Alpine Summer

If you're reading this, you've come to my blog after my trip. So, I'll give you a little information.

I live in Georgia. Yes, the south. I have lived in Georgia my whole life.

I am an English Language and Literature major at a university in Georgia.

In what used to be the user picture, I'm the one in the tan nataliedee.com shirt standing by the flagpole. You can see it here. This picture was in the Schwäbisch Gmünd local paper, the Gmünder Tägespost.

I left for 5 weeks to study in Germany, beginning June 22, 2006 and ending July 26, 2006.

I had an amazing time. This is my story.

I feel that one more post is in order: the return trip!

The night before our return was celebrated in high fashion. A bunch of us hiked into the marktplatz and had a little farewell party at one of the biergartens. We finished it off with our last taste of German ice cream. The good Drs. Norwood and Noll headed back to the Universitätspark before dark, while we walked around for a bit. We found the Garden of Eden – who knew it was in a medieval village in southern Germany? It's this cool little garden surrounded by flats and the back of the bibliotheque. There are statues of Adam and Eve (( Eve is presenting the apple )), a serpent wound around the branch of a tree, an angel flying overhead, and a ram about to drink from the waterhole.

10 o'clock rolled around; we had promised friends and family that we would take advantage of the city's webcam set up in the marktplatz. It was extremely dark by this time, but we found the perfect place. If you look at the webcam image, you'll see a circle in the pathway where the red cobbles meet the grey cobbles. At night, the streetlamp just to the left shines directly onto the circle, so we assumed this would be the most visible place. We mainly just goofed off – the webcam image updates every 30 seconds, but no one knew when the update was, so we'd hold each pose for about a minute. I had come up with the idea that we all lie down and spell out “hi”. We did, and stayed on the ground for about 5 minutes. A few people walking by said hi to us, and most of the people in the biergarten began to ignore us after a minute. After a while, we waved bye to the camera, not knowing if anyone actually saw us, and headed back to the Universitätspark to finish packing.

Coming back to the U.S. was one of the longest experiences of my life. The day started promptly at 5 AM. I, predictably, did not get much sleep between last-minute packing and nerves. I realized, though, that this program is exactly the right length; any longer and I probably couldn't stand the lack of air conditioning much longer, and shorter and I'd probably feel gypped. But, for better or for worse, I'm on my way back to Georgia.

The 5 o'clock hour saw the packing of the carry-on bag with the morning things and the retrieval of my purse from Jake's bookbag. Breakfast at 5:45 AM seems a bit like heresy. I kindly explained to Dr. Noll yesterday that I wasn't entirely sure how well our departure plans will work considering I was not aware of a 5:00 in the morning. The evening, sure. But that early one seems the work of myth.

After breakfast, we loaded our luggage in the giant Mercedes-Benz bus -- shedding a little tear on account that I'll probably never ride in one again – and headed off to Stuttgart. For some reason, the thirty minute bus trip took over an hour. We were not late, though, because we seemingly got up on Dr. Noll's intuition of when we needed to leave. Through everyone's fears of overweight luggage, we managed to check in just fine. We said goodbye to Dr. Noll and headed to our gate. The airport gift shop took credit cards, which I suppose eased us back into American society a little.

The plane ride from Stuttgart to Paris was the worst of all of them. At one point, we were traveling through a storm and the pilot chose not to try to get us above or below it. The plane was rocking back and forth and losing altitude in short spurts. It was extremely uncomfortable and lots of people were freaking out. Everything was fine, though, and we landed in Paris a few hours later. What was really amusing to me was that I was sitting between Paul and Andy, the tall guy and big guy from the flight from Atlanta to Paris.

Charles de Gaulle airport was a little different this time. Last time, we went straight to our departure gate and then realized there was nothing to eat past the security point. This time, we food before we went to the gate – and even then we discovered the snack stands available there. Different terminals have different things, I suppose. The food was pretty gross and pretty expensive. I bought a salad with chicken, but the dressing was bad and there was one single piece of chicken on top. Also, cold potatoes – not so good.

As we boarded the buses to take us to the plane, many of us got stopped to be searched. I was one of them. Everything went smoothly, but I missed one bus and had to take another. I found my seat, and then Paul comes and sits next to me. I'm looking around for Andy, but he's sitting somewhere else. Eventually, a woman whose passport indicates she is Bulgarian comes and sits in the window seat.

The flight was a bit confusing. First, we sat on the runway for over an hour. I had dozed off and awoke to still see Charles de Gaulle. After that, I noticed that they gave us statistics and information about the flight – our altitude, speed, distance traveled, time at destination, et cetera. Also, the same little map from the first flight was there, showing us as a little plane icon on the globe. Adding to confusion, what would be dinner for us was a warm lunch served not long after our take-off. The menu promised a “chilled dinner” to be served later. Though we left at about 5:30 PM local time, we were arriving at 7:45 PM in Georgia, over 8 hours later.

The most fun (( note: sarcasm )) of the flight was Paul. Paul enjoyed the free wine offered to him on the flight, and then decided he should sing loudly. And talk to me. He had rousing renditions of “You've Lost that Loving Feeling”, “Afternoon Delight”, and “Werewolves in London”, among other great classics. Add this to the three young and upset children in the row in front of me, and don't forget the dog in the middle aisle who did not like the crying children, and I had a great flight. At some point after I fell asleep, one of the children spilled a cup of juice down onto my foot. And my pillow I had stowed by my feet. Oh, my seat also didn't recline. I spent most of my time trying to go to sleep, trying to pretend I didn't know Paul, and watching a movie.

When we finally landed, we had to go through customs and Homeland Security. Basically, it was a long line and some paperwork. Also, it seems kind of dumb that you have to collect your luggage, take it to customs, walk through the line, and put your luggage back on a conveyor to retrieve it elsewhere. We rode the train and the moving sidewalks and the escalators and walked and walked to the arrival area. Looking out in the mass of people I wondered how I would ever find my family. I should never have worried, because just moments later I heard a high pitch squeal and my mother ran at me.

Everything after that happened really quickly. We got the luggage, went to the car, headed out, stopped for fast food, ATE IN A BUILDING THAT HAD BOTH AIR CONDITIONING AND ICE, and headed home. And the rest is history.

Today's class was a wrapping-up of sorts. Because we're now talking about Modernist literature, we deal with issues of man-against-society, alienation, dehumanization, etc. These are seen very clearly in what we were assigned to read: Kafka and Brecht. However, it could not be more obvious than to listen to ourselves on a daily basis. Most of us are Moderns or Post-moderns in philosophy, if we have any philosophy. We're cynics and pessimists and think the worst of humanity. Therefore, it's been extremely interesting to see ourselves in this foreign environment. This is a place where we are almost forced to believe there is good in people; if we don't know the language well, we must believe the bits we are told. Without knowing all the customs, we are not sure if we will accidentally offend someone, but we rely on the idea that they will forgive us because we don't know any better. We have to assume we are not being taken advantage of, as well as convince others that we are not out to take advantage of them. I think this is why travel often deeply changes a person. Though I'm not necessarily more optimistic or less cynical, I understand that humanity is not entirely a lost cause. This is an important step, and I think it is very significant that I come to that realization here – this is a country known for strict adherence to rules, which is known most through our education of history for the Holocaust and WWII, for Nazism and many unnecessary deaths. To walk through Dachau, to stand where innocent prisoners stood, and then be able to say there is good in this world is one of the most amazing feelings I've ever had. And THAT is the sum of my experiences.

