New Favorite German City

I spent Easter weekend with Boyfriend's family. His family lives just north of Berlin. As we were driving south, down to Dresden, where Boyfriend currently lives and studies. I mentioned that I think of Berlin as my favorite German city.

"Just wait." Boyfriend said, "You haven't seen Dresden yet."

I explained that I had. I had spent one week at the end of January 2009 in the smaller city of Dresden. It was bleeping cold. I was sick with an undiagnosed thyroid issue, and the most I remember from Dresden is falling asleep once I sat down in all the museums.

I remembered it as a grey, rich with history, freezing cold city.

We entered Dresden by car, and came down a hill that overlooked the city. The rooftops were shiny in the sunlight, the church spires tall, and there were blooming lilacs on every corner. I took as many blurry pictures from the car windows as my dying iPhone battery allowed.

View from Boyfriend's apartment.

The next day was a three hour cruise down the River Elbe, stopping and turning around at a grand palace partway down the river. The Elbe is now a resort area for Germany's rich and famous, and the old chateaus and palaces are cleaned up and stunning with vineyards and gardens.

 Oh look, just another castle. 

 The "Blue Wonder Bridge" an engineering miracle. 

Dresden was horribly bombed by the allied forces towards the end of WWII, and lost majority of its amazing architecture. During the war the city was a refugee center for women and children, and is where the Germans hid most of the valuable art. When the bombing began, many people fled to the large church, the Frauenkirche (Church of our Lady). The church was also destroyed. Rebuilt years later, the cross on top of the church was created and welded in Britain, and given as a gift to the city. While rebuilding the church, many of the same bricks were used. Which creates the patchwork architecture.

 Frauenkirche 

 Semperoper (Semper Opera House) 

 Zwinger, a palace in the city

 That was full of tourists (like me) I got trapped in an Italian travel group for a bit. 

Both of these buildings (the one in the back to the right is the Frauenkirche) are part of the Art Academy. The gold winged statue to the left is the goddess Nike, goddess of victory. Reminding everyone that art triumphs over all. 

 View of the Old City from the top of a church 

Just another street. 

Wednesday Boyfriend took me to the Grossergarten (the translation is simply, Big Garden) a huge park with a lot to offer. We had a picnic next to a kiddie train that ran around the entire park. 

Then started exploring. The flowers were blooming, ducks quacking, and more people than I realized were stuck in the nineties and rollerblading everywhere.

And as German custom has it, you turn a corner and there is a palace. 

Which had just been a simple summer home for some German king.

In true European Romantic fashion the sun began to set, and everything was beautiful and perfect. 

I spent all Thursday wandering the city. Going through the old buildings and palaces that I remember touring with my university. Then I headed to the new city, primarily the Kunstpassage, or art walk. I had a map, and directions, but wandered down one street and up another before seeing anything. Then I saw a man with a fanny pack and a large camera and followed him. The passage was between the two streets, in a courtyard. And was one of my favorite sites in the entire city. 

The buildings had been designed with cool facades. The buildings themselves housed apartments, and cute cafes and artsy shops. I loved it.

It happened to be garbage day on that Thursday. And the air smelled like warm cheese and old paper. I wandered the streets, covered with graffiti that was poignant and expected; a silhouette of Audrey Hepburn, a mouse eating a cat. 

I passed young men slurping ice cream cones as their frayed MC Hammer pants swayed in the breeze. An old woman grumbled as she shifted through a newspaper her pumpkin orange hair slightly greying. Artists shove cards depicting their pottery or felt necklaces into your hands, and they soon litter the sidewalk, reminiscent of Las Vegas. The tram stopped too soon. The beer garden started selling fish sandwiches at noon. Children hid in the lilacs, squealing.

Dresden had captured my heart. It had the sensibility of Frankfurt, the art of Berlin, and the chill West Coast vibe of San Francisco. 

