The Things I've Learned.

As the train coasted to a stop in the town of Freiburg I looked out the window and thought, I should've brought a rain coat.

The entire time I was there it poured. I'm not talking Seattle drizzle that likes to pester us by not letting up from about late October to June, either. I'm talking New York rain. Walls of water angrily pelting you so that you're dripping wet after 8 seconds. But unlike New York it didn't stop after 10 minutes. It stopped while I was boarding the train for Munich two days later. 

Despite being freezing, I will say this: Freiburg might be the cutest little town I've ever seen. The impression I had as I made my way to the Black Forest Hostel was that it was a town I could see myself living in if I ever develop an urge to move to Germany.
Everything in Freiburg is cobblestone and fairy-tale architecture.  It's a small university community tucked next to the very edge of The Black Forest. (Hence the clever name of my hostel, which sat at the base of a steep, sloping winery which was visible every morning through a thin fog.)
This is the famed forest that Hansel and Gretl disappeared into.

Because of the rain I stayed inside for most of my two days, so I didnt get any pictures unfortunately.
The one time I did leave was my "quick run" to the grocery store where, and this will surprise zero percent of the people who know me well, I got lost.
Badly.

Apparently, according to the girl at the front desk of the hostel, the store was only a half mile. Making no other stops but to buy my food, I returned almost 3 hours later, and after a lot of help from outrageously friendly Germans.
But, I would like to say (and think) I would bet many people would have had troubles getting to the store. Albeit, maybe not as many, but...

That would be the one negative comment I could make about Freiburg. It's hard to navigate. Street names change from one winding block to the next, and one twisty street may be only one letter off from being called the same thing as another going the opposite direction.

Because of the weather I spent most of my experience in town locked inside with all the other travelers at Black Forest Hostel and, more specifically, with the Latvian musicians that had gotten stranded there after getting "wine poisoning."
I'm still not sure whether it was the amount they drank or the actual brand that did them in but, either way, I was happy to have them for company.
My last night was spent cooking a big spaghetti dinner with them, sharing some bread they'd brought in France, and the two of them splitting what they dubbed "a safe" bottle of wine.

The next morning I decided to buy a new pair of shoes. Mistakenly, I brought only two pairs of flip-flops (one of which went mysteriously missing in D.C) and a pair of slipper boots I bought in New York last October.
Neither were particularly appropriate for the weather and it had come down to me choosing between wearing shoes that allowed every little pebble to lodge itself in my foot, or the ones that were soaking through and giving me blisters.

A brief amount of perusing led me straight to a gorgeous pair of boots and I was excited when I found the tag marked 38. I did some quick math and figured, Well...what the hell? That's only 50 bucks US. Why not?
I looked for my size, but couldn't see where it was printed, so I tried shoving my feet into the ones on display. They fit perfectly! As if they'd been custom made! However, as I brought my feet back out I had a sticky tag plastered to my foot. It said 199 Euro.
Quickly I deduced that 38 wasn't the price, threw my slipper boots back on, and ran out the door and away from horrendous prices!

On the bright side, I know now what shoe size I wear in Europe!

Willkommen!

This is my first full day somewhere, and it´s a great place to spend it. I´m in the walled town of Rothenburg. It´s one of the last preserved midevil places in Germany.

This is what the entrance to the town looks like:
 
Getting here was an exercise in patience. The frustration was partially self-induced, and partially things just happen.

Sitting on my train in Frankfurt awaiting the departure, it came to me that I had absolutely no clue what I was doing. I knew I wanted to go to Rothenburg (a two-transfer, 3 hour trip South), but I´d only been told of it that morning, grabbed my bag, and marched straight to the train station.

It never occurs to me to think that I might not be able to do something or that, even if I can, it may be hard. It wasn´t until I was sitting there that I realized I hadn´t an idea how far it was, where it really was, or if I´d find a place to sleep upon arriving.

It took me 3 hours longer to get there than it should´ve, of course, but I did it.

I did end find a youth hostel, though it was full, and I ended up shelling out 28 Euro for a little bed and breakfast that was the next cheapest place in town. I have to admit, it may have been worth it to get a full 8 hours of sleep. My night in Frankfurt definitely didn´t provide me with that luxury.

Already I felt a little ill that night from a dinner that was the result of a long search for something vegetarian. I settled on a "Chinese" restaurant. However, it was very different from any other Chinese place I´ve ever been. I´m fairly certain the one dressing they used to flavor the food, "soy sauce," was actually gasoline.
I didn´t want to be rude, so I picked out all the vegetables, piled all the noodles to one side of the plate to make it look like I´d eaten more than I had, and asked for a box. But, eating only the vegetables hadn´t saved me and my stomach was on fire. That, with the jetlag, made me call it an early night.