Nothing interesting happens on a Sunday when we're not on our way back from a trip. We sat around and went to the New Asia Restaurant in the evening. We kind of had to go – we have been there several times over the course of the trip. However, we recently decided to try the China-Thai-Imbiss just down the street. As we were walking to the Imbiss, the man who owns the New Asia got up from where he was sitting outside and began to welcome us in. We highly disappointed him as we walked past his restaurant. A night or two later, Andy stopped in to eat at the New Asia by himself, and the owner was interrogating him. He asked him if he liked it better at the other restaurant, if the menu was better, if the food was cheaper, etc. He asked why we went to the other place, to which Andy replied, “I was meeting friends there.” However, Andy thinks that the man misinterpreted this to mean that we forced him to go to the other restaurant. So Andy promised him that we'd come back before we left Germany. We upheld out promise tonight.

Today we took the first post-poisoning outing today. We went into Stuttgart for about an hour and half. It was a short trip, but Luke was exhausted and slightly nauseous by that point, so we came home. I gathered a few souvenirs while there (( no, I'm not telling and don't ask )). It was pretty laid back, besides the fact that we were on the train back with one of the worst-smelling people I have ever encountered.

I didn't do much today. Because of the sicknesses, we're not going anywhere this weekend. So, today I hung out with Cassi a bit, made two trips to the Norma to get crackers and soup and other things Luke could eat, now that he is eating. Tonight, we watched Kill Bill: Volume II.

This morning I am feeling a lot better. I'm still sluggish, but I don't feel like I'm going to throw up every minute and a half. I was going to accompany Dr. Norwood's other class (( minus Luke )) to Ulm on their field trip, but Luke and Dr. Noll decided that Luke needed to go to the doctor, and I felt like my help was needed. I, indeed, proved helpful when Luke almost passed out and Dr. Noll was trying to get information. He was given an IV of some sort of fluid with electrolytes and anti-nausea medicine, had blood drawn, was physically examined and given a couple prescriptions. The doctor confirmed that it was most likely food poisoning. Luke looked immediately better after the IV and continued to get better as the day went on.

I spent the majority of the day just helping him out. Nothing much to comment on. I took a couple of naps; though I'm feeling much better, I still have little stamina. Jared let us borrow a few movies, so we set up the computer and watched Kill Bill: Volume I.

Another day in bed. This time I managed to get up and go to lunch. Luke and I quarantined ourselves off to the side and ate bread and yogurt. Then I went straight back to bed. By late night I was feeling a lot better.

I think the title says it all. I spent the day doubled-over in bed and half-sleeping. Stupid (( probably )) food poisoning. I missed the field trip to Stuttgart with the class. Luke went but came back without actually visiting the Stadt Gallerie because he got sick on the way.

This is tons of fun.

Today we talked about the advent of Realism (( capital R )) in literature and what Madame Bovary did for everything after it. I was not personally impressed by the text in general, though it had a few redeeming qualities. The attention Flaubert paid to the tiny details was something that one could directly see reflected in prose like that of James Joyce or most modern poetry. Without first knowing the exact shade of Emma's dress we might never know exactly what sound a priest's robes make when he walks past.

None of the characters were particularly likable. I think this owes a lot to the nationality of the author and his characters. It has become a joke that no one likes the French and the French don't like anyone, but it's basically true. My father always said, “Even the French don't like the French.” I think this is very visible in this novel. In creating something Realistic, something here-and-now, his characters would naturally be members of then-modern France. Being a Frenchman, himself, Flaubert could not like his characters – the best he could seemingly muster is pity. Pity from the pathetic; we don't ever really like Emma or Charles, but sometimes we feel sorry for them. This makes perfect sense . . . the French are full of the pathetic! If you really step back and analyze each of the relationships presented in the text, nobody likes anyone. They think they're in love, they're controlled, they live through others vicariously, they're obsessed, they're amused, but they never genuinely like another.

It's funny to me that this is considered THE first Realistic novel. It set the scene for all the rest of the bunch. If you've ever wondered by Realistic literature is harsh, maybe you should see where it all started.

Awesome. Just awesome. As if it knew my plans, I had a replay of the last Dublin morning and my alarm failed to sound. We eat breakfast and realize that we can't visit the Van Gogh unless we wanted to arrive back in the Schwä really late in the evening, which is something we specifically wanted to avoid. So, we pack up, head to the train station to grab one of the trains to Amsterdam so we can still get our ICE to Stuttgart.

We get to the platform for one of the trains a few minutes early. However, there's a train sitting there and the big sign outside says it's bound for Amsterdam. Sometimes a train is early, and sometimes they just sit for a while, so we don't think anything of it. We get on and get seats. As the train shoves off from the station, the electronic banner changes from Amsterdam to Arleim, then Arleim to Den Haag. Luke comforts me by reminding me that most trains just put the final destination after showing all the stops along the way. However, after a few minutes, he asks the woman in front of us if we're headed to Amsterdam. She informs us that we are not and that we should take the train all the way to Den Haag because they have a large station with many trains and it would be easier than sitting for a rare train at a small station. The ticket-taker tells us exactly what time and where the next train from Den Haag to Amsterdam will be leaving after we arrive, and the woman promises to help us when we get there.

Upon arrival, we only have a few minutes to go across the station. We wind up missing the train, partly because the woman helping us got confused and had to leave to catch her train. Luke goes to the information desk while I stay with all our bags, and returns with the news that our ICE stops in Utrecht anyway. So, we figure the best bet is to return to Utrecht and catch it there. Trains run from Den Haag to Utrecht every hour, and we just missed one. We sit and wait, and a train pulls up that promises Utrecht along its list of stops. We're a little fishy, but get on and ask someone before it pulls away. They confirm it, so we ride back to Utrecht.

While in the station, we stopped to get some food. There was a döner shop that advertised chicken döners, so we stopped to get one. They were very tasty and filling. We then waited patiently for our ICE. Luke had received a print-out of the schedule for our ICE in Den Haag which even included the platform number. However, as we got closer to the departure time, another train came on the sign, and about 20 other people were as confused as we were. Luke checks on the big board and it makes it seem as though it were never scheduled for that platform. We run to the new location and jump on a few minutes before it pulls away. The train is very full and it doesn't seem like there are empty seats in the next few cars -- there is also an All-American Tennis team of high school kids coming in behind us -- so we take the fold-down handicap seats. If anyone truly needed the seats, we would move. But, in the meantime, the next 20 minutes was full of shoving and yelling as the tennis team tried to find their reserved seats and kicked people out of them.

Our itinerary had one change in Köln, and, as we neared the stop, we got prepared to jump off. The train slowed to a stop . . . but not in the station. Not in anywhere, in fact. Just on the track, with nothing around us. For the next 25 minutes, we are at a standstill. Approximately three minutes until we actually begin to move, someone comes over the loudspeaker and announces the problem. Definitely in German, though, and not in English. But, we stop worrying once we start moving again.

When we actually pull into the Köln Hauptbahnhof, our very comfortable transition has now dwindled to 7 minutes. We hurry downstairs and to the other end of the station to find that the train isn't there and our train is not on the sign. We notice an electronic board that seems to be constantly updated with the next 20 or so departures. We locate our train on the board, and luckily, it's just late and another train is coming in first. As we head back to the platform and calm down, we see that the sign goes back and forth between the two schedules. It was enough to drive us crazy though.

The rest of the train ride was pretty uneventful. We got on, couldn't find a pair of seats that weren't reserved, but did find two aisle seats right across from one another. A man came by, at one point, to ask us to help him with a Deutsche Bahn questionnaire. He didn't have as many questions for us as for other people, but perhaps that's because we're not natives and don't use the DB everyday / week. Once we were in Stuttgart, everything was casual – this was the part of the trip we've been through seemingly a hundred times. We arrived back in the Schwä with enough time to complain about the Dutch railway and play a game of Zombies!!! with Jake and Matt.

No alarm this morning -- I'm sleeping until I feel like getting up. The breakfast (( included in our room price because we got a sweet internet deal )) the hotel served was really good. Lots of pastries, eggs, potatoes, cereals, sausages and bacon, etc. The normal breakfasty-things. I was introduced to Nutella for the first time. We have had it back in Germany at breakfast, I just never thought to try it. It was very good, especially on croissants, and I couldn't believe that it's perfectly acceptable to eat chocolate at breakfast.