Party in the DE

It has been awhile. And now I am using time on the train, and the fact that I decided to take my computer this weekend, to catch up on blog posts. First off, I will touch on a few subjects that are quite in the past. And I am sorry about that. But hopefully, by the time this train makes it to Essen (about an hour) I will have a good amount written (but not posted, as there is no Internet on this train, but the details of train travel will come later).

One of the number one things that Americans, and really the rest of the world, associates with Germany is Oktoberfest. And really, the Germans just like to party. The weekend before Lent begins, known in America as Mardi Gras, summed up this party experience. To the rest of the world, its called Carnival (Karnival). I traveled to Düsseldorf and Köln (Cologne)to partake in the partying before the 40 days and 40 nights fast began.

I was told that to “fit in” during Karnival, one must wear a costume. Finding a costume on a budget, in a foreign country, was going to prove difficult. So I looked at my wardrobe, and make the realistic choice, a cowgirl. I had jeans, I had lace up brown boots, I had a denim button down shirt. I could braid my hair, and find a cowboy hat. In strolling through the Dutch version of Target, I found small red, white, and blue pinwheels, that I fixed to bobby pins and added to my braided hair. I splurged a bit, and bought supplies for a real Karnival mask, mainly glitter glue, feathers, and well the mask.

Once adorned in Red, White, and Blue Cowgirl Pride, I set out to the party. Elin was dressed as a 50’s Rockabilly girl, and Myrthe as Robin Hood. We first wandered the streets of Düsseldorf, saw the day time party that included great deals on cocktails, full families dressed up in matching costumes, and delicious crepes. After finding four Waldos having a beer, and seeing boys dressed in cat costumes climb trees, we hopped the train to where the real party was supposed to happen, Köln.

Our group then a bunch of strangers dressed up in quite the elaborate costumes

Düsseldorf and Köln have a rivalry, and each has their own city song. One must not sing on song in the rival city. And the only Karnival song we knew was “Viva Kölnia”.

It was dark by the time we arrived in the great city, and we first holed up in the only place one can find free Wifi in Germany, Starbucks. Even the baristas were dressed up.

We were meeting other au pairs and friends from around the country who had planned to be in the city that weekend. After a few minutes of waiting, our group of three, two Dutch and one American, grew to a loud, fun group of fifteen, including American, British, and Spanish au pairs, as well as friends from Germany, Spain, and Mexico. I had never heard more Spanish spoke in Germany.

From the train station we set off into the night. The Köln Hauptbahnhof sits right next to one of the grandest cathedrals I have ever seen. And right in front of the cathedral was a drum line concert, people blowing bubbles, singing, drinking, and of course, partying.

We passed wine and beer bottles around, and headed into the crowd. After moving from party to party, crossing the parade route, we found ourselves on a street that ran parallel to the Rhein River. We set up camp, near a cheap beer stand, and started dancing. As it was February, it was freezing, and beer and dancing kept one warm. We met more Americans, other Germans, and heard about every European language. Köln is known for its parting, and its partying is known for Karnival. Sometime in the early morning we convened and headed home.

Now that I have experienced a real Karnival, with broken beer bottles at every step, fireworks set off in the streets, and bands setting up and playing at will on the sidewalks. With smoke and bubbles in the air, a 1000 year old cathedral lit up with golden lights, and an entire city, complete with international tourists, coming together to sing one song, Now I know why one must rest and fast for forty days and forty nights.

Along with Karnival, I have attended other parties and celebrations in Germany. Most recently my own small city’s Wine Fest and a near by city’s Kirmes or city fair.

The Kirmes, while free to get in, was expensive for any food, drink, or tickets for rides. My group, once again, was diverse. It was the usual suspects, the other au pair girls from the area, another America, a Dutch girl, and a girl from Spain. In addition to our foursome, we had invited two people from my German class, another girl from Spain who taught Spanish in Germany, and a young man from Pakistan who worked as an engineer at a nearby rubber plant. All together we spoke a mix of English, German, Spanish, and for the first time I heard Catalonia. A dialect from southern Spain.

