Saved post from Germany

5/17/09

 

I haven’t kept up with posting.  I knew this would happen.  It’s a good sign in disguise, though; I have been SO busy.  When I arrived in Frankfurt Thursday morning I took a taxi to my hotel and only allowed myself a 3-hour nap.  Forcing myself out of bed was NOT easy, but I wanted to spend some time looking around. 

I went to a neighborhood recommended to me by a guy on the plane.  It’s apparently a “hip local” area.  Let me tell you, if this hood was hip, the Germans don’t know much about hip.  There were far too many toddlers and geriatrics and not nearly enough trendy young Euros in leggings and genie pants. Nevertheless, it was fun to look around.  There were lots of bakeries and ice cream shops, which means I was satisfied.   Before I dove into the sweets, though, I wanted to have a taste of some real German food.  So, I thought of the most German names I could imagine for a restaurant  – hmmm… “Adolf” would be great…or maybe, “Wagner” – and went in search of an eatery with such an ideal German identity.  Little did I know I was about to stumble upon the most quintessentially German restaurant of all time: Adolf Wagner.

Inside, I was fortunate enough to have a very friendly English-speaking waiter who recommended a hearty dish of pan fried pork cutlets, fried potatoes, a special cool German green sauce (a creamy vinegar and cilantro tasting mix), and a cup of famous German apple wine.  I did a pretty thorough job on the meal.  As I was eating a was listening to the folks at the table beside me talk, and quickly deciphered that they were speaking Spanish.  I began nervously planning to approach them on my way out.  I figured it would provide some much needed social contact as well as a warm up in Espanol.

                        My German meal                           

My Spanish friends...before they were my friends

I asked them “Somos de Espana?” and all four looked up at me with a surprised and embarrassed expression.  I think that they had been talking about me when I was sitting alone at my table.  They seemed very shocked I am traveling alone, and told me that they had no idea that a young American girl would speak Spanish.  Afterwards, though, they were exceptionally friendly.  They invited me to sit with them as they ate their dessert.  They were on business from Madrid.  There were three men and a woman.   I only remember the names of Juan Carlos and Ricardo.  After we ate, they walked with me to a phone shop to buy a charger for my cell phone.  One of the men spoke German, too, so he was very helpful. 

When we parted ways, I decided it was time to indulge in a tasty German ice cream.  I found an irrisistably adorable shop called “Chocolate and Ice Cream” and B-lined to the frozen delicacies container.  I went all out:  a cone with a scoop of chocolate, bourbon vanilla, and banana, whipped cream, and melted white chocolate.  I did not quite finish it, but rest assured, it was one of the most delicious desserts I have ever eaten.

Later I headed back to the hotel and walked to a restaurant next door called, get this, "El Paso".  I think it was supposed to be Tex Mex, but, either way, I just wanted some wine.  As I was drinking, some spirited Chinese people from a nearby table invited me to sit with them.  I proceeded to order them appetizers (they didn't understand the English menu) and attempt to meet their challenges in beer chugging contests.  The Chinese are very, very good a chugging beer.  We had a pretty nice evening until one of the Chinese dudes stalked me up to my hotel room and banged on my door for an hour at 1 AM.  That's about when traveling alone seems like a bad idea.

Guess who??

Venga conmigo - May 13, 2009 

*Disclaimer - I wrote this bored on the airplane, so it's quite long.*

This is my little introduction, so I am allowing myself a smidge of time to be maudlin; I ensure it will not be the theme of my journey’s chronology.  Embarking on my trip, I faced some unexpected feelings of anxiety, anticipatory loneliness, and dread.  I didn’t experience any of these emotions before my trip abroad two years ago and would have never expected to feel them now.  I am going on a month of vacation.  What the hell is there to be stressed about? 

My introspection has led me to attribute these emotions to various factors: my older age and my consequent tendency to “settle”, my aloneness on this trip compared to my last trip, and my intense fear of swine flu....

...And so it begins...

Mommy was a champ this morning and got me to the airport.  I arrived to my gate with plenty of time to spare.  As I was sitting there plucking my eyebrows, (I couldn't resist - the lighting was excellent!) I heard someone say my name.  Embarrassedly, I set down my compact and looked up to see Greg, Daddy’s closest friend.   I hadn’t seen him for years.  We spent a great 30 minutes or so chatting and trying desperately to decipher the accent of a group of students sitting near us.  They were, as Greg described them, the type of “beautiful people” one encounters in Switzerland (his final destination of our travel day).  Turns out, they were Danish.  I sat behind one of them on the plane, after Greg took his seat in first class. 

On the way to New York, I had the pleasure of eavesdropping on a conversation between the Danish girl in front of me and a Houstonian mother sitting beside her.  And yes, I am using “pleasure” sarcastically.  This Houstonian woman was the perfect example of why Europeans think Americans are ignorant of other cultures. 

She explains to Danish Chick (whom, incidentally, I think was a lesbian…) that she is escorting her college age-daughter to Spain, where she will be studying for a semester.  Danish Chick then asks, “Where in Spain?” a question which Houston Mom is unable to answer.  “Oh, I don’t know the name….some big city that starts with an ‘m,’ I think.” 

Strike One.  Know where the Hell your kid’s going.

Then, Houston Mom proceeds to enquire about the large group of foreigners of which Danish Chick is clearly a member. 

“Why were yall in America?”

“We were in Mexico for 3 months and we’re now returning home.  We’re from Denmark.”

“Oh, I know.” Houston Mom responds. 

Danish Chick is clearly surprised that Houston Mom seems so sure of her nationality.  I am too.  Not only is Houston Mom unaware of the city to which she is traveling, but she certainly does not look or act like a woman with an expert linguistic ability to decipher Scandinavian languages.  Then, of course, it becomes clear that she isn’t…

“My dad tried to teach me German when I was young.  I wouldn’t have it.”

Strike two.

There were no more strikes that I know of, because I had to put on my headphones to watch "Bride Wars."   I don't think that I am much less ignorant than most Americans about foreign cultures.  I certainly couldn’t distinguish the Danish accent, and I accidentally said “Denmarkian” when I was talking to Greg about the girls.   I am very frustrated, though, when people are so ignorant that they don’t even have insight as to how ignorant they are.

Anyway, enough bitching.  When I de-boarded Greg was kindly waiting at the gate to hook me up with an all access VIP Pass to the Continental President’s Club.  Score!  And it gets better.  The club was stocked with Nutella.  Greg and I chatted some more, but he spent most of his 2 hour layover on the phone with tech support, attempting to connect his prehistoric computer to the wireless internet.  He told me his company isn’t enthusiastic about buying him the new $10,000.00 laptop he wants.  When I suggested that a less extravagant choice might sweeten the appeal to the boss, he didn’t even consider it.  It was as if he was picking at the last morsels of his leftover Fillet Mignon from Morton’s, but would rather starve and hold out for another gourmet meal than take some shit from Applebee’s.

So, three glasses of wine, a peppercorn cheese, bag of lays, a mini Nutella container, and an apple later, I’m tipsily gabbing on the phone with Schuyler, when he asks, “doesn’t your plane board soon?”  And I realize that my clock is still on Houston time, not New York time.  So, I run out of the lounge (but not too fast to grab a stash of Nutellas) and make it to my gate.  Thanks, man.

View From Neward Prez Club

Now we’re about 1 hour from landing in Frankfurt.  I didn’t sleep at all this flight.  Maybe I’ll crash and burn in Frankfurt, just like the bombs that destroyed it in WWII.