The Bell Tolls

Yesterday, as it darkened to evening, the bells of the cathedral were tolling the hour with slow and deep clangs. Walking over the cobblestone street, I passed a church and a statue of the crucifix with a sliver of blood flowing over Jesus' ribs. I pulled my coat tighter against the February wind and noticed one of the town pubs was already lit with candle lanterns. As I hurried through the market square, the massive, stone Rathhaus looming next to me, a flower peddler was trying to make one, last sale for the night. And I thought,

"When did I enter a Charles Dickens novel?."

I was suddenly walking along in the 1800's. I was dressed all wrong for it. But it was pretty fantastic.

Austrian Tribute

I was in Vienna last weekend. Austria. Ahh. It's like a hot cup of tea.

The city, and the people have a certain charm and lively color that make me enjoy being there. It was years ago when I flew into Vienna for the first time, far away from home, scared, gripping my Langenscheidt English to German dictionary. Little did I know, there is no classroom German in Austria. My dictionary was never going to help me. If it had, it would have had translations for dialect phrases like i a ned, des is a woahnsinn, oida voda heast, and brauch ma no wos.

Slowly, very slowly, those strange phrases and vowel twistings became familiar to me. Going back to Vienna after living in Germany for several months was like hearing a friendly song.

And here's a famous one from Rainhard Fendrich:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KMSa_xb2h5U

The Doors

Note: Anyone who may be looking for a post about the musicians should go elsewhere. I don't even know what they sing.

Since I set foot in Germany - and this goes for you, too, Austria - I have lost the ability to open doors properly. In the States, I find this daily activity requires no thinking. I walk into buildings quite easily. But here? Oh, you doors. How you aim to fool me.

When you walk into, let's say, a bank in the States, how do you open the door?

You pull.

This means when leaving the bank, you push. This is the way it is. My brain has been trained to open doors this way. And it's logical to me. Let's say, however, it's the other way around and there's a stampede inside your Chase or TCF or whatever financial institution you use. Before the first stampeder can pull the door open, the other stampeders have already flung him against it, trapping everyone inside. Not pretty. And I don't get it.

The thing that adds to my perplexity is that the doors aren't always opposite from ours. When you walk up to the entrance of a building, it's a guessing game. I can't rely on door consistency. Is it a pusher or a puller? Why do I even have to question this? But really, I have a 50-50 chance with every door, how hard can this be? No matter, they still manage to make a fool of me.

And then there is the unsettling locking issue. It's completely understandable that doors lock from the outside. When you come back, you take out your key and open the door. But here, doors lock from the inside. Now, think about that while picturing the door to the room your in slowly closing. I'm pretty sure that's in some horror movie somewhere and a creepy, little girl in a white dress whispers "The doors lock... from the inside."

If someone is not currently having office hours at work, the door gets locked. If you're visiting them, they have to get their key to let you out. WHAT IF THERE'S A FIRE?! I don't know about you, but my keys are not in a fire-ly accessible kind of place. They are swimming around in a purse pocket and if our office door is locked from the inside, my office mate and I have a better chance of survival by jumping out of our 6th story window before I find my key.

So first I'm the ignoramus who can't open the door. And then I'm the weirdo who doesn't want the door to close. I'm certainly not making good impressions for Americans with all this door tomfoolery.

January

Dear January blog,

I am in February now. I neglegted you and I'm sorry. Perhaps next year we can try again.

Warm regards,
Heidi

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.