After eating, we decided to walk around the town more, checking out some of the shops (( since they close early in the evening )) and seeing what the water was like. I was in search for shoes, as I am wont to feel the urge of not having enough shoes. You can never have enough shoes. Unfortunately, the shoes I found that I liked were quite expensive, and the ones that weren't really didn't scream out to me. However, Luke found a pair of Timberland moccasinesque shoes for 6 Euro; they were the last pair in the store, had been marked down, and just happened to fit in despite not being in the size he normally wears. This is me, jealous.

I did, however, buy a couple of shirts, one from the flea market (( I should also note that there are a surprising number of Asian people here, all of whom have been incredibly nice )) from a Chinese vender, and one from an expensive store. Both were 5 Euro; the one from the expensive store was original 65 Euro.

The river was not very nice. The water looked gross and you had to go down to store fronts to get to it, at least where we were. However, following the river led to the best find of the day. I noticed a store named "Never Never Land" across the river, with the name spelled out in Scrabble letters. I commented that I wanted to see what it was all about, so we crossed the water and came back up on the other side, we stopped in. It turns out that it's a board game store. I have never seen so many board games in one place. Among the cramped shelves, one box stood out to me. Across the side read "ZOMBIES!!!" . . . a friend from the CSU Writing Center had once told us about this game. We pick it up, read the blurbs on the back, and immediately know it must be purchased.

Excited about the game, we grab some lunch, take it back to the hotel with us, and embark on our first zombie-filled adventure. The game has an amazing concept -- there are map tiles, and each person places one at the start of their turn. Thus, the town created is always different. Specific tiles get a specific number of zombie inhabitants, and the players must defeat the zombies and make it to the helipad to escape. The real fun comes in the form of event cards -- each player has three; some help, some hurt, and you can use them on any player. The alliances and cut-throat-ery gets pretty nasty. Overall, it's a brilliant game.

After the zombie game, we head out in search for dinner (( yes, it took that long )). Nothing was found in a reasonable price range other than take-away stands, so we eventually eat in the HC. While there, we talked to an information guy in the train station about when and where the trains run to Amsterdam. He writes down times, tells us this occurs every hour, and also tells us which platforms will have which trains. Brilliant!

When we go back to the hotel, we use the internet to look up the Van Gogh Museum as planned, write down all the information about cost and opening time on Sunday and how to get there and back. Everything seems to be working out perfectly. Because all the shops had closed, we spent the evening watching Short Circuit with Dutch subtitles.

My alarm chose to actually work today, so I woke up about 20 minutes before we were scheduled to arrive in Utrecht. We were anticipating making up some of the time from the train being late overnight, and we did; we were only 5 minutes late pulling into the station.

At first, Utrecht's train station looked like many others. It was outdoors, but it was completely covered from the weather. There were many platforms in a row, and stairs and escalators leading up. Noting a sign that promised an exit, we headed up an escalator and into a huge indoor train station. Immediately, we saw one of those boards with the schedule that flips periodically that I'd only, thus far, seen in movies. Also, about twenty stores were instantly visible, along with a Burger King and other food-type places.

We tried to track down a place to buy a map, but mostly only found travel guides for other cities. Knowing, however, that the hotel promised a "5-minute walk from Utrecht Centraal" and its street address, we opted to head outside and look around.

Exiting Utrecht Centraal is an entirely different story. Following the sign, we appeared to be within a mall. We decided to turn around and try another direction; this only led to more / another mall. Finally, we go through the bus depot to get outside and find a city map nearly instantly. Trying to locate ourselves by the position of the river, the overpass at the train station, and what was labelled as the "Vredenberg Viaduct", we saw that we were, indeed, not far from the hotel's location. Through the Viaduct and we'd be on the street, technically. The streets, at least in city centre, change names every block, and we were only one block from Vredenberg Ave.

We head off, knowing it'll only be moments before this confusion is over and we're checking into the hotel. On the map, I noticed a large and rather confusing intersection, and I specifically noted mentally what to do when we encountered it. Following this advice upon encountering a large and rather confusing intersection, I was sure the hotel could literally be only feet away. No such luck. However, large flags were flying with the words "HOTEL CITY CENTRE" emblazoned across them. And we were, indeed, looking for the Hotel City Centre.

Luke thought we had taken the wrong turn at the large and rather confusing intersection, so he found us a huge parking lot to cross backwards to where he thought we should be. I follow his lead, and we find ourselves at HOOG CATHERIJNE. Neither of us knows what it is, but we note its gigantic size and figure we might could find a map / someone to help within its walls. We enter, and fairly quickly realize that we are back in the train station on one of its far ends. However, we do find a map. I also see a free information machine and find a map with a line drawn from the train station to the hotel. Armed with these two pieces of information, we head out again. We try a different route, and end up in a residential area. Turning around, we find ourselves in the same place with the flags, and think, "Perhaps we just didn't go far enough," so we walk a little further.

Eventually, we reach a river. Which we were not supposed to cross on the way to the hotel. We sit down, each with a map, and try to figure out where we might be on the maps if not where we thought we were. No luck. We trade maps. I eventually find us, way on the other side of the train station. Lucky for us, there are two rivers, one on both the east and the west side. And two viaducts, one north, one south of the train station. And the Hoog Catherijne apparently encompasses the entire train station, and the label we found for it on the map was on the other side. We turn around, head back into the big HC. Before we exit, I note that we have now been in and around HC for the past 4 hours. Just outside, we instantly find streets recognizable on the map, and within minutes find our hotel.

We crash for a while in the comfort of not wondering were we are. A little while later, we decided to check out the town, or at least our few streets of it here. We were hoping to go to the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam this afternoon, but Luke didn't mention it to me until we were leaving the Schwä and he didn't bother to look up how to get there from the train station, either. So, I suggest that we look up the information on the computer in the hotel (( biting the bullet and paying for internet )), go Sunday morning as soon as it opens, and take an ICE from Amsterdam to go back home. I'm sure this plan sounds familiar, as if it worked out perfectly in Dublin, right? Fingers are crossed.

As I begin to unpack my bag, I notice that my cell phone is not in it. This was the first weekend trip I had actually remembered to bring it -- for emergencies. I put it in my green bag and had made sure it wouldn't be able to just fall out. Everything else of value was in my purse, where I could have easy access. This included things like my Eurail, my passport, my camera, etc. I didn't anticipate needing my phone, so I tucked it into the other bag. On the train, my purse got stowed away somewhere safe, but there was not enough room for everyone's luggage in the compartment, so some bags had to be on the floor, in between bunks.

We also found out that there's not much to do in Utrecht. Which means relaxation weekend. There was an outdoor flea market in front of the hotel in this big empty square, but it was closed down and the square completely emptied by the time we headed out of the hotel. We walked through a few streets and stopped for dinner. I had a falafel for the first time, and it was delicious. Then we went back to the hotel to check out some Dutch television . . . and found that it wasn't as entertaining as German tv, except that we could understand it. Most of the channels were in English. CNN, Discovery Channel, Animal Planet, and some channels that played old American movies subtitled. One of the most interesting things was Mythbusters, one of my favourite shows from home. The people in the show were the same, but there was a different narrator, a British guy that converted all the pounds to kilos and feet to meters for his audience.

Again, I decided not to go with Dr. Norwood's other class as they went to Nördlingen. I was kind of disappointed about my decision to sit it out as the day stretched on, but it was probably for the best.

When Luke got back, we realized that neither of us were packed yet for the trip. Also, some sort of dinner was necessary. So we packed as quickly as we could, set a deadline for when was the absolute last moment we could leave and make the final train from the Schwä to Stuttgart.

Things are going as planned. We have dinner in the oven a bit of time to spare. However, our food takes much longer than the package directions promised. While it was delicious when finally cooked, it also led to the Sydney-and-Luke-are-late-late-late adventure. We gobbled down the food and hurried upstairs to grab our bags for the trip.