Actually, everyone in my dorm room at Hostel Frankfurt was asleep by 9:30pm which meant that, at midnight, when a couple who appeared to be in their late 30´s burst thorught the door they woke all of us up. Then they came in, turned on the light, and proceeded to have a 15 minute conversation in daytime-voices at the foot of their bed. Afterwards, they hopped in the shower together leaving the light on in our room.
I´ve seen a lot of wierd, funny, and disturbing things in all my hosteling days but, aside from people stealing things, that may have been the most rude. Especially because the Japanese girl sleeping in the bunk above them (yes, them, they squeezed into the bed together) had to be up at 4am to catch her train to Switzerland.

Rothenburg is a perfect change of pace. I spent my morning today reading Yeats and drinking a coffee here:

It was lovely. I laid there on a bench at the outdoor theatre watching the fall leaves lazily glide from the trees just on the other side of the huge stone wall. I´m finding to be the fall an ideal time to be visiting Europe. Most of the tourists are gone. Yes, there are a lot of people wandering town, but they´re mostly Germans on holiday.

Here are a few more pictures of Rothenburg:

I´m off to explore!

Last Day in D.C

    I haven't been away from home long enough to feel nostalgia when I say my 3 1/2 days in D.C has made me tanner than an entire Seattle summer did.
    That said, there are a lot of ways in which it's different here.
It's likely just this small pocket of the city & the areas I've chosen to explore, but the place reeks of wealth, success, and people eagerly clamoring for their generous helping of both. Though, as is usually the case when you have a city full of BMW's and Prada handbags, the streets are also full of homeless people.
   
    Aside from the money thing this city also just reeks in general. Or, at least my neighborhood. They're draining the sewers, and all the food from the international festival a block away, nor the exhaust from the tour buses has the ability to mask the smell of waste.
    Don't get me wrong, D.C has a lot more going for it than sunshine, yuppies, and poo. I've had a really good time here! Thanks, mainly, to the Smithsonian museums. I went to eight during the last few days.

    My favorites: The Air and Space Museum. They had the very first plane the Wright Brother's built and flew, and I listened to an informative talk given by a former astronaut about his time in space.
The National Portrait Gallery. I was at first a bit disappointed they didn't have any paintings by Rafuse (who I fell in love with when I was 18 after a painting of his inspired me to write a children's story that got me an A in Creative Writing). But they more than made up for their omission of his work, which may have been too abstract for their museum as it was,when I discovered the indoor courtyard oasis. It is full of trees and natural light prisiming down through an all glass ceiling. Gorgeous!
Museum of Natural History. One word: Dinosaurs! Full scale, built with skeletal pieces.

    My 1st full day I saw Arlington Cemetery. I had to elbow my way to JFK and Jackie O's grave site so the pictures didn't turn out too well. Nothing like a couple hundred international tourists to interfere with a steadycam shot! After taking the picture I felt a little confused about what drives people to take pictures of graves anyway, so I'm not going to post it here.

    I also took no pictures at the Pentagon because apparently it's not allowed post 9/11. (The remnants of which can still be seen by the marble they laid over the original exterior which is a few shades different than the rest.) Here are some of the picture I did  take:

El Salvador. Entry Six.

The night before last, in the company of fireflies, I ran around the block hand in hand with the kindergartners--
All of us children enchanted by the night. 

Down the dirt path our feet beat in pace with our hearts. 
The kids running from the Only-Comes-At-Night witch and me following their laughter, lit with the quick blinks of light, darting and fading like falling stars. 



But, as is usual with nights here, the rain came and ushered everyone back inside.

I had a lot of trouble sleeping.

I went to bed around eight, and as I laid staring at the tin roof I thought of the title, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. 
I wondered, why was the roof hot? 
Then I remembered how much lightning there is here and thought,
"Maybe that´s why the roof was hot! Maybe it was on fire!"


Then I heard thunder. 



This is what my mind likes to stray to as I´m trying to fall asleep. 
Earthquakes, Sunamni´s, and pretty much everything that could go wrong. 

With the pounding of the rain outside I quickly decided to turn my thoughts to other things, so naturally the next best thing was to try to plan the remaining years of my life. 

This proved stressful when I found myself awake until at 11:43--the last time I glanced at my watch. 


Here it is a ridiculous thing to not get to bed until so late. I am routinely woken by the roosters between four and five AM, and if they don’t get me the first time around the cows serve as my snooze alarm. 
The day starts at dawn for the people of Cuidad Romero. The women go to the milpa to stock up on their corn that they labor the day away making into tortillas, atol, masa, pupusas, etc. The men start herding the animals and head for the harvesting fields. The children start on household chores.

I remember telling my host sister Diana that in college I don’t usually sleep until two or three in the morning. She laughed the sort of laugh you force around crazy people so they’ll think you’re on their side and not try to hurt you.

None of the adults here I know are employed, yet they work through out the day: The women who ride the bus to sell pupusas and horchata hoping that, between here and the mile away stop from which they’ll have to walk back, they can make enough money to feed their six children.

The children that get up two hours before school begins at seven thirty (if they’re lucky enough to get to go to school) so they can go to the milpa and stock up on corn for the masa their mother’s and sisters will sweat away the day turning into bread, tortillas, pupusas, atol, cookies, etc. 
The men who can spend full weekend days cutting down, and then chopping up a Palo de Coco so that they can have wood for the next two month’s worth of cooking.


