hospital visit was relatively short (it could have been even shorter had the guy in the gurney behind me not pretended to be Herr Haflich when the x-ray technician called my name on the list) and smelled like sweat. It was short because Sunday evenings in the emergency room are almost always calm and it smelled like sweat because I was sweaty. They x-rayed my knee, gave me a brace which was initially advertised as being 20 euros but turned out to be 120, and offered to sell me crutches which I politely turned down given that with my American insurance I have to pay everything out of pocket. I hobbled out the doors of the emergency department to be greeted by my whole frisbee team, two of which accompanied me on the train home.

The next day back in Würzburg I went to a sports specialist, Herr Doktor Zimmer, who drained my knee with a needle the size of a pencil, sent me to get an MRI, gave me crutches and told me not to bear weight on my right leg for six weeks, all of which he managed to accomplish while wearing pants that were easily three sizes too small. Out of the whole thing, I came away with a mostly ripped outer ligament and hairline fractures in the heads of my femur and tibia.

Initially, the though was that no operation would be necessary. However, one of my coworkers sent my MRI photos to a family friend who is a Doktor, and a knee specialist at that. After he first looked at my pictures, he thought that an operation was all but inevitable and wanted to meet with me. After a long week of uncertainty, I met with him in a dark room in the Ochsenfurt Hosital, twenty minutes outside of Würzburg. As I took off my pants so that he could touch me, I couldn't help but think that I was cheating on Doktor Zimmer with another Doktor whose name I didn't even know. But it was worth it; the drive in the snowstorm, the clandestine meeting in an empty examination room, the torquing and pulling of my injured knee were all things that I would gladly go through again just to hear that everything was going heal up just fine on it's own.

Today, five weeks after the injury, I went back to Doktor Zimmer who had completely forgotten who I was. I had thought that he and I had something special, a Doktor-patient relationship that would endure the four weeks between visits. Alas, it did not. At least his sieve-like memory made me feel less guilty about cheating on him in Ochsenfurt.

Hold on a second. There's a word for that?!

How would you describe these? Go ahead, do it. Out loud. If you're like me, the description probably sounded something like "Oh, I know what those are! Those are those little plastic things you stick in the wall before you put a screw in so that it doesn't fall out. You know what I'm talking about?!" You would probably have some idea of what I was talking about, and if you didn't, I could surely ramble on for long enough until you figured it out. But if you asked me to describe these guys using one word, there's no way that I'd be able to do it. In fact, I don't think there is anybody I know who could do it, at least not in English. But Germans, they're different. They all recognize instantly these stick-them-in-the-wall things as "Döbel."

I wasn't too surprised when Hans Hummer, the wood shop teacher at school, knew the word for those plastic thingamabobs. He is, after all, a carpenter - it's only to be expected. I was at the hardware store with the teacher I carpool with when she busted out "Döbel" in reference to the materials I would need to build my own suspension closet (which up to this point has only resulted in a mine field of holes in my ceiling and my clothes are still draped over the back of my armchair). I was a bit taken aback that an occupational therapist would know the work for those screw holder whatchamacallits, but in thinking about it, she told me that she used to be a wood worker before she started giving therapy. It made enough sense. But when my roommate Vicky asked me if I had bought "Döbel" after having looked at my pathetic attempt to fasten hooks to the ceiling for my closet, I just about flipped out. If you're somehow reading this Vicky, don't take offense. In fact, it's probably more of a compliment. How does a 24 year old studying law who almost certainly has no experience with drywall construction know the name for these godforsaken little nubs?! Nobody knows that in English! I then took it upon myself to carry around a Döbel in my pocket for the next week and ask people at random if they knew what it was that I had in my hand. The only person who didn't know what they were called was a co-worker named Elizabeth, but she almost doesn't even count because she's from Poland and she spent 54 years of her life without having tried peanutbutter. Indeed an outlier.

So what is the point of my Döbel anecdote? Is it just a way for me to rant and rave about something that I had a hard time believing to be true? Partially. But also, it is a representation of a phenomenon that happens to me here in Germany quite regularly. Take something which we can't exactly express in English with a concise word or phrase, whether a thing, an idea or a feeling, and you're likely to find a word for it in German. Here a are a couple examples:

Schadenfreude - (n). the sadistic pleasure that you get from somebody else's pain or discomfort; also rarely seen in the verb form schadenfreuden which can be understood in the following context: Ach, Wolfgang, warum schadenfreudest du so gern? {Geez-o Wolfgang, how come you enjoy seeing other people in pain, agony, discomfort or all of the above?}

Fremdschämen - (n). the feeling of being embarrassed for somebody else.

