At Home in the World

I like to think I grew up in Germany. Technically, I was born and raised in Smalltown, Michigan, but nothing that happened there can compare to the profound changes I went through during my college semester abroad.

After twenty-some hours of traveling with four stuffed suitcases I was ready to meet my new home. I felt just like I thought I would when we finally hit the pavement. I was excited, relieved, scared and curious. The uneven busy streets were overflowing with blooming gardens, fragrant bakeries and decadent cafes. The customary urban scent of sewage and smog hid behind a divine bouquet of baking bread, espresso, Kebab, fresh produce and crêpes. I was so exhausted I barely had time to appreciate it.

While waiting around for orientation to start, all I wanted was a latte. Within a block of my apartment I found a café and ordered an Eiskaffee, assuming it was a simple iced coffee. I tried stirring the bitter espresso into the barely sweetened gelato, but it was to no avail and my jet lag continued to plague me.

At dinner I couldn’t find anything on the menu to eat but spaghetti, which became my staple restaurant food for months. I felt stupid not knowing how to order politely and the sparkling mineral water left a bitter taste in my mouth.

My new studio apartment featured a pleasant view of gardens and a sidewalk where pedestrians and cyclists frequently passed by. Something about watching other people relax helped me to unwind, though it was difficult on my stiff, couch-like bed topped with one tiny pillow and itchy wool blankets. This was nothing like my fluffy down comforter and plethora of pillows at home. I found little comfort in a bed with no comforter.

It took thirty minutes to get to class since I was afraid to take the bus, knowing I would somehow humiliate myself if I tried. The 286 would pass by me three times on my walk, taunting me for being afraid of something so simple.

I ate Ramen noodles every day for weeks to soothe my salt cravings brought on by the missing preservatives in fresh European foods. I spent hours looking for strawberry yogurt without fruit chunks in it only to find that fruit-flavored products in Germany almost always have actual fruit in them.

Somewhere near the point of cultural starvation I broke down and started trying new things. I ate things I couldn’t pronounce or translate. I took side trips down unfamiliar streets, knowing I would get lost but not caring.

Unfamiliar faces welcomed me warmly as I traveled from place to place. I learned to respond in French, Italian, Czech, Dutch and various dialects of English and German. Each time I left Germany I felt more at home when I returned.

Something about balancing an eight-ounce latte on my lap while eating a cheese baguette on the train with my ipod playing and my homework at rest deeply satisfied me. Blending in and navigating cobblestone streets in stilettos put me on top of the world. I finally got it.

Winter blew in and parks disappeared into hibernation. The dancing aromas of mulled wine, gingerbread cakes and spiced bratwurst filled the public squares along Main Street on my route to the old town palace where my classes were held. Christmas was coming, and so was my family.

My mother and sister arrived in Nuremberg twelve hours late on Christmas Eve after being lost at least a dozen times. From then on in every train, bus, or subway we took, I had to explain when to sit, when to stand, up, down, left, right, don’t talk, don’t fall, suitcase over there, watch your step, everything. I realized how far I had come in understanding Germany. I taught them how to navigate stores, restaurants, churches, hotels, transportation, even people.

January was bitter cold. A sinister cloud of my former reality lurked over my head all month. I’d have to return to my old friends, dorm, classes, town, car and personality. They’d expect me to be the same, but I wasn’t. I had finally figured out who I was, independent of peer pressure to like certain clothes, music, cars, books and entertainment. I couldn’t care any less about the things I used to spend my time obsessing about.

I said goodbyes and spent my cleaning deposit on one last hurrah at the Irish pub where I had discovered love and Strongbow cider. I stayed up all night tying up the tangible loose ends in my apartment, sorting mementos from junk and deciding what to take with me and what to leave. What I ended up leaving behind was my true self. I had just barely made sense of everything, and had too little time to simply enjoy and live it. I was at an end with no closure.

Months later I returned for a visit to enjoy the festival-laden German summer wearing a new pair of glasses. Everything looked crystal clear after my hiatus away from it all. I knew I’d have to make the move permanent. With a crisp glass of sparkling water and a slice of rye bread topped with fresh Swiss cheese I’m content. Germany is my home in the world.