The Kirmes was like any state fair, just without the animals. And like any state fair, we gorged ourselves on fair food. However, instead of hamburgers and funnel cakes, we had corn on the cob, fries topped with curry sauce and onions, and of course, crepes.

We all decided to buy tickets to one ride, a fun house that was themed in a mix of Caribbean, Spanish, Mexican, with a touch of Hawaiian. We were given leis, and told to take a shot of tequila before jumping on wobbling stepping stones in two feet of water. After climbing a robe ladder and sprinting down moving sidewalks, we played on tilting surfboards and laughed our way to the the exit, a replica of a tug boat.

We then ate more food, sauteed mushrooms in garlic sauce, churros, and real cotton candy.

The Wine Fest in Marl was a small event, taking place in the open air market that I often take Eliano to walk through. In front of my favorite pharmacy was an American Hot Dog stand, and down the way was of course, more crepes. The wine was German wine, made from sweet grapes of the river valleys, or more dry from the south. Either way it was delicious and only five blocks from my house. The DJ played Glee covers of old rock songs and the middle aged of Marl danced their heart away. The girls and I were not only the only ones speaking English, we were the only ones under the age of 45. It was relaxed, and fun, and a great way to kick off a weekend.

4th Trip to Frankfurt: Becoming a Tour Guide for an Actual German Citizen

It is odd to think that I have been to a foreign city more than once, or twice, or three times. Frankfurt, Germany may not be the ideal vacation spot, however, I have found myself there four times within the past five years.

This time, I was meeting Boyfriend halfway (he lives in eastern Germany, just a few hours from the Czech border, I live in the north west, just an hour drive from the Netherlands border).

We also met up with my dear friend Charlotte, who was my first tie to Germany. She was an exchange student when I was a junior in high school. We developed a fast friendship that has kept going over distance, relationships, going weeks without talking.

The first time I ever visited Germany, I flew into Frankfurt to stay with Charlotte. I was there almost a week then hopped a train to Berlin.

The full name of the city is Frankfurt am Mainz (Frankfurt on Mainz). 

And here is a bridge over the river Mainz.

The second time in Frankfurt, I was there for just over a week, with Whitworth University on a German Language and Culture trip.

Frankfurt Altstadt

The third time was just over 24 hours, the time Amanda and I spent wandering around till she flew back to the US.

Boyfriend, had never been to Frankfurt, other than the airport and train station.
So guess who became the tour guide.

A Berliner buying me Berliners while in Frankfurt. 

Explaining the history of a German city to a native German was interesting, and a ton of fun.
(hmmm, maybe I should become a tour guide).

The weather was cloudy, a bit chilly, with some rain. We went to a wonderful art museum with an exhibit of Van Gogh, Picasso, and others. 

Not part of the museum, but near by, street art. 

We also discovered a "modern art mini golf" place, and took a swing at it. 

Charlotte golfing. 

Boyfriend putting. Yes, you had to stand on the table. 

I also showed Boyfriend one of my favorite buildings in all of Germany. The Mall with a Hole, as I call it. And it is simply that. It also holds one of the longest escalators in the world. 

We wandered along the river, ate pastries, and found a ridiculously dangerous playground for children. 

Even I had trouble with the "slide".

For more Frankfurt fun photos, visit my photo blog.

Bacharach and the Disciples of St. Steve

During spring work and before harvest my father would take a hour lunch break. He would come in and have a sandwich or reheat the tacos from the previous night, and sit down in his work clothes, boots left at the door of course, to watch an hour of TV. As it was also lunch time for us girls, we would watch with him. Thirty minutes of Julia Child followed by thirty minutes of Rick Steves.