Vorfuhreffekt - (n). when something happens/exists in your presence, but then when you want/need to show somebody else that same thing, it isn't there. For example, you're 1992 Subaru Legacy with the shattered back window is making a rattling noise when you accelerate and turn at the same time, but when you take a mechanic for a ride to show him what you're talking about, what is normally your POS car rides like a dream. Or how about when you make that mental list of movies that you want to watch, but when you walk into the video store, you have no idea what it was that you wanted to see, so you end up walking out with Super Troopers for the sixth time.

Gräbele/Besucherritze - (n). the crack between to twin mattresses pushed together.

Verschlimmbessern - (v). in an attempt to make something better, you unintentionally make it worse.

Montagsauto - (n). a poorly produced product or good. It's translated literally as "Monday car" with the theory behind it behind that a poorly made car was probably on the assembly line on Monday when the workers were still half asleep/hungover from the weekend.

Donaudampfschiffahrtsgesellshaftskapitän - (n). Captain of a steam ship in the Donau River Shipping Company. You may not believe it, but I find myself needing this word on a daily basis. ;)

This element of German makes it an exciting, but difficult language. Some estimates put the average daily vocabulary of a German to be about six times that of the average American. There is a word for basically everything, so descriptions become very specific very fast which I find to be exhilarating - it cuts down significantly on blabbering time and people the know exactly what you mean. Besides "jaywalking", I haven't discovered any of these ridiculously specific words in English, and I think that this specificity is going to be something I really miss when I go back to the English speaking world.

Until then, I'm going to enjoying being able to laugh at someone slipping and falling in the snow and having to use only one word to justify the fact that I found it funny, although I don't necessarily like the fact that Andrea may have twisted and hurt her ankle in the cobblestone.

By the way, Döbel does have a one word translation in English: chubs. Seriously?

Wallpaper Apprentice, The Giants & Disco Music in Holland?

I have put up enough wall paper to be considered a professional, The Giants won the world series for the first time since 1954 and I rode in a VW Bus to Holland wearing a mullet wig. The last three weeks of my life have been eclectic to say the least. However, eclecticism is no excuse for falling behind in my attempt for a weekly blog entry, so it's time to play a little catch up. I have the whole week off from work, so we'll see if I can't manage to get back on track in my abundant Freizeit.

As I mentioned before, I helped Ben Walter with the renovation effort of his newly purchased Würzburg apartment, a win-win situation given that I could use the illegally-earned money and he could use the extra hands. I can now say with confidence that wallpaper has to be the worst way to decorate any wall. First you have to spend three years taking the old wallpaper down, which either comes down the whole strip at a time, or in little pinky sized shreds. In this particular apartment, taking down the old wallpaper was like taking a trip through time: embossed fleur-de-lis over a flaky gold paisley over an MC Escher-esque floral print. In a word, hideous. Almost as hideous, in fact, as the light pink coffee grinder/pear tree print we had in our kitchen in college. Once we managed to peel the sopping wet paper off, it was time to cover the crumbling, poorly masoned walls anew with what we considered to be a timeless white, gently embossed pattern. After prepping the walls, cutting the paper to size, drenching the back in paste-like, undoubtedly carcinogenic glue, we slapped them up. The process of making sure that the paper is straight, is exactly lined up with the strip next to it, has no bubbles underneath it and stays clean is excruciatingly tedious, especially when the walls of the apartment seem to be breathing little bubbles under paper that you thought you were done with an hour ago and the knife the you have to cut the paper is so dull it's more like a tiny little saw.

All obstacles overcome, we managed to wallpaper the entire apartment, including the 12 foot long hallway with seven doors, any wallpaperer's nightmare. In addition to being on the Wallpaper Task Force, I got to help out with bathroom demolition and laying the new laminate flooring, both of which were much more gratifying than gluing up paper that in 30 years is just going to make some other illegal immigrant pissed when he has to rip it down. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to see the finished project because I was out of town, but in my head it looks really good. Although manual labor isn't something that I would be happy doing for the rest of my life, I very much enjoy doing it from time to time. Much of the work allows you to get lost in your head, but more importantly, it gives you a new found respect for those people who do that kind of work on a day-in, day-out basis. What hand workers do for the world is truly invaluable. Well, actually, it's worth 10 euros an hour, but I really appreciate it, too.