In talking to many of the parents in Cuidad Romero it’s clear, though they would never say it because they have a Salvadorian pride and resiliency, that many feel inadequate. A surprising amount of people cannot find work, either due to lack of it in a location that is realistic for them to reach, or their political affiliations.

There are a lot of people my age on my radio team who hate the United States for what it has done to their country, but still have it as their life’s goal to cross our border and achieve The American Dream.


So many people here don´t really understand what life is like for immigrants over there. They have family in the U.S, maybe a child, cousin, uncle or brother. They see pictures of gaudy television sets and clean carpets and think this life is everyone’s reality. It´s everyone´s entitlement. But,  the family’s in the U.S are responsible for this false hope too. They aren’t sending the letters about the stress of finding the three jobs they’re working, or the difficulty of not knowing the language.

July 20^th, 2005

I’ve only got a little bit of time left here, so this will probably be my last letter to you.

The absolute best times I have had in El Salvador--my favorite days--I wont tell about here. 
I don´t know how. 
If you and I should happen to talk one day, ask me about them I will tell you face to face, but some things here, like experiences, don’t have translation. 
Just the sort of way I cannot write the relationships I have built with people here, because they are too complex and beautiful to risk being ineloquent in description.

El Salvador. Entry Five.

I live here in what many North Americans would call economic despair, yet I’m not sure I’ve ever been so comfortable. Nights I spend watching novelas with my fifteen year old sister, or reading in the hammock as my hermanito plays chibolas (marbles) on the porch my father was building the day I arrived. 
My little sister braids my hair and comes to my work in the afternoon to lead me home by the hand so I can play. 


My mother and Diana lay in the bed next to mine before bedtime and gossip about the community scandals with me. My Papa and brother like to talk to me about stories they’ve heard, and try to scare me by handing me carapachas or telling me "Mela, Lencho is coming".

Lencho is the town crazy who dresses in a Chinese fisherman’s hat, a blue sweatshirt, and tan pants every day. Also, he does not shower. 
His father used to make him…until Lencho came at him with a machete. 



There are many stories on what happened to him: his ex wife was a witch who put a curse on him, he was bit by a rabid dog and was never the same after that, his son died and he went insane. 
All I know is that he seems pretty harmless most of the time--he talks quietly, and mostly to himself. But I try to avoid him as much as possible because he spends an unnecessary amount of time staring at me, which is why the men in my family think it’s hilarious to tell me he is coming for me. 


My family.

As time sneaks away I have more and more trouble remembering the family here isn’t actually my own. 


Don’t get me wrong, I have no romantic notions of living amongst the people here forever. 
Every person I meet here will forever have a part of my heart, but yesterday I met a Scorpion near the bucket shower I bathe in—the one hidden between two slabs of tin and a small piece of blue tarp. 
And also my hair smells like sulfur. And my fingernails are the color of the dirt the kids flop over on to nap in. 
           I

I’ve always had this fantasy of Cowboys and sprawling Montana ranches. But now I’ve seen real cowboys, and they are not Robert Redford. 
 They spit discolored things on the ground, whistle at you, and kick their dogs. 
The "ranches" are full of insects and grass that makes me sneeze. 
Remind me of this if I ever speak to you of Montana.



At present, on the right side of my body from the waist down, I have fifty-three bites from varying insects. Mostly mosquitos. I remember being little and seeing the canopies the princesses in my favorite stories had over their delicate beds. 
I remember thinking that you had to be royal to be in possession of such an extravagance. 
Now I realize that not only do you not have to be rich to sleep under the protector of Disney´s leadings ladies, but that its actually the impovershed´s version of health care.  Fifty three. If anything I missed counting a few that I could not see, so this is not an exaggeration. Neither are the vast amount of cockroaches that live in my host-family’s latrine (and my family has one of the better outhouses in the community).

This morning I stepped in a green puddle of malarial swamp water. It smelled like poop and rotten fruit. Mainly because that’s what was in it. But these things, though, piece by piece and all of them together hit me forcefully today with the message that I’ve really begun to settle in.

 If you could see the way I look you would think I am miserable here. 

Ironically, my sloppy appearance is something I revel in, because to me it serves as evidence of the unforgettable time I am having.

Almost all, literally, of the clothes I brought are ripped or stained, but from climbing trees, feeding my little brother, dropping grease while cooking, chickens getting into my things. 



My hair is snarled, but seeing the country from the back of a pick-up truck and being caught in intense tropical storms make me indifferent to that. 



I am covered in scrapes. Proof of scratched mosquito bites, jungle I’ve walked through, the barbed wire fences I’ve climbed through and over while catching rabbits or roosters or whatever has escaped that day. 



My nails are dirty with residue from things I’ve planted, playing in the street with the neighborhood kids, left over sand from trips to the beach I’ve taken with the owners of hostels or the radio team.

This country, yes, is poverty ridden and corrupt, but it is also breathtakingly beautiful. It breaks your heart in a new way every day—in only a way something you have begun to love can do.