Because it's already late and we're the last ones still here, the building is dark and quiet. (( Also noteworthy is that I'm still suffering from the inflammation of the foot, my mystery injury. )) Luke turns to me as we approach the stairs at the front door and says, "Do you think we can walk a little faster? Like, 'walking for fitness'?"

I opened my mouth to reply, "I'm not sure. I'm afraid it might be like the tortoise and the hare: we'll be okay if we take a slow but steady pace but, if we try to hurry, I might hurt myself and have to go even slower the rest of the way. But, we can cross our fingers and give it a shot." But all that actually came out was "I---AAAAAA" In the dark, I had misjudged the number of stairs and fallen. I landed very strangely and quite uncomfortably on my other foot (( the one with few problems, previously )).

Thus, I'm literally hobbling down the street at a slower pace than that which I was dragging myself around before. I couldn't help but laugh at the situation, even though I had, indeed, hurt myself pretty badly. By the time we get to the marktplatz, we don't think we'll make our train in time at this pace. Luckily, the marktplatz is where the cabs hang out, so we get a taxi to take us a ridiculously short distance to be sure to catch our train.

We make it in time . . . to see that the last train to Stuttgart is late. And it is 15 minutes late. That just meant that we had 15 fewer minutes to spend just sitting in the Stuttgart Hauptbahnhof waiting for our overnight train.

The wait in Stuttgart was long and uneventful. At one point, a man nearby must have overheard us speaking, because he asked us, in English, if we had ever heard of the Orient Express. Though it sounded familiar to me, I really couldn't place it, so we told him no. He replied that we must not be British, then, because it's really famous there. He pointed down the platforms to a beautiful train with old cars that, at least from that distance, appeared to be made of wood. He explained that it's one of the oldest trains that still runs and that, even though it's pushed by new engines, all the cars are original.

Just as we had finally regained our peace of mind after the worries about the Schwäbisch Gmünd --> Stuttgart train, our CNL (( City Night Line )) was 35 minutes late as well. It would not have been such an issue if it wasn't scheduled for 1:26 AM and we weren't getting tired and cranky. When it finally pulls up, we check our bunk reservations: Wagen 39, bunks 31 & 32. So, we hop on, and notice that all the cars have compartments, but not compartments with beds. The Wagen numbers are in the low twenties and heading down. After a while of freaking out, we see a sign on one of the doors indicating that the train is headed for several places, none of them being Utrecht. We jump off and run to check the sign again: maybe, because it was so late, our train had been moved to another platform? As we near the sign, I notice that some of the train cars look different further down. We run and jump on one of the ones that proclaimed CNL as we realized that this train must split somewhere down the track.

An enormous feeling of relief washes over me as I see bunks. Now for our car . . . not so hard. The bunks, easily found. The door to the compartment -- locked from the inside. I try saying "Hallo" very softly at first, and get louder and louder. No response. Luke heads off to find some help; he returns with an old man dressed as an old-timey train conductor. The man hallo-s too. No response. Finally, he notices one of the bunks by the door has sheets, so he reaches up and yanks on them, chastises the compartment's sole inhabitant for locking the door when there were more stops ahead, and makes him get down to unlock it. We thank the old man and take our bunks.

A few minutes later, as the train is pulling out of the station, another train worker comes by with two of the noisiest people ever. Apparently they were looking for unreserved bunks, and there were three available in our compartment. The woman puts her stuff on the bunk just above mine and keeps talking. The train worker has also come to check tickets, and I guess the proper way to inform the passengers of this is to grab them by the foot and yank really hard. Because that's what he did to me. After this, I was finally able to lie in the uncomfortable bunk in peace. A few hours later, I guess exhaustion took over, and I fell asleep.

Many of us were excited to see the signs in the Stuttgart Hauptbahnhof advertising an exhibit of Dali's work. We arranged to buy Baden-Wurttenburg tickets and share the cost to head into Bad Cannstatt to check it out. Having enjoyed Dali's paintings for years, I was really excited to see his work in person.

One thing that immediately struck me was the lack of his most famous work. I was really anticipating the opportunity to see my favorite piece, "Swans Reflecting Elephants", or something equally as known. Instead, the entire gallery was filled with sketches and a few photographs. After charging 7 Euro (with the student discount), it seemed like some kind of cruel joke. It was at this point that I realized how modern this exhibit really was.

They had just made over 50 Euro from our little group. It was almost an example of installation art, and we were part of it. They never lied, per se, but I'm sure that I was not alone in thinking I would be viewing something I recognized. Hang a few posters with Dali's picture and put up some signs to direct people to the entrance -- it seems almost as though they wanted us to get our hopes up.

The pieces we did see were very interesting. Some of them were even stranger than all the paintings with which I was familiar. There was an entire series where he had illustrated every Canto of Dante's Divine Comedy. This spanned wall after wall, and somehow made the Inferno seem more like torture than Dante had ever accomplished. He also had many pieces illustrating one of my favorite children's series, the "Alice in Wonderland" books. The Mad Tea Party never seemed as much like a horrible acid trip than when Dali envisioned it.

Another series was an ode to American inventors -- which, at least in the sampling we were afforded, was only Thomas Edison. He gave Edison credit for many things for which he was not responsible, such as the pyramids and . . . donkeys.

Dali is the perfect example of how one generation (literary, artistic, or genealogical) rebels against the previous. Dali obviously did not create art in the same way as he was trained, or else his work would more closely resemble that of his predecessors. Also, one can understand how the "old" people are frightened or turned off by the work of the new generation. Dali probably scared a lot of people during his time. Through this example, it is easier to understand why the Romantics and Moderns shocked and scared people with their newfangled ways, and why the Postmoderns sometimes even scare themselves.

After finishing our viewing, we tried to find the exit. Near the end of the gallery there was a door open with a sign that indicated a way out. So, being entirely rational people, we followed the signs outside, onto the roof of the building beside / attached to it, and around and around until we got to a staircase that headed down to the street. However, Andy and I remembered that we had checked our bags at the entrance, so we went back to get them. As we neared the exhibit again, the guy from the front leans outside and said "Inspecting the roof?" We explained that the signs pointed that this was the exit, though we weren't quite sure by the looks of it. He told us that we had to come back inside and leave the way we came in.

We ignore his snooty tone and do as instructed. After checking out the way-overpriced gift shop and the very strange film of Dali they were playing, we decided to go into Stuttgart for dinner. We ate at the Wienerwald because no one could come up with anything better. The water was very expensive, so we all just got small bottles -- we heard a rumor of a magical trinkwasser fountain somewhere in Stuttgart. Actually, we heard about it because Jake and Andy found in on their Nazi scavenger hunt in Stuttgart last week. So, we kept the bottles from dinner (( we had poor service anyway )) and made our way to the fountain.

The only public water fountain I've seen since being in Germany (( not in our Universitätspark buildings )) is in front of the Holocaust memorial with the four giant granite blocks. How we had missed it on our tour the first week is beyond me. We walked right past it several times. Regardless, we filled our bottles many times over. The concept of free and unlimited water is something I definitely took for granted at home . . . and I fully intend on appreciating and take advantage of it on my return. We hung out for a little while in the streets of Stuttgart and took some pictures to commemorate the finding of the water. Then we headed back to the Schwä.

Today we talked about the German Romantic poets in class. We argued the value of translated poetry more than anything. I see little merit in such poetry, personally, but that could be because I know about agonizing over single syllables in a poem. The poets might have created something beautiful, but all we read in translation is their sentiment. Poetry is not about sentiments, it's about words. Words and sounds and the feeling from them, not necessarily even the feeling the poet is trying to portray. Translated poetry should have the translator's name first, because it's really them that creates the art. It's hard enough to write a poem in meter and / or form, but to try to mimic what someone said in another language and make it theirs' instead of my own is an idea completely outside of me.

