A Little First Class Goes a Long Way

My travel woes vanished as soon as I boarded my long flight from Paris to Detroit. Through all the re-booking of my canceled flights, I miraculously ended up with a first class seat. Oh heavenly, heavenly day. As I looked wondrously at the recliner I would sit in, the flight attendant took my coat and hung it up. He came back to ask if I’d like a glass of champagne. I think I cried inside with joy and a flower bloomed in my heart.

Train Trio

I had never been to the train station at 3 o’clock in the morning before this weekend. I do rather love new experiences and I will stow this one in my memory bank for years to come. And when I think back on the experience, I will hope to never experience it again.

As I walked in to the Aachen main train station at 3am, utterly tired and irritable, I found out where all of the homeless people sleep. As I shivered and tugged my scarf, I did have the wherewithal and energy to feel thankful and blessed that somewhere I had a comfortable bed to sleep in and I did not have to live in the Bahnhof. The Obdachloser, the roofless in German, looked like a troop of boy scouts at a camp out all snuggled on the cold floor of the station in their sleeping bags. I felt rather like I was intruding on their personal space.

But I learned that in the wee hours of the morning you do not just see the homeless. This is where one apparently ends up when they have consumed, or are still consuming, generous amounts of alcohol. I wasn’t sure whether or not to feel apprehensive or intrigued, and I think I felt both in my sluggish stupor. Everywhere I looked, swaying people peered at me or ignored me with glassy eyes or crooked grins. Some spoke emphatically and passionately the way inebriated people can, pointing their fingers and waving hands to make their words clearer. Others lolled their heads around, no longer concentrating on the world around them and apparently feeling as tired as I did. The club-goers seemed to have also moved their parties to the train stations at that hour and I dodged high-fiving guys and girls in very short skirts.

I had three trains to take to get to the Duesseldorf airport. The first train I simply gave the world the skunk eye I wondered why on earth anyone would be up at that God forsaken hour to take a train somewhere. What was I doing taking a train at that hour to try and catch a plane I wasn’t even booked on?

The second train had clearly been the party transportation. I sat in a compartment with a window freshly doused in party puke. And if the stench hadn’t let me know it was all-too recently thrown up, I knew for sure after I stepped in what was covering the aisle. Fresh and sticky vomit. The large, bloodshot eyed (however, no more bloodshot than my own) man in my compartment dealt with it by drinking Jaegermeister. It was now approximately 5am.

On my third train, I had stowed my suitcase where I could not see it and I was so tired I had a moment of panic, certain I had forgotten it on another train. No. Whew. It was still there. I then enjoyed the chatty Serbian man who was very focused on the quality of water in Aachen, and Bill Cosby. I’m not sure there was a connection between the two.

Don't Forget Your Flexibility

Sometimes, things just don't go as planned. Today was not my day for public transportation.

I am scheduled to be on a flight to Amsterdam right now. I'm not on it. At 7am this morning my wonderful mother, who I just know is all ready for me to be home so we can go shopping, calls to tell me that Washington won't accept any flights due to snow predictions. That means I won't get my second or third flight. Yet my first flight from Duesseldorf to Amsterdam is still supposedly a go.

What to do, what to do?

Luggage dragging, the sun not yet up, and frigid temperatures outside, the choice is made. Taxi to the train station and an hour and a half train ride to the Duesseldorf airport.

Trains are a wonderful invention. Yet, it never fails. When you have a plane to catch, something will go wrong.

Half way to Duesseldorf, the train slows down. And stops. Chemical spill on the tracks. The route has been shut down. At this point, you mainly have two options. Sit for hours on a stationary train. Or get off and go out into the cold world to try your luck with something else. Man, it is cold.

Dozens of people watching their breath and huddling into themselves are standing outside awaiting taxis, or rides, or for some magic bus to come and get them. The taxi to Duesseldorf will be more than 120 Euros. And no guarantee I'll make my flight. Coffee in the warm train station cafe is 2 Euro and 10 cents. The coffee wins. It's time to call the airline and catch a train back to Aachen. Sometimes you have to call it a day.

After a few conversations with other cranky train passengers and a hot cup of coffee, there is good news. All of my flights have been canceled. Really, that is good news. That means they will have to re-book me for tomorrow.

On the way home, our main street is shut down. There's been a gas explosion in someone's apartment.

Let's try again tomorrow. Only this time I need to be up at 4am to catch the train to Duesseldorf at 5am. Detroit or bust. Flexibility is packed.