Much of the last three weeks of my life has been absorbed in following the Giants magical trip to the top of the baseball world. For me, it was a mixture of excitement and frustration; excitement, because the Giants finally performed after years of what Loaf Lorenz would call "torture baseball" and frustration, because the games were both impossible to find streaming internationally and impossible to stay awake for (most were at 2am) when I have to get up for work at six in the morning. Nevertheless, I was able to keep track of what was happening through internet articles, video clips and facebook status updates. The whole thing was unbelievably amazing, the only better scenario having been if I could have gone to some of the games. Florian says that I now know what it was like for him when he was in the United States and the World Cup was on: poor coverage in the middle of the night and nobody around you is really that interested. So it goes with soccer in the US and baseball in Europe.

The latest notable note from the past three weeks was this past weekend when I traveled with the Universität Würzburg Ultimate Frisbee team, Disc-o-Fever, to Holland for an indoor tournament. I joined the frisbee team looking for a way to play a sport, make friends and do a bit of traveling, given that tournaments are scattered all over the place. It appears as though the decision to play is going to meet all of my expectations. The trip to Holland was a blast, both from a frisbee and social perspective. Playing indoor makes the game of Ultimate totally different - with fewer players and a smaller field the game moves blindly fast in comparison to the outdoor version. We did pretty well overall, placing 5th out of 16 teams, barely scraping it out in the last point of the last game.

From a social aspect, the tournament was amazing. In frisbee, an important component of the game is spirit, another way of saying that every effort is made to maintain good sportsmanship. In European frisbee, this concept is taken to a whole new level. After the game, whereas Americans just exchange high fives, Europeans make a circle out of both teams and one player from each team makes a speech about how the game went and what he or she appreciated about the other team. Then, without fail, the two teams play some kind of team building or ice breaker game with one another to lighten the mood which works surprisingly well, that is unless you're playing against Belgians, those sourpusses. Another cool aspect of an indoor frisbee tournament is that all the players sleep in the playing hall and that the host team organizes a party for all the players on Saturday night. I was quite excited to find out that my sense of humor meshes very well with the other players on my team as we got prepared for the party, the theme of which was Hockey & Tokkie, a dutch way of saying Snobs & White Trash. Everybody on Disc-o-Fever was eager to outdo each other with the trashiest getup, and, once dressed, we crashed a party where most people were dressed as well-to-do Hockies. It's also comforting to know that I had packed all the necessary accoutrements to make a nasty white trash costume without knowing before hand that I would be attending such a party. Talk about things that speak to your personality.

Deutsche Eimer Liste (The German Bucket List)

I am firmly of the mindset that everyone needs a Bucket List. It's a great way to solidify goals, plus thanks to Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson, it's a super trendy thing to do. So in the spirit of solidifying the goals of this chapter of my life, I've spent the last couple days thinking about all the activities that are nonnegotiable before I depart from Deutschland. The list was compiled thoughtfully, earnestly, and progresses in order of priority and importance, starting with number

Eins - Find the electrician responsible for wiring our apartment's bathroom light switch in the hallway.

Every time I stumble into the bathroom at 2:33 am, this guy is somewhere laughing because I invariably forget to flip the switch in the hallway before I go in. Actually, this happens independent of the time of day as there is something about having the light switch outside the room for which it controls the light that doesn't make sense to me. Germans try and convince me that it's logical by saying that this way "You are never having to go into a bassroom zat is daark." I rebut by saying that every time I go into the bathroom it is dark, that is until I turn my brain back on and realize that some jerk wired the switch out in the hallway. To be fair, this is a phenomenon that can be found all over Europe, but my consistent battles with this one specific switch have caused me to focus my discontent on one electrician, when it is likely the European Electrician Guild that is to blame. Either way, when I finally bump into the grinning electrician (in my head his name is something extremely German like Helmut Müller-Schmidt), I'll be sure to lodge with him all my complaints. In the meantime, I've hung a giant exclamation point over the light switch to catch the attention of my half-asleep counterpart before he finds himself alone and scared in a dark bathroom for the 30th night in a row.