For example, one of today's foremost translations of "Beowulf" was done by Seamus Heaney. Heaney is a brilliant artist with many of his own works to his name. However, I can't help but think an Irishman's translation of an ancient text might be a little different than someone else's. English has both the advantage and disadvantage of being spoken all over the world: the dialect and vocabulary of someone speaking Australian English is incredibly different than someone in America. So, though we speak the same language, they are far from being "the same". This is a great thing because we are afforded different vantage points on the same words but, at the same time . . . could the same English translations of texts being fitting for us?

Luke says he never thinks about things like this, but I spend a lot of time thinking about language and how it affects how we act and think. Maybe that's why I agonize over individual sounds in my poetry, maybe it's just my synesthesia talking. Words hold such power; they are both an arsenal of weapons as well as the bricks and mortar with which to build a fortress.

Does this mean I'm becoming a linguist?

We didn't get to spend much time in Munich. For a while, we were searching for a place to eat where it wasn't incredibly expensive. And we never found one. We settled on a place that had a good menu. Also, both Sonya and I ordered a liter of still water. It was glorious.

















Jake had a few places he really wanted to go related to his Nazi class. So we basically followed him around. We found the place where one of Hitler's very early but famous bar hall marches ended. There's a plaque in the ground to memorialize it. It's funny because most people don't even realize it's there; or they know but don't care. Very rarely you see someone stop to actually read it. Also, he found a memorial to Sophie Scholl and the White Rose. I'm not really educated on all the history here, but it was something they studied in the class, too. We saw the capitol building and a memorial garden / park.






















One really interesting thing about Munich is the lions. There are statues of lions all over the city. All of them are doing something different or painted in a different way. I wanted to get a picture with a few of them, but we ran out of time and had to hurry back to the bus so we didn't get left.

a picture's worth a thousand words,
but it would take millions
to just describe
the air.

as each room held their terrors,
my camera held its shutter.

I tend to hate the British Romantic poets. Ok, that's not fair. Revision: I tend to hate William Wordsworth. I understand his importance to all of poetry since his existence, I understand that what I write would not be considered poetry if it were not from him. Though I can't help but think that somebody else would have thought of some of that stuff if he didn't. I mean, how much longer could the heroic couplet have stayed popular? He championed the idea of poetry being written in the common tongue so it would be accessible by all. But, William Blake before him had a similar idea: he wrote "for children", knowing that adults would read it and understand what he was saying about hypocritical religions, slavery, racism, child labour, etc. Samuel Taylor Coleridge argued with Wordsworth (( they were best buds )) that poetry will always have a language of its own.

In their lifetime, Coleridge was right. While Wordsworth struggled to make it sound like the common man speaking, he still cheated with the poetic "ere"s and "oer"s. Today, a lot of poetry has moved very close to the voice of the people. Or specific people. In fact, that's one of the criteria for a good poem, in many senses. "Is the voice we hear authentic?" "Is that the type of language this person would use?" "Who do we hear in this poem?" It isn't necessarily the "common man", but, in many cases, it is. This makes it accessible for the non-poetry readers, but it still arguably has a poem-y feeling.

Studying prose poetry in Creative Writing, the question was often raised: "Yeah, but what makes this a poem and not just a paragraph? It looks like a paragraph to me." And the only answer is: listen to it. Listen to that paragraph. Poetry has music. Sometimes it's grating, middle-school band music, but sometimes that's what it has to be. And sometimes it's a symphony.

Unfortunately, my alarm clock decided to not work. It's amazing how my electronics often choose to go against my will. Our plan was to get up rather early, pack everything up, walk to the Joyce Tower and visit it when it opened, walk back, check out of the hostel, and DART to the airport. However, with the late awakening, these plans fell through. We basically had to get ready, have breakfast, and check out. We talked to the ticket guy at the DART station about how to get to the airport using the rail; he informed us that you have to take it to Connolly Station, and then use the bus to get to the airport. The next train to Connolly wasn't for another 40 minutes, but that really wasn't enough time to do anything in that area. My next hope was that the buses come often enough that we could walk through a little bit of Temple Bar (( the artsy part of city centre )) before heading straight to the airport. Again, I was thwarted. On Sundays, the buses to the airport only come once every hour, the next one was about 15-20 minutes away, and we would not have been at the airport soon enough waiting another almost hour and a half.

So, we check in and head to our gate (( at the end of the world )) as usual and wait for the plane. They announce that the boarding will begin soon, so we get in a newly-formed line, pretty near the front. As actual boarding begins, the attendants inform us that the line is only for people with handicaps or small children (( seen here as a handicap )). We had to go through the queue, split up into two groups depending on how early you checked in. We were in the first group, but lots of people shoved their way in front of us, so we were actually further back in the line than we would have been if they had just called all the people with handicaps and children to the front of the original line. The woman behind me kept pushing me forward. Then, she was nice and asked (( after seeing my passport )) if it was this bad in the States. I told her about how the lines were worse and how you have to take off your shoes, but at least we have trash cans. I was hoping that after she started talking, she would stop pushing. No such luck. I tried pushing back a little, but she didn't seem to get the point. She kept commenting on how the people getting off the plane before "should know better than to think it'll be 35 degrees here like it was back in Germany." I got a little embarrassed because I was one of those people, but it quickly faded when she wouldn't stop pushing me.

The plane trip was rather uneventful. We got good seats again, and I slept a little bit. It's always a bit strange to fall asleep on a plane that heads over several countries and a few bodies of water -- when you wake up, you're never quite sure what land / water it is you're seeing out the window. When we landed, we found the bus stop to get back to the bahnhof, but it said it didn't run at all on Sunday. However, there was a special bus that comes by every two hours and goes to the bahnhof. So we waited and waited (( again, we just missed it )) and then had to pay 3.50 Euro each just to ride there. One guy had a Baden-Wurttenburg ticket and only had to pay 1 Euro. So we showed the guy our Eurail passes, but he said they wouldn't work. He also got in an argument with one girl about how much luggage she could take on the bus and what she had to put underneath in the compartments. The train rides and walk back to the Universitätspark were as usual. Only I was sad I wasn't still in Ireland.

The day I've been anticipating for a long time is finally here: I get to tour Dublin. Luke let me take the reins of what we were to see. I don't remember the order exactly, but we visited the Abbey Theatre, the General Post Office, the James Joyce Centre, the Dublin Writers' Museum, Merrion Square, and walked up and down O'Connell Street several times. Actually, I think that might have been the order, but I'm going to pretend it was even if it wasn't.

We learned the night before that the bus is not the cheapest or the easiest or the quickest way to travel in Dublin. The answer is the DART: Dublin's equivalent of the MARTA or the S-Bahn. The nearest station was the Salthills and it was only 200 meters up the street. From there, it took only 15 minutes to get into Connolly Station, the main station in Dublin and the most central for our purposes as well. We had a map from the information center that had many of the landmarks we wanted to see, so I grouped them together and headed off.

Before any site-seeing took place, we had to do something about the cold! I guess we didn't think that Dublin would be very cold because Germany was supposed to be cooler and, instead, it's just as hot as home. But, Ireland is an island. Dublin is on the coast. It's windy. And cold. So we found a souvenir shop that had some sales and I bought a jacket for pretty cheap.

First on the list was the Abbey Theatre. We missed the turn the first time past, but turning around afforded us a tremendous view of the front right away. Right across the street was a small demonstration for the people killed during the Easter 1916 Rebellion. Basically, it was pictures with names and dates pasted onto shut-up windows. Then you turn around and see the Abbey. It was perfectly how I pictured it: huge and majestic in comparison to the rest of the city, but small and simple in comparison to theatres in other countries. In many ways, you could just tell it was the Irish National Theatre. I took it in from afar, and then we decided to go into the lobby. The lobby was small and modest: on one wall was a bookshelf with buyable books related to plays produced at the Abbey or Irish playwrights who were just important in the scheme of things; in front of the bookshelf was an information desk; on the other side of the wall was the box office of three windows, two of which were closed; there was a set of doors into the house and a staircase leading up to the bar. We saw that "The Importance of Being Earnest" was the next play to open, so we looked at the information about it. Amazingly enough, we discovered that it was opening that evening and tickets were pretty cheap. We went to the lone open ticket window and inquired if seats were still available. They were, and good ones too. So we splurged.

















