The first 36

Let’s set something straight: we have already invented time travel, only we call it flying overseas.  Two days ago I raced east as the sun headed west, and by the time we met again high above the frigid seas of the north Atlantic, I had lost several hours of my September 1, 2015 down some scientific worm hole or another.  That date had been permanently truncated for me by a sizeable aluminum bird, built by human minds.  This is one of the many things that I contemplated on the train ride from Frankfurt to Freiburg, hurtling through the red-roofed countryside at 190 km/h on tracks so smooth that the locomotive’s noise was little more than a susurration. The gentle swaying of the carriage constantly threatened to pull my exhausted mind over the edge into sleep, but I fought it to make sure I disembarked at the right stop.

There are so many hurdles to clear when you find yourself in a foreign country; some are tiny while others will make you stumble, some you instantly forget and some you’ll remember forever.  My Marquette-to-Freiburg jaunt encompassed too many to mention, but after 18 hours of solid travel, I emerged from the underbelly of Freiburg’s Hauptbahnhof* like a smelly and jetlagged butterfly, ready to greet my new home.  I made the enlightened decision to walk my luggage to the hostel using nothing more than a few pictures of maps on my phone that I had hastily screenshot before leaving Detroit.  It was a 20-minute walk over small cobblestones – which likely had the power to void any warranty that my roller bag carried – along a winding road frequented by near-silent trams. City center proper was a tangled web of tram tracks, punctuated here and there by a wayward city bus and absolutely crawling with people of all ages and nationalities, walking in all directions and apparently there only to enjoy the day (and to give the trams something to beep at).

After losing my way three times not getting lost at all, I arrived at the Black Forest Hostel. Hostels in general are a mixed bag, ranging from incredible to rustic to frankly a bit confusing. They also tend to attract an eclectic bunch, although this is likely due less to the nature of hostels than to the dint of the backpackers themselves. This one was tucked away down a wide but short alley, abutting a canal so closely that it seemed one bad night away from falling in. Not 40 feet away across the channel, a hill so steep it was almost a cliff shot up out of the ground, filling half the sky and ineffably covered in grapevines as far as the eye could see (left). One wonders whether the Germans’ love of planting vineyards in near-vertical locations is necessary or just a way to test their legendary engineering skills. While the inside of the hostel was spartan, one look out any window left me with no doubt that I was somewhere extraordinary.

I must say that there are not many things that are better than a shower and sleep after 18 hours of international travel, even when the shower resembles something out of a bad remake of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (Exhibit A –>). The only thing I remember after my head hit the pillow was that I woke up when a new backpacker came in the room around midnight; I was alert just long enough to look around and frantically laugh and gurgle some gibberish at the hotel employee who asked me a question or something.**

The next morning I felt human again. I returned to town to take care of things for my language class, and it was here that I hit my first major German hurdle. Now, before I start this story, let’s go over the 3 major ways in which one can handle oneself in Germany, as told from personal experience:

1. Closely associate yourself with people who are German and know exactly how to function in their own society. (Technique employed during first trip in 2004 with host family).
2. Have your trip planned out in advance. Don’t over-plan, but have most things booked and know the essential facts about all destinations (10-day vacation in 2012).
3. Hit the ground running with nothing more than one night’s reservation, some pictures of a Google map that represent approximately 1/50 of town, and a vague recognition that you’ll spend the next few weeks just flying around by the seat of your pants, all because you’ve been to Germany before and “totally have that place figured out” (Yesterday).

To be fair, all of these strategies have their pros and cons. But let me tell you, if you employ that last one, you’d better be prepared to pay some fines.

So the story goes, I boarded a tram to get to my lodging for the first month, because it was too far to walk even without luggage. The driver was all penned up in his cockpit, with a tiny window that I could barely see through, and I couldn’t figure out how to ask him for a ticket before the tram lurched off down the street. I looked down the first and second cars and all I could see were these little red boxes with nothing on them but a tiny slot, presumably for punching existing tickets. Alright, I thought, I must have missed something on the street; I’ll just wait for my stop and figure it out there. This was a great plan until Herr Ticket Police hopped aboard and worked his way down to me, then demanded 60 Euros because I didn’t have a ticket (which on its own would have cost 2.20). Thinking I was paying for a monthly tram pass, I relented easily – only to find out that this was literally just a fine (almost 3000% of the fare), and I still had to get a pass. Ah, Germany, you wonderful, unrelenting, absurdly rule-filled country. I’m sure this will be the first of many faux-pas, although hopefully also the most expensive. I’d hate to run out of beer money in October.

I was really annoyed about all of this until I found a gelato shop. Remember when I said that there are not many things that are better than a shower and sleep after 24 hours of international travel? Well, gelato absolutely is one of those things. Gelato is solidified heaven in a cone. Gelato – and I mean the real stuff, not what you find in American supermarket freezers – is the perfect food. You can keep your lasagna and meatloaf and chicken noodle soup, Grandma; this is real soul food. Eating gelato while sitting on a bench under a German tree in a square ringed by buildings older than your home country, listening to a hundred conversations in four different languages, watching slender dogs politely pick their way among accordion-playing street musicians – now that, my friends, is Europe. This is why I repeatedly endure all of the hiccups and headaches inherently associated with traveling. Not gelato specifically (okay, a little bit gelato specifically), but immersion in another culture, dealing with problems I never saw coming and realizing just how much I’m capable of, and setting up a new life after I launched myself so far out of my comfort zone that I may as well be in a new galaxy. I think I’ll stay here awhile.

Oh, and incidentally, I haven’t seen a Ticket Policeman since. Life.

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*Main train station

** If I hadn’t woken up to find a new half-naked person in one of the beds across the room the next morning, I would’ve thought I’d dreamt all this.