Zwei - Translate the German word Hof

I have a dictionary, the Internet and unlimited access to native German speakers, but for some bewildering reason this very frequently used three letter word eludes my linguistic capabilities. Here are just a few of the things that I have found Hof to mean: backyard, garden, courtyard, driveway, foyer, farm, alcove and open-air shed. Let's be real here for a second, a language that has two words for the crack between two twin mattresses shoved together (Gräbele and Besucherritze) should have individual words for all these semi-enclosed spaces. At this point I've just starting calling every area inside, outside, in front of, behind and next to any sort of man-made structure a Hof to see how far the word stretches. When it works, I shake my head and make a mental note to add some other translation like sunroom patio to my ever-growing list. When it doesn't work, I shake my head then proceed in publicly deriding Hof and all its secret meanings.

Drei - Ride my bike in Berlin

To most people taking the trouble to drag my bike on a train to Berlin just to ride it around seems like a colossal waste of time. But I know that my friend Loaf Lorenz agrees that riding a fixed gear in the German Capital would be not short of spectacular. Wide, flat, perfectly paved boulevards; impressive bike infrastructure; parks and promenades to explore. Touring a city by bike is undoubtedly my favorite way to travel (a la Amsterdam) and Berlin is my favorite European city, so it only seems logical to mix the two. Now I just have to wait until the weather is conducive to being outside on my bike all day. As we dip into days with high temperatures in the high 30's, it looks like I'll have to save this one until the other side of winter.

Vier - Sell Glühwein und Bratwurst at the Dingolshausen Christmas booth

I love Christmas and I will most definitely attribute my zeal for the holidays to my mom's family's fanaticism. As soon as Thanksgiving passes, Christmas begins (assuming you manage to hold off from buying into the Xmas specials that begin showing up in stores in late August) and for me here in Germany it will be no exception. I'm a person who likes tradition, so my only request is that Stefan, Flo and I get to work at the Dingolshausen Christmas booth again, last year having been the First Annual. Dingolshausen is the 1000 inhabitant town where the Walter parents live and the Christmas booth is a place for Dingolshäuser to meet in the week before Christmas to enjoy some warm Glühwein, a Bratwurst or the awkward flaming log that Herr Frankenzaubermeister instructed me to lay on the ground and set ablaze. It is, for me, something that captures the essence of Christmas - family and friends together, enjoying themselves together and for some reason they're standing outside in the -15 degree weather.

Fünf - Attend Fasching in Cologne

My current experience with German Fasching or Carnival is quite limited; it is limited, in fact, to Jennifer Stuart wearing a bright purple sequin dress while giving a presentation about Fasching to our German 101a class. Although her presentation and dress were individually amazing, and even more stunning in concert, I think this year I'd like to experience the real thing. From what I've heard, it's the German equivalent to Mardi Gras or Carnival in Rio de Janiero which is to say it's pure madness, in a costume. Unfortunately I left my infamous ManBug costume in California (a polite way of saying that Jeremia Kimelman, a 22 year old with the short term memory of an 86 year old, lost the costume's hat, thereby ruining the outfit...) so I'll have to fashion something new, but equally as ridiculous. Perhaps a bumblebee, or better yet, an Eskimo since the festival is outside in February in Cologne.

Sechs - Run from Würzburg to Koblenz with Stefan and a tricycle baby stroller

This was originally a joke. Well, it's still kind of a joke, but we're going to do it. The 130 mile trek should take us about a week. As I look at the map I know what I'm going to be thinking the whole time: "Give me a bike and I could do this in a day." We'll see if the trip comes to fruition, but now that I've written that it's nonnegotiable, it would be kind of a let down if we didn't manage to complete it.

[I just spent the last two minutes contemplating whether or not I actually want to go through with this and I am extremely ambivalent. Thankfully my blog allows posts to be edited after they are published.]

Sieben - Drive a German Automobile on the Autobahn

I've driven an American, a French and a Czech car on the Autobahn thus far and while each was fun in it's own respect, I need to do it in a German car to make the experience complete. A BMW, Mercedes or Audi would suffice. Pretty simple request, now I just need the friends with the right cars. I should start hanging out in the Econ department of Universtität Würzburg.