My father was always impressed with Rick Steves. He would even drop his Julia Child impression to comment on the canals of Amsterdam or tell a quick memory of his college years in the Alps. Mr. Steves would take us through German castles, point out the best place for authentic Italian pizza, and shoot out random facts of London buildings.

I grew up with Rick Steves.

Yet when I arrived in Bacharach, a small town on the Rhein River in Germany, to meet my dear friends Julia and Max, I was still surprised to see that their travel bible had been written by Rick Steves (or Stevo as the couple called him).

Stevo led us on an informative walking tour that allowed us to see corners and sites of the city we may have overlooked. He suggested our hotel (a small bed and breakfast ran by a lovely elderly German woman. She didn't speak a word of English, and despite the flock of gnats at breakfast, the place was impeccably clean and comfortable), restaurants, and explained that the houses that sat five feet from the train tracks had been given money to sound proof their windows.

 The town from the river. Yes that is a castle on the hill. It is now a hostel. 

Historical post office. The horn is a symbol of post in Germany, and comes from the tradition of the post men blowing a horn as they rode into town to announce the arrival of the post.

Julia and I, with vineyards, an old watch tower, and a crumbling bit of wall from centuries ago.

Bacharach was like a real live Leavenworth. In the off season. We found one pub and one restaurant (Greek) and one cafe that were open. And a few slightly sketchy souvenir shops. We basically had the town to ourselves, which was glorious. A quite weekend off, in the beautiful, and historical Rhein River valley. 

 Standing on the hill that is behind Julia and I in the last photo. 

 Street to our hotel. 

Now you see why fairy tales were based here. 

Bacharach was a fantastic time with great friends. 

We give our thanks to St. Steves

St. Rick Steves

Want to see more fantastic, artsy shots of this lovely weekend getaway? Then click this. 

No Longer Crying. Still Eating Chocolate.

Yes, I know I haven't written in a while. In over a month actually.

I believe I realized the reasons why:

1. I blame an au pair friend who shared with me a website where I  can watch American TV shows, including all 10 seasons of Friends.
2. My inner laziness came out. 
3. The weather changed; warm sun, blue skies, and wildflowers blooming. 
4. The novelty of living in a foreign country has started to wear off. 
5. I realized I am living in the German equivalent of Moses Lake (Washington). 
6. I needed an outlet to write about just life, not just travel life. 

And so I changed the tagline of this blog. No longer is it "the story of my painless addiction to travel."

Because after tonight, which started out perfectly fine with me sitting down with some chocolate to google how to become a substitute teacher, and ended with me near hysterics about the future, making a decision on what career, masters program, and life I should plan; I figured I needed a place to convey the wildly see-sawing frustrations of my quarter life crisis. Instead of blubbering over Facebook messenger to the boyfriend. Who handled it quite well, although he does now know to never really give a Mills woman advice, or if you do, to figure out a way to hide it in off handed comments and chocolates. 

The only things I was successful at tonight was adverting a potential grave misunderstanding between Boyfriend and I, registering and paying for the GRE, and realizing I need to reorganize my iTunes playlists. 

After registering for the GRE and handing off enough money to finance a weekend trip to Paris, I started questioning my choice on masters degree (those of you that are not updated on my forever changing current area of study, I had decided about a month ago to pursue creative writing). Then I wondered if I just study something similar to creative writing, such as publishing or grant writing.

Or maybe I use the degree I paid an arm, a leg, and a few fingers for (Psychology), and I go into science.

Or maybe I get really good at the 12euro set of pastels I bought and just sell those for a living.

Or I kidnap Anthony Bourdain and force him to give me his job. Even though I know nothing about haggis and good wine, I'm sure I could figure it out.

And so I thought I would write a blog post about my frustrations and annoyances at the American higher education system and how expensive it is, how paying thousands for education just burns holes in the pockets and dreams of young adults. I even brought up the wikipedia page on "quarter life crisis" to reference. (Its a blog, not a doctoral thesis, I can reference wikipedia all I want).