Duck It Up

Since I have put my pescatarianism on hiatus while I'm abroad - don't ask why, I just did - I thought it would be a fantastic idea to cook some type of bird in honor of Thanksgiving at home. Our oven, however, isn't much more than a shoe box, and a proper turkey wasn't going to work. I settled on duck. Duck is a meat I used to salivate for back in the days when I just didn't eat beef.

The only thing is... I have never cooked an entire flying animal in my life. All I know is that a turkey goes in the oven and people have to get up at ungodly hours to do it. My aunt and cousin can cook a turkey in their sleep. I have neglected this rite of passage; and I still sit at the kid's table on Thanksgiving.

The duck was going to be my initiation. I found an organic butcher and he assured me the duck I was buying was a mighty fine specimen.

I got home, excited and nervous, and unwrapped my new duck. As soon as the neck fell out of its body cavity, I questioned if learning how to cook this was really necessary.

Yet I forged ahead. I salted it and peppered it. I turned the oven on to something Celsius that seemed hot and I clumsily stuck the duck on the oven rack. Little did I know that duck spews hot fat everywhere. The oven now screamed indignantly for a cleaning.

Somewhere along the way the duck started to smoke more than I felt a duck should smoke while it's cooking. Hmm. Maybe this means it's done. Indeed, the duck came out of the oven and was set gently on my blue, plastic cutting board. Nothing but the best for my duck. No really, I don't own a lot here, so that actually is the best I have.

Now for gravy. I called my mom to double check how to make the yummy gravy she always had on the table for pot roast and the like. She told me the steps and I was off to mix my duck fat with flour and water!

Hmm. My gravy still tastes like duck fat. With flour and water in it. Maybe some salt. And more flour and water.

Crap. Now it's salty duck fat pudding.

Gravy aside, the duck was delicious. I showed my respect by picking the bones clean.

House Shoes Rules

My roommates think I was raised in the jungle.

It was actually just the outskirts of Detroit. Not jungle-like at all. Yet, they are pretty sure there must have been jungle nearby. This is mainly because I don't wear house shoes. House shoes are shoes you put on after you take your shoes off. This makes sense, yes? They are quite like slippers, plastic sandals, anything that prevents your feet from touching the floor.

Socks do not count, I have discovered.

But I don't wear them, these house shoes. Well, I didn't. Until I was asked enough times why I wasn't wearing any and if my feet were cold and maybe I would get sick and weren't my socks getting dirty and really, Americans don't wear house shoes?

Alas, we are barbarians. I gave in to the cultural pressure and bought house shoes.

They cost me €4.95, approximately $7.00. They are fuzzy and warm. They have a light leopard print. And I forget them in my room. In the kitchen. The bathroom. Everywhere.

But, the point is, I have them. I am culturally aware.

Down and Up

There are days when living abroad feels like a dream. Charming and romantic, happy. Like I am where I'm supposed to be. And there are days, of course, where I slide down faster than I climb up. When my Mut, my courage, dips a little, or my self-confidence doesn't keep pace with my day.

Sometimes I don't know why. Sometimes I do. Maybe it's because I didn't have a proper breakfast. Or because I'm pretty sure I'm wearing a shirt my cat peed on weeks ago and I didn't notice. Until I got to work. Maybe it's my lack of language grace. Or Germans telling me they don't actually like the Christmas markets. Maybe it's none of those things. Aside from the cat pee one.

What I know now, though, that maybe didn't occur to me on other stays abroad, is that a day can go down or it can go up. No matter where I am in the world.

IKEA Adventures

I don't speak Dutch. Even though it sounds quite like a mixture of English and German. You would think that by those characteristics, I do speak Dutch. But, the thing is, I still don't. It doesn't quite add up.

This shortfall in my language abilities became apparent when my roommate and I searched for my bed frame and bedside table at the Netherlands IKEA in Herrlen. Walking around through the chaotic maze, I could clearly see what the objects were that I was looking at. Yet, because the description tag read Hemnes Nachttafeltje or Belangrijkste voordelen or Fauteuil, I felt I could not properly assess the objects. It was as if I needed to understand the name in order to really know what it was. How could I be sure it was a bed frame? Was it really a night table? Maybe it was a special night table and its name held the secret to its specialty. Oh you Nachtafeltje. Maybe you are intended for a completely different usage than I think and I would be using you improperly. I felt out of sorts and unsettled by this.

In the end, though, they were the right price. I was forced to shrug off the nagging feeling that I could be misrepresenting IKEA furniture by disrespecting its intended usage.

The remaining problem was, we were just two people, with three large and heavy boxes, in the Netherlands, and needing to get back to Aachen. Taxis refused as I swayed under the weight of my 6 foot long bed frame box. The buses and trains were our only option. Yet, there were no proper-sized buses passing by Dutch IKEA. Eight passengers only on these buses. Eight passengers. How can they even call it a bus?