Acht - Spend the entirety of my last day wearing Lederhosen, then fly home in them

Yesterday, I helped the eldest Walter son, Benjamin, begin the renovation effort of his newly purchased apartment and during much of the day, we listened to Bavarian Haus Musik. This is very much the classic, polka-esque music that we stereotypically envision Germans listening to, and I have to say, that hearing it made me very happy to be a quasi Bavarian for the next several months. I got to thinking, 'How can I show my excitement for Bavaria?' and the first answer that came to my head was Lederhosen. So as a tribute to my time in Germany and a symbol of it's importance in my life, I swear that on my last day here I will wear the typical Bavarian leather pants, socks, shirt and hat. It's a German must-do, so it will be done.

Small disclaimer: this list is subject to change. :)

With Seconds to Spare

Every traveler has his horror stories. Missing a flight home by two minutes then spending the next 22 hours in Dulles Aiport; lost luggage for two weeks in Costa Rica; that Applebee’s in Salt Lake City with sketchy ground beef; sleeping under a bridge in your miniature sized car in Amsterdam – the list could go on. But for every travel tale from hell, there are umpteen stories of “almost” disaster, those instances when the Gods intervened to save you from all those roads you as a lost traveler never wanted to go down.

There is the time that you almost got knocked off a 400-foot cliff by a garbage truck whipping around a blind curve in Italy. And who can forget about the time that you almost missed that connecting flight in Atlanta, but fortunately Grandpa Time sitting in the back had a medical emergency and the paramedics had to reopen the air-sealed doors allowing you and your chronically late family to board. Of course there was that time when you and your brothers almost got mugged by that shady Vespa rental guy in Cancún, but fortunately, by a stroke of sheer coincidence, your Spanish speaking friend from home happened to walk by and had the time to diffuse your potential beat down. And what list of “almosts” would be complete without that time five minutes ago when you almost missed your train in Germany because you were at home on the couch engrossed in the backstage drama of Veronika’s broken zipper on Germany’s Next Top Model. While I’ll make no comment on all the other aforementioned travel travesties, I must, however, lay claim as the owner of the last on the list. Allow me to elaborate.

I finished all my tasks for the day at around 4:15 this afternoon, leaving me with nothing much to do until my train to go visit Florian left at 6:27. Perfect. I had time to relax, then leisurely make the ten minute walk to the train station where I would be early enough to make sure I wouldn’t get stuck sitting backwards on the three hour ride. I hate sitting facing the rear of the train – it just seems so unnatural. Plus you are then forced to spend the whole ride fighting to keep your back in the seat. Anyway, I wandered around the apartment for a little while, eventually landing on Stefan’s couch. Stefan was doing something on the computer and given that he is the world’s worst multitasker (he literally cannot complete two tasks at once; it’s a miracle that he can breath and walk at the same time) I decided instead of trying wasting my time trying to interact with that statue that just looks like Stefan, that I would waste my time by turning on the TV and seeing if I couldn’t find something interesting to watch.

Those who know me can attest that I rarely watch TV, and those who know me really well can explain why. When the screen turns on, it’s like I fall into some kind of lapse in the space-time continuum. Everything else in the world goes blank and every last drop of attention that I have goes straight into whatever program is on, whether it’s interesting or not. This explains why I can unfortunately say that I’ve spent almost two full hours of my life (in one sitting) watching the Gem Network – you know that channel with the unbelievable price on that gorgeous shining sapphire that’s either spinning on some felt-covered wheel or twisting here and there on the most elegant hand you’ve ever seen. I’m pretty sure that nobody else has ever watched that channel. Nobody. That was, in fact, the time that I swore that I would try to stop watching TV all together because it was such a colossal waste of time. My pact with myself worked pretty well, that is, until today. The first thing that came on when the TV clicked to life and shone in it’s mystical, captivating color was the five o’clock episode Germany’s Next Top Model. I set a pillow behind my head, plopped my feet on the other end of the couch, blinked once and Stefan was standing in front of me. “Are you trying to miss your train?” I glanced over at the clock and it was 6:12. Wasn’t it just five? And how the hell is Veronika going to walk down the runway with her busted dress?! “No. I have 15 minutes. Not a problem.” Without any sense of urgency, I got up, sauntered into my room, picked up my backpack and slung it over my shoulders. A quick goodbye to Stef and I was out the door, down the 21 stairs to the street and on my way.