However, something else happened. In the midst of me scrolling the internet for quotes on independence, and jumping back to Facebook to rant to Boyfriend about how my life sucks as I want to study everything but society won't let me, I realized it wasn't about me.

(Well not everything, I mean, goodness, somethings still are.)

Boyfriend had stayed up hours after his bedtime (he wakes up at 4am for work), to read message after message from me ranting about socialism and american politics, about the pros and cons of a MFA in creative writing, of wanting to travel and not having money. He tried to give advice and I told him to stop, I hate making lists and will not make one about my future. He told me he loved me, and I doubted that, covered in snot and tears streaming down my face,  sweating through my baggy T-shirt, and with a new crop of pimples emerging.

But what made me realize it wasn't about me, and it was not something Boyfriend said. It was something I remembered. November before last, I had a similar night (the only difference was a bottle of wine during that night's frustrated tear fest), and I did make a list. The three things I wanted in life, wanted just for me, and for no one else.

1. To Travel.
2. To Write.
3. To Be With Boyfriend (Well, To Tell Him I Loved Him And To See What He Said And To Maybe See Where It Would Go And Then Apparently Reference It On A Public Blog And Embarrass The Crap Out Of Him)

And well, I am with my dear Boyfriend. I am traveling (current Germany residence card anyone?), and I am writing (look at me, writing words, writing writing, words words words).

No, I do not have an acceptance letter into a grad school, let alone a reference letter from a previous professor. I don't have a job that I can pay my bills off of and save money. I do not have organized iTunes playlists (it really is annoying, I try to be introspective and Justin Timberlake starts singing about bringing sexy back).

But I have the things I wanted.
And I asked myself where I think I will be in five years.
I see myself in a small but cozy house, in South Africa (Boyfriend wants to work there), with a masters degree in something I am proud of, but might not be pursuing. I see an easel on the balcony, homemade chocolate chip cookies cooling (the only baking recipe I can do from memory and scratch), books on every surface, and myself curled up on the couch, talking on the phone, to my mother.

I see myself being happy.
And if I am that confident in being happy in five years time, what is the point of worrying now? I may sound overly optimistic and idealistic. But I am 24 years old. I do think its my damn right to be optimistic. I grew up in a country, in a family, that told me I could be, and do, whatever I want as long as I work hard.

I want to travel.
I want to write.
I want to help people.
I want to love and be loved.
I want eat chocolate every day, and never forget the feeling of deep breath relief after a good cry.
I want to one day hold my child in my arms and smell the soft hair.
I want to have downs, just to know I can get back up.
I want to be as happy as I am at this moment, knowing that I know myself (as well as anyone can know themselves), that I know what makes me happy (a glass of cold milk and a good book for starters).

And I may look back at this in five years time and think I was stupid, and blinded. That I should of started studying earlier for the GRE, spent my money more carefully, and eaten less chocolate.

But I don't think I will.
I should "eat less chocolate?"
That doesn't sound like me.


Note:
You may wonder why I am mentioning Boyfriend like Boyfriend and not his name. Well despite the fact that you can search me on Facebook and easily figure out who the hell I am dating, I figured I would protect his privacy a bit.

Note 2:
Yes, father, I will still go to grad school.

Note 3:
Yes, I will catch up on where I left off last in my travel posts.

Note 4:
For all those readers over the age of 30 (or just really dull 20 somethings), if you think I am overly optimistic and idealistic, well, I am sorry. Foxnews is calling your name.

Note 5:
And for a hilarious and true quote I found while surfing that didn't quite fit into this post:

"26 shows up in the middle of coffee one morning and hands you a freshly printed memo that reads: 'You’re going to get old one day and die. You’re cool for now, but it will happen. You’re officially on notice. You won’t be young forever.' And then 26 struts out of your office, like an unconcerned dick, having nonchalantly just changed your entire perspective."

- Jessica Blankenship