After we left the Abbey, tickets in hand and shock lining my face, we turned a couple of corners to get to the General Post Office. The GPO was the site of the Easter 1916 Rising. Well, the main site. The Irish rebels got together to take back 11 of Dublin's public service buildings from the British occupation. The biggest and most important of these was the GPO, and several of the leaders, themselves, were centered there. When the British realized what was happening, short story is they opened fire on the GPO, arrested all the insurgents within, and executed all of them within days. When we got to the GPO, there was a large statue to Cuchulain (( an Irish mythic figure of strength against oppression )) in the main window commemorating those killed. I couldn't get a good picture of it because of all the window glare. As I was trying to read the inscription, Luke called my attention to the massive columns in the front of the building. All of them are scarred from gunfire, some with massive chunks removed.

















At this point, we spent some time in and out of Irish department stores. We were worried that nothing we had brought to wear was nice enough to wear to the Abbey that night. Most things were pretty expensive, so we had no luck. We stopped for sandwiches and chips. I must say that I was very impressed with the chips. I mean, I know potatoes = Ireland / Idaho. But, I just don't think I've ever had any as good as on this trip.

The James Joyce Museum was the next on the itinerary. We found the street with ease, but not the museum. We passed it three times before we finally noticed it; it looked like any other residential building on the street, with the exception of a sandwich board sign propped up outside. First, we looked through the gift shop. They had a lot of nice shirts and other gift-y things with witty or interesting things from Joyce's writing. One of my favourites was a black umbrella with these words from Ulysses on one section in white letters: Love me, love my umbrella. I really wanted a t-shirt with Stephen Dedalus' Clongowes delineation of who he is, from his person to the Universe. Then, we paid our admission and the ticket lady said "That's for the entire house." So, we start walking around. All over the walls are quotes from Joyce. I took a lot of pictures of these. The bottom three floors kind of confused us. There didn't really seem to be much purpose. So, we headed up to the top floor, crossing our fingers it would get better. Upstairs actually seems like a museum. There were old copies of Ulysses, along with a family tree of all the different publications of it. There was a screen where some documentaries about Joyce were playing. There were re-creations of some of the rooms of the house. It wasn't great, but it was definitely better than downstairs.

Leaving the Joyce Museum, I wanted to see the Hugh Lane Gallery (( at least from the outside, considering I didn't know how much admission would be )) and the Dublin Writers' Museum. Along the way, we got a great view of the Abbey Church. I never found the Hugh Lane Gallery because it wasn't where the map we had indicated. The Dublin Writers' Museum looked interesting, but after the Joyce Museum, we were kind of wary about spending 10 Euro on a museum in a house. So, we opted against it and started heading south again. It began threatening to rain, so we thought we should check out Merrion Square. That way, if it did start raining, all the rest of our time could be spent in indoor attractions.

















Merrion Square was beautiful. I'm not entirely sure what the deal is with it . . . I couldn't find any of the odd numbered houses, or any that went above 24. So, I'm guessing that the actual "Square" is where those houses were, and is now a park. It certainly stood up to expectations as far as the greenery. I know Ireland is famous for being green, but the grass and the leaves of trees and everything truly were the greenest I've ever seen. The first thing we saw was a giant statue-thing of Oscar Wilde. I say "statue-thing" because it's really a statue of him, chilling out on a giant boulder. I had heard about the Yeats statue in the Square, so we start wandering around, looking at all the plants and trying to spy Yeats. Along the way, we found a bust of a Chilean man with an Irish-sounding name. According to the inscription, he was born in Chile and died in Venezuela (( I think )) and fought for Chilean independence. It was given to the Republic of Ireland shorting after the formation of the nation. The bust was hidden behind a giant bush. We found a map before we found anyone else, so we tried to figure out where we were. The paths on the map did not match those we saw in front of us from any angle or position. So, we looked to the legend. This was no luck because the "how to find your way by landmarks" idea was based off of street lamps. Yes, if you knew which was the 1934 Johnson Fire-Twist Lamp (( I made that up )), you might could find your way by it. If not, you're stuck to judge by the paths . . . which are not labeled correctly. The only thing that seems to be correct is the placement of the statue of Eire. Eventually, we start walking in the direction we THINK we'll find George "AE" Russell and then Michael Collins. Where AE should be, we find a small modest bust of Michael Collins. He kind of has that look on his face like someone just yelled his name so he turned around, confused. We figure maybe we'll find AE where Michael would have been, so we keep going. Except, where Michael should have been doesn't seem to exist; the square ends before that. So, we walk around a little more, and don't find anything. It's also beginning to rain a bit more, so we decided to find a pub to wait it out and get some chips.

People in the pub were preparing for the 3rd place World Cup match that evening. Lots of people were dressed up and painted (( nothing like back in Germany, though )), and one rather scruffy guy had apparently lost a bet because he was dressed in ladies' clothes: a skirt and a tank top, with his stomach hanging out. The bartender refused to serve an underage Spanish girl, and we had some awesome chips. We soon realize it's time for us to go back to the hostel to change for the Abbey. We DART to Dun Laoghaire and back to Connolly Station and arrive at the Abbey just before the house opened. As we climbed the steps for the balcony seats, I noticed many portraits hanging around. I saw many faces I expected to see -- Lady Augusta Gregory, Lennox Robinson, Annie Horniman, Frank and William Fay --, but one face was peculiarly missing. How they could not hang a portrait of Yeats, considering he was one of the three founders of the Abbey and worked so hard to make it the Irish National Theatre when they won independence I'm not entirely sure. But it was a fact that bothered me up until the show began. Our seats were outstanding. We were on the first row of the balcony, just left of center. The theatre is small enough that we didn't feel miles away from the stage.

The show was amazing. It was "back by popular demand", and we just happened to catch opening night of its return. I knew when I saw the poster advertising "A show comprised entirely of gentlemen" that it was going to be hilarious. And it was. I dare say the men in the women's roles were better than the men in the men's roles. Seeing Oscar as Lady Fairfax but still clearly Oscar was absolutely brilliant. I obviously wasn't the only one delighted by the performance, given that the cast took three curtain call bows because the audience was still clapping, and a standing ovation followed. After the show, as we were walking down the stairs from the balcony seats and I notice a peculiar painting. It is a rather large canvas with an applauding audience at the bottom. Above their heads is a massive black space and, just above that, three figures seated in a box are visible. The three founders of the Abbey. There, I found the man I came to Ireland to chase. It was unmistakably him -- the white suit with the head full of angry silver hair and the round glasses. This vision was the perfect ending to my day.

Luckily, and despite getting a really good deal on the airfare, our flight to Dublin was scheduled to leave in the afternoon. Leaving the Karlsruhe-Baden Airpark at 4:15 made me pretty comfortable. Even arriving three hours early (( which I was informed by the airline to do )) got us there at least an hour and a half too early to check in. A few days ago, Dr. Noll helped me out by printing off a train and bus schedule to get us to the Airpark; it was in German, but it had the numbers and times and that was the most important part.

The train rides to the airpark were pretty uneventful. We arrived in Baden-Baden on time and then had to figure out the whole bus thing. Dr. Johnson told us that our Eurail would most likely work for the bus trip because it was found on the Deutsche Bahn website, but we weren't so sure because the "total" ticket price mentioned "DB Part" . . . which might or might not mean "Everything but the bus". We found the bus stop pretty easily once we walked outside the bahnhof. We also found out that we had missed the previous bus by less than 10 minutes, and the next one was 45 minutes later.