Still without feeling any time pressure - due largely to the fact that I carry nothing with me that tells time – I walked around the corner, onto Hauptbahnhofstraße (Main Train Station Street) and realized that I left my wallet in my room. Reid! I chided myself, you’re such a scatterbrained child! A minor panic attack, a discovered wallet in the side pocket of my backpack and two minutes later I was back on my way. About 100 meters in front of the train station, I hit a red light and stopped, not about to get squashed by the rush of Friday evening drivers eager to get home. While waiting what seemed like a lifetime at the crosswalk, I felt the slightest twinge of that “maybe I’m late” feeling, but I wasn’t about break into a sprint across the busy street. The light turned, the roar of cars ceased, and I began trotting toward the station. It was when I saw 6:24 on the large clock on the façade of the Hauptbahnhof that I started sprinting. If there is one stereotype that holds true about Germans, it’s that they are breathtakingly punctual. I could bet my bottom Euro that my train would be pulling out of the station in less than three minutes.

I skidded across the wet stone floor to an abrupt stop in front of the departures board. I made a quick scan for my destination city of Koblenz and saw nothing. Not sure what else to do, I took off toward the platforms. One question about departure platforms, two confused police officers and 30 seconds later, I was no closer to finding my train. Of course while I was absorbed in the not so worthwhile drama of stick-thin German models I hadn’t looked up any information about my train. The only thing that I knew was that it was an Inter City Express (ICE) departing at 18:27. I ran farther, praying that I would see something that would give me a clue. At the staircase leading up to platforms eight and nine I saw that there were two ICE trains leaving at 18:27. I figured that one had to be it, so I bolted up the stairs two at a time. The platform was clogged with people bustling toward the stairwell. I forcefully fought my way against the current and, once free, stood between the two glistening white trains. I saw no Deutsche Bahn employee, so against better judgment, I decided to simply guess and went left.

Of course I was late, of course I hadn’t taken the time to look up my train number, and of course I jumped on the train in the restaurant car. Just as well, the waiter will surely know if the train stops in Koblenz. I burst into the restaurant compartment, approached the waiter and stood uncomfortably close to him so as to catch his attention.

[Time out: Let me just explain a little bit about the Deutsche Bahn: The German rail system is one of the most impressive in the world. It is an extremely extensive network of trains that connects the entire country. There are various types of trains, ranging from smaller, slower,local connections, to big, fast ICE’s. Not only are the trains reliable and extensive (a stark contrast to our pathetic Amtrak), they are quite nice on the inside, with the ICE varieties being the Five Star Edition. The compartments are warmly lit, with rich, dark wood paneling and shiny, seamlessly engineered sliding glass doors. Now picture me, haggard and sweaty, standing in the restaurant of such a train. Time in: ]

It didn’t work. Although I was standing close enough for it to be considered socially unacceptable, he went on taking the order of the older gentleman sitting at the table. “I think I’ll have…a coffee…no! a cappuccino. Aaaaand…” Come on Opa, this isn’t that important. “A chocolate muffin.” Miraculously, after his soliloquy of an order, the train hadn’t started moving and I still had time to correct my potentially false guess, that is, if the waiter ever gave me the time of day. Not until they had exchanged thank you’s, you’re welcome’s, thank you for saying thank you’s and you’re more than welcome’s did the waiter turn to me. Of course, when I needed it most, my German crumbled. Three attempts to ask if the train stopped in Koblenz, one response of “I don’t know, I get off in Frankfurt” and twenty five seconds later I was racing out of the restaurant in search of another train employee. Just as I passed from one car to the next, I was thrown against the accordion-like rubber casing that allows the train to bend. The whistle had blown and the train lurched into motion.

Holy pejorative, I better have guessed right, I thought to myself. I fought against the acceleration of the train and continued forward. I finally found a ticket checker and asked her, this time in more complete German, if I was on the right train. She directed my attention to a large screen just to my left, at eye level that read that we would be arriving in Koblenz at about 9:10pm.

They always say that traveling is stressful, but I would argue that there is a lot the traveler can do to mitigate the pressure. Pack early, research your travel arrangements in advance, keep the TV off as the time for departure approaches (maybe that’s just a rule for me), and take a deep breath because with the exception of that one time you tried to hitchhike at 2:30am in College Park, Maryland, it’s all going to work out. Once I knew that I was in fact hurtling at 170 kph in the correct direction, I was able to relax and begin the search for a seat. After having had so much luck in picking the correct train, it was only logical that just one type of seat remained: those facing backward.