Kendall- Erste

Outside my small window, occasional blackbirds and pigeons wing over the dusky rooftops of central Münster. That I’m even here to witness such feathered frivolity has not quite registered in my sleep-deprived brain. For months I have waited not-so-patiently for my day of departure, and yet when the moment arrived to stroll away into the airport’s vast hive, I felt seized by fear and apprehension. What if I forgot something? What if no one could understand me? What if I ended up looking like a complete moron? Or worse, a loud, stereotypical American? (Side note: it’s not that there is anything wrong with being American, but we cannot deny that some of the country’s residents carry with them a certain stench of tourist entitlement) Nevertheless, I cleared through check-in and security in record time (16 minutes), had over an hour to play idly with my phone until the plane arrived.

Allow me make one thing very clear before we continue: I do not like to fly in airplanes. If I had wings of my own, I’m sure I would never touch the ground again. But the confined space, stale air, staler food, and startling jolts overshadow any possible positive that can be associated with airplanes. The first flight wasn’t so bad; a quick hop from Tampa to Philadelphia with no delays. The second flight was worse. After several long hours twiddling away in the airport of “brotherly love” and a maintenance delay, a shuffling line of anxious passengers filed into the belly of the beast and took their seats. It would be another 7 hours and 13 minutes before the Earth would grip the wheels of the plane again. I sat in the window seat and the other seat remained vacant, so space wasn’t so much of an issue. As we passed over the city and towards the Atlantic, Fourth of July fireworks sprang up in all their glittery glory across the skyline (but well beneath our altitude, of course). It was Independence Day in Philadelphia, and even I couldn’t help but feel a little patriotic.

The colorful splashes of light soon disappeared underneath wide currents of clouds. Hurricane Arthur lingered just to the North; safely away from the aircraft, but close enough that his lashes of wind would jostle the plane a bit and my blood would freeze with icy adrenaline. As we passed over the ocean, I stared unseeing at the back of the chair in front of me and constantly prepared myself for imminent death. Several times I was sure that I was about to be in an episode of Lost and contemplated how I was going to survive on a deserted island. I wish I could say I was exaggerating.

Finally, against all the odds, we made it to the Frankfurt airport. Alone and uncertain, I passed unscathed through customs and border control, collected my bags, and went in search of the train station. Luckily, it was located at the next terminal and a free shuttle bus wove through the traffic without hassle. The train ride, too, was uneventful. I had never ridden a train before; at least, not since I was very, very young. After speaking with two different people in smart blue uniforms, I had a ticket and a four hour train ride to Münster. Once off the train, I caught a taxi and headed toward the home of my host. Münster is the bike capital of Germany, and as I gazed sore and sleepy out the cab window, that title could not have been more validated. Bikes are everywhere. Hundreds of bikes stacked against each other or next buildings or around a lonely tree. And yet, even with this mess of tires and aluminum frames, the city still appeared organized and clean.

Huddled on the cobblestone roads of an Old World, shops, stores, and small apartment buildings crowded together in quaint lines. The calm waters of the Aasee churn beneath gliding sail boats and wash gently against a grassy bank dotted with picnickers. After a few attempts to find my host’s home, I finally pressed the buzzer for a small five story apartment building. I don’t know how else to describe the buildings without just saying “European” because that’s just what they look like. My host, Claudia, lives on the top floor, and together we hauled up two suitcases to her front door. She’s a writer, mostly of poetry but also short stories. Luckily she is very patient with my broken German and understands English. Most people in Germany speak English anyway, which is a nice safety net for a beginner still struggling with situations like ordering food or paying for groceries.

The apartment is small, but in a cozy way. A portion of the kitchen is overtaken by large bird cages housing my five cockatiel roommates. My room is comfortable, with a good sized window facing out over the rooftops. After chatting with my host and unpacking, I went on a short walk to explore and then bought groceries at the corner supermarket.

And with that thrilling conclusion, I will save the rest of my tale for another post. Not surprisingly, I am absolutely exhausted after typing this episode, but even now at 9:00pm, the sun has only begun to set (my internal clock is throwing a tantrum). Until next time! Tschüss!

Culture Notes:

1. Don’t walk on the red sidewalk. I REPEAT: DO NOT WALK ON THE RED SIDEWALK.
2. When you walk into the supermarket, be prepared to say “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore” because you most assuredly are not. For one, Germans don’t believe in giving you environmentally harmful plastic (or paper) bags for your groceries. Bring something to carry your stuff or grow extra arms. I’m serious.
3. Also, bring 50 cents for the shopping carts, or else you will be performing some balancing acts. Why 50 cents? The carts have an interesting lock mechanism on them, so that you can’t separate a cart from the stacked line of other carts until you push your money into a special slot. But don’t worry; when you return the cart back to its place, you get your money back.
4. Air-conditioning is not a thing.