An interesting note about the Baden-Baden Bahnhof -- one WC. Big sign on the door "DEFEKT". Awesome.

When the bus finally pulls up, after what seems like hours of waiting, the driver didn't open the front door but only the back. Therefore, we didn't get to ask about our Eurail or anything, but we also didn't have to pay anything. The bus made about 35 stops on the way to the airpark. All the people that had once crowded the bus left the two of us on our route. After we had seen huge pirate statues and the bus went slalom into an apartment complex, we realized we didn't know where we were. And the worst part is, you don't talk to the driver unless the bus is stopped and there was no one to ask about where we were. Finally, we see something that looks like a main entrance to Flughafen Karlsruhe-Baden, so I press the little "Please Stop Mr. Driver-Man" button. As we roll past. We also pass another stop with a building labeled "Airpark Eisstadion". No pulling over. After another 5 minutes, we see a glorious sign mentioning terminals. I guess the guy realized we didn't know where we were going but that we were trying to get to the airport so he just took us there.

















Ryan Air, the airline we had selected for travel, informed me that we should arrive 3 hours early for all international flights. We got there about at the correct time, however, could not find the check-in for our flight anywhere. I went to the information desk, and had to drag information out of the information desk lady about our check-in. Which did not begin until 2:45, an hour and a half after our arrival and an hour and a half before our flight. So we sat around for a while. We checked in without any problem, grabbed some snacks (( which were horrible )), and headed to our gate. We went through "PASSPORT CONTROLLING", where an officer looked at me, looked at my passport and boarding pass, looked at me, and stamped me for departure. However, the officer that checked Luke's asked all sorts of questions about why he didn't have a stamp entering Germany and where he was going and how long he was going to be gone and how long he was going to be in Germany when he returned. Eventually, Luke got his stamp and we headed to the gate.

At the gate, we realized that we were going to be traveling with some of the most annoying teenagers on the planet. They were Irish and insisted on singing and stomping and whistling and kazooing (( oh yes, they had kazoos )) about going home. Gradually the announcements came pouring in: "Plane delayed at Dublin Airport", "Flight delayed until further notice", "Flight rescheduled for 18:35". So, another 2+ hours with the annoying kids.

In the end, the plane boarded with little problem. We had to get on a bus to take us to the plane. During this step, a few attendants realized that some people for the next flight leaving from that gate were already trying to board, thinking it was their turn. It wasn't a big deal, only they didn't speak German or English, so the attendants had to explain through pointing. We were lucky enough to get on the first bus heading to the plane, so we got good seats near the middle of the plane and just near, but not on, the wings.






















We expected we would do as before to find our hostel -- get a map and spend a few minutes located the area and street. However, the maps in the airport information center were all elaborate, extremely different, and expensive. So we approach the desk with the address in Dun Laoghaire and ask for some help. The guy gives us a free map, some brochures, and tells us what bus we can take down to Dun Laoghaire. We thank him, find the bus stop, and realize that the bus only comes in one-and-a-half hour intervals. And, given our luck with such things, we just missed it. So we sit down and wait it out. Luke finds a place to buy our tickets and there is no hassle when the bus comes.

We sit on the top of the double decker bus to have a good view. That good view includes many famous buildings and statues, but also an alarming fact: the bus has no announcements or banners to inform passengers of the stops, and the stops themselves have no signs to indicate what they are. A little while of mild freaking out led to a realization: THEY SPEAK ENGLISH HERE. So, with no hesitation, I asked the guy in the row beside us if he knew when to get off if we were staying in Dun Laoghaire. He said he didn't even know if this bus went there, but if it did, don't expect to be getting off any time soon. I thanked him and, before he got off at his stop, he said "After you cross the river, wait about 20 to 30 minutes before you even start looking for it." Great.

A few stops later, a woman sits in the same seat, and I ask her for advice as well. She is a little more helpful. She explains the order of the little provinces of town and that we'll probably go down a long road and see nothing for a while, and then we'll see the coast and then some signs for Stillorgan and Dun Laoghaire would be next. She was right. But, because it was getting dark and we still weren't entirely comfortable, Luke asked the bus driver when we came to a stop. The answer wasn't very helpful, so we just got off and crossed our fingers . . . and magically were on the same street as the hostel.

















We buzzed the door and explained that our plane was delayed by hours and then the bus trip was forever-long so we were much later than anticipated. New Zealander Phil, the hostel owner, asked us if we knew why our plane was delayed. He said that it was because there was a bomb threat. This one seemed to have been a copy-cat, he informed us, a hoax based off of a real threat from about 3 days before.

We spent the rest of the evening settling in, eating bad Chinese food (( the take-away place was the only thing open by that point )), and trying to plan something for tomorrow.

This week I elected not to go on the field trip with Dr. Norwood's other class. They went to Heidelburg. I thought it sounded interesting, but I really didn't feel like getting up extra-early and being on the trains all day. So I took this day to relax, do laundry, call my parents, and just get ready for Dublin. I'm glad that I didn't go because I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have had any clean clothes to pack. Also, my foot was really hurting today, and then it was raining pretty heavily when they got back to the Schwä. Even though it would have been nice to go on a trip, I think I needed this downtime to psych myself up for Dublin.

Everything around here feels dead. Since Germany lost the World Cup game last night, everyone seemed to have lost interest in things. National pride is so interlinked with the World Cup -- I don't know if it's the same every four years, or if it's this way because the games are here. I get the feeling that it's always a really big deal, but more people are getting into it because it's here. Maybe some people get dragged to games or viewings by their friends and get all caught up in it. I know I didn't really care about soccer or the World Cup at all before I came, but once I experienced the spirit of the people that first time in Stuttgart and then watched a game on television, I got really intrigued. When you are completely surrounded by something this permeating, it's hard not to feel swept up in it.

Class, despite being so dead, was interesting. We talked more about "Faust", but this time we had a little more background from going to Frankfurt. Having a little research on a writer always helps give you an idea of why he writes the way that he does. It's much easier to see Faust as Goethe, or at least as part of how he sees himself.

The food situation here is getting to be less good. More often than not, we have other meats for lunch or dinner. And that would be fine as long as there's at least something else there I can eat. But, several meals I've only been able to eat bread. And, considering I paid for meals and informed them on my application that I can't eat red pigments and don't eat meat, it's not like I sprung this on everyone.

Germany just lost the chance to win the World Cup this year. They lost to Italy 2-0 in double overtime. They will play against Portugal for 3rd place in Stuttgart on Saturday, 08-07-06. France will be playing Italy for the Cup in Berlin on 09-07-06.

A real post will follow.

P.S. Happy 4th of July!

When we got back to the Schwä, there was an American flag hanging from the flagpole in the Universitätspark for us. About 15 minutes after our return, the program commenced. None of us really knew what to expect. A lot of kids from town came to the program, so Dr. Noll had some stuff to say in both German and English. He told us about how a German commander went to the American colonies and helped George Washington organize the troops for the Revolution. Also, the artist who painted "Washington Crossing the Delaware" was from the Schwä. And then he talked about how American troops fought to free the German people from the Nazi oppression and create democracy for them. I'm not sure, but I think he mentioned David Hassellhoff insisting that they "TEAR DOWN THIS WALL". (( I guess I should point out that that is a joke, just to avoid confusion )).






















After Dr. Noll finished talking, Mark got up on the stage and played the guitar for everyone. He plays the classical guitar -- I don't think I've ever heard someone play classical guitar in person before. He was extremely good and he played 4 pieces for us.

And after that, we moved the party to the patio behind the place where we normally eat our meals. They had arranged a huge feast for us (( the people from town had left by then )) with wurst, schnitzel, kartoffels, etc. It was great, and everyone left stuffed.