The bus driver arrived, surveyed the growing number of people wanting on her bus and then made us choose who got on and who was to be left behind. What a cruel, last-to-be-picked-for-kickball method of transportation. Luckily, a very kind Dutch-Middle Eastern family felt sympathy for our strange foreignness and large packages. They made sure we were let on the bus.

The only thing was, nine people got on the eight passenger bus. Our boxes were already stowed between seats when the bus driver looked at her passengers with bitter annoyance and ordered someone to get off. In Dutch, of course. But unlike with the names of my new furniture, sometimes, you just don't need to understand the words to know the meaning. Fortunately, a suitable solution was drawn. Someone else was kicked off the bus. We remained with our packages and drove off to maneuver the train station.

Coffee Shop

I was offered pot yesterday. Truthfully, I can't be positive that's what he was selling. But, really, why else was I approached in a train station by a very random 20-something guy who asked if I was in the Netherlands for "coffee shop". There's no other reason, we all know it.

And the same, random, 20-something guy actually approached me twice.

The first time I was dragging my bike up a flight of stairs when he yelled to me, while he was on his cell phone, "WHERE ARE YOU FROM?" I ignored him that time.

The second time, Random Guy approached and asked me all sorts of questions like he was taking a train station survey. How are you? Where are you from? Deutschland? States? What are you doing here? Coffee shop? When I said "Working." he waved his cigarette at me - "Oh." - and went to find someone else who had the right answers.

The thing is, my roommate was standing next to me on both occasions, but only I was solicited. So my question is, do I look like I go to the Netherlands for coffee shop?

My Brain is Sleeping on the Job

Has anyone started a new job recently? Do you remember that feeling when you come home and it just feels so good to let your brain free-fall. I'm not talking about drugs, that's another kind of free-fall I'm not in to. Just that feeling that you finally get to rest your brain from taking in so much new information.

And for you foreign language speakers, you know that feeling of speaking all in another language that doesn't just fall out of your mouth naturally? Some mornings I think it takes more time to rev up my brain. I'm not even certain it's always hooked up to my tongue. There is definitely a lack of a symbiotic relationship going on at times. Usually when I want to say something clever or intelligent.

Not Prostitutes. Not Pigs. Better. Way Better.

The third time really is the charm, people, when it comes to neighborhoods. And I hit the jackpot on this one.

The first time I spun the apartment wheel, I got prostitutes on my street. They were Vienna prostitutes, of course, so it's not as bad as it sounds. They aren't our typical Michigan Avenue street walker. I never felt in danger, and in fact, I quite enjoyed seeing how high their boots could get to their hip bones. They even had sassy umbrellas for the Vienna rainy season. More prepared than boy scouts, it seems. But still, not necessarily something you request to live near.

The second time I spun the apartment wheel I got pigs going to slaughter. I'll be honest, I preferred the prostitutes. Pigs screeching before they are about to die is rather haunting. Take my advice and ask if there are slaughter houses next door before you sign. But it was certainly an interesting experience.

So this time, I spun again. Complete luck of the draw. And I got chocolate. I now live next door to Lindt. And not just a shop. The Lindt factory. Where they make the chocolate. Mornings are filled with chilly air and the wonderful smell of melted chocolate. My ride home is just as cozy. How very nice, my neighbor is Charlie and his Chocolate Factory.

With or Without

I think I’ve done 23 flights, give or take a few, to Europe and back. Twenty-two of them were just me. No, no companion. Aisle seat, please. Two bags. Finally my 23^rd flight, my mom decided to go with me. No more of this sitting next to the business man who opens his Excel spreadsheet the moment after he stows his carry-on. He also sleeps in his shirt and tie and dress pants. I don’t get that. We don’t really talk. Not this time, though. I have someone to drag luggage with, someone to share the armrest with, someone to give my disgusting jello to. Mom doesn’t want it either, though. Let’s face it, it’s gross and even a mother’s love is not willing to go that far. She does talk me into getting one of those mini bottles of wine, however. And doesn’t drink any. I think she just wants the bottle to use as a vase later and is offering me up as the airplane lush.

Of course, there are pros to flying with and pros to flying without. Flying alone means I can say anything I want to people. They’ll never see me again. Or I can say nothing. And I can indulge in hours of playing Professor Layton’s Curious Village on my Nintendo DS. Hours and hours. Sometimes I'm unstoppable. And I don’t have to stop, because really, there’s nothing else to do.

But then, there’s no one to laugh with about running to catch a packed train with 200 lbs of luggage. This time there was.