As I told a few people, our Independence Day ended here at 9 PM. The Germany-Italy game began then, and everyone was in full-Deutschland mode again. The game was played really well but, as I've already posted, Italy won. The score was tied and made it into double overtime. Most everyone knew that making it to a shoot-out would almost guarantee a German win. However, in the last minute of double overtime, Italy scored. And then scored again. The game was over. Now, Germany will be playing for a third place finish against who wins tomorrow night -- France or Portugal.

The trip to Frankfurt was long. Somewhere over three hours long. The trains weren't bad -- at one point we had particularly good seat, being on an IC and all. What follows is actually going to be my site report I wrote for the trip, and I'll just amend it with pictures. We toured Goethe's house and a museum that held a lot of artwork related to his life. Through this experience, I really feel like I learned more about the person behind "Faust" and understand the significance of certain artistic choices he made in this important piece of art.

From our textbook, we learned that Goethe had a rather idyllic childhood. I never realized exactly what this meant for the time in which he lived. While many people lived in homes with four or fewer rooms, the Goethe haus had four floors, not including the cellar and attic. While we were told that this was not the original construction of the house--nor even the same house Goethe lived in--it is my understanding that the reconstruction attempted to stay as true as possible to his father's design. The simple fact that Goethe's father was able to make the decision to tear down a perfectly good building, add on to the existing structure, and buy up land from the neighbors shows the family's enormous wealth.






















The furniture found inside, which the tour "guide" / "watcher" assured us was from the original house, is symbolic of the level of wealth the Goethe family enjoyed. It's one thing to have more than enough money to feed and clothe your family; it's quite another to be able to afford numerous pieces of expensive multi-inlayed wooden furniture. The fact that there was the need for more than one secretary, many tall grandfather clocks, and several display cabinets to display any number of goods exemplifies high-class living.






















Since Goethe was neither abandoned nor orphaned at a young age, he lacked much of the tragedy found in most Romantic writers. Love seems to have been the first thing he wanted and was denied. This is an idea that is carried over into "Faust" -- Dr. Faust asks for many things from Mephistopheles, but he is always intent on love. Much of the first part after the appearance of Mephistopheles is taken up by Gretchen and Faust's desire for her. He loses her and has to deal with the grief of this lost love. Later, in Part II of the play, Faust wishes to have the love of Helen of Troy because he has heard that she was the greatest beauty to have ever lived. Again, he must lose her as she returns to the land of the dead.






















Faust seems to have everything he truly needs -- he has a good job, he is respected because of his position, he is well-learned, and never goes hungry. However, like Goethe, he wants more than he needs, and he leaves the comfort of the easy life to search for it. Goethe did the same thing, and in the end, became the forefather of Romantic writing.

















The best part, however, was the Goethe am Ball exhibit. You can visit my webshots for the entire series.

Today we started talking about "Faust". Johann Wolfgang von Goethe is one of the most important (( if not THE most important )) writer to come from Germany. I quoted him in my high school graduation speech, and one of my mice had the last name Goethe. So, it's pretty cool to finally read one of his most famous works. Tomorrow we're going to the Goethe Haus and Museum, and I'm really excited about that. Not really excited about having to use our Eurail pass on this trip, but it's either that or we can't leave Baden-Wurttenburg. And Frankfurt, where the Goethe Haus is, is not in Baden-Wurttenburg.

Since class days are slow days, I'm going to write about Harry and Toto. A week ago, Luke, Jake, and I decided to check out German television. We weren't sure if we were going to find a lot of stuff dubbed / subtitled from America, or if German television and movies are part of a big industry here. It turns out that almost everything we came across was in German and not dubbed. We wind up flipping through channels for a while, not finding much worth watching without knowing what it said. That was, until we saw a show called "24 Stunden" (( 24 hours )). As soon as we realize it's a German version of "COPS" from the US, we're interested. At this point, I can't even fathom what is to come. The Germans have a reputation for being a rigid and rule-following people, so I can only imagine that this show might be even rougher than it's American counterpart.









The show begins with them introducing us to Toto und Harry, two police officers from an unnamed German city. What kind of horrible crimes are they going to stop? Are we going to witness unspeakable police brutality? The first stop. They pull their big green polizei vehicle behind a car. They get out and explain to the man in the driver's seat that he has too many people in his car. They are mostly children and, as Toto is talking sternly with the driver, two more people hop into the car. A little girl is crying, so Harry takes her over to the polizei van and lets her play with the siren and tries to cheer her up. They give the man a ticket and leave.

Then, a call comes through on their radio. They flip on the lights and sirens and speed off. They pull up to a street and get out. An old woman has bought too many groceries and can't carry them home. They help her into the van and drive her home. At this point, we think this is TV gold. It's so ridiculous and so not what we were expecting. The most important thing to remember is that none of us know more than incredibly rudimentary German, so each of the plots had to be guessed at and surmised from the surrounding action. Context clues, you guys.

The last call of the night comes from someone whose neighbor's dog won't be quiet. It comes in while Harry and Toto have stopped to eat pizza, so they selflessly abandon their meal and run to the scene of the crime. This particular event requires back-up, so several of their polizei friends join them. The man who owns the noisy dog refuses to make him be quiet and takes him into the house. Harry and Toto go through the parking garage beside the man's house and get the dog to quiet down.

Personally, I feel much safer here in Germany knowing that Harry and Toto are patrolling the streets. This week, we checked the television schedule to find out when it comes on, and it said it would be on at 9:15 PM. Well, at 9:15, "The Last Action Hero" (( you may remember, it is a horrible movie with Arnold and some kid )) dubbed into German was on, and didn't seem to be going off anytime soon. So, we wait patiently for the return of Harry and Toto. It's 11:15 before their appearance and the episode is barely 15 minutes long, with at least half the time taken up by commercials. This is disappointing, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.

This morning we didn't really do anything in town. We basically checked out of the hotel, walked to a cheap backerei for breakfast, and then rode the bus to the stadtgarten. We spent about an hour and a half there before heading to the bahnhof. Dr. Noll and the bus were supposed to be rolling around at "11:30 sharp" . . . which turned into us sitting there until about 12. Several other people from our group that had spent the weekend in Austria joined us at the bahnhof. Apparently the bus arrived 45 minutes late to the Universitätspark and they had already given a 15 minute cushion in the trip time. Regardless, we eventually met up with Dr. Noll and headed to Zeppelin, where we had been invited to swim. We took the amazing Mercedes-Benz bus on the ferry and met up with a few more people on the other side. After lunch, we were on our way to Zeppelin University.

Yes, this is where they designed and built zeppelins. There is an extremely small college there with a "beach" in front of it. I use this term loosely because it's basically just rocks. No sand. The water was incredibly cold, but given the strange heat that has overcome Germany, it was great. It was kind of a shame that the entire bottom of the lake was rocks, but I guess that's what you get from a non-man-made lake. In one direction, you could see the Swiss Alps. In another, you can see German Alps. And in another, there are Austrian Alps. Lake Konstanz forms the border where the three countries meet. Most people didn't stay out in the water very long, but Luke, Jared, and I stayed out for a while. Getting back out of the water on the rocks was even harder than getting out there -- at one point I literally had to lean over and use my hands to help me keep my balance.

















After swimming, we ate pizza. Well, I ate crust. Dr. Noll understands about my red-foods thing, but apparently the people at the pizzeria did not. So, I certainly did get pizza without sauce, but it was also without cheese or spinach or any of that other stuff I was imagining. We then headed out on the bus back to the Schwä. Almost all of the long bus rides have seen some sleep; I think I was out for about an hour on the trip home.

There's not much to say about this. Konstanz was absolutely gorgeous. We spent all day just walking around. Or sitting around with our feet in the water. I took a lot of pictures. Most of them look the same, but they all felt like amazing shots every time I took them. The entire day was relaxed, which was exactly what I needed after this first week of running around like a chicken (( hänchen )) with my head cut off. The sky and water were amazing. We literally did nothing all day, and it was everything I expected it would be.