Making it to Mannheim

Making it to Mannhiem

"Don't worry, about a thing, 'cause everything, everything's gonna be alright."

When Lauren and I embarked on our Holiday to Berlin, we harbored whimsical, fantastic dreams of doing our paper on Friday, begin done with it, with only minor editing for the return overnight train.

"I'm really excited with about this!" Lauren bursts out as she plays with her new water bottle toy, going to stand near the window.

Before our many mini adventures, we believed in such notions, but such did not prove the case. We, needless to say, didn't get much real work on our papers done.

Sunday night. Sunday we'll stay up all night, work on our papers and it'll be awesome. And it was. We finally met up with one of Kristin's good, close personal friend, shall we say while getting the quick tour of Berlin. It was really sweet. We went to a huge park near the parlement building before running like hell through the train station worry about German efficiency.

Lauren shifts her pillow mountain making faces at me. I watch.

Lauren and I thought briefly about bringing baggage and runing around Gard de Nord for absolutly no reason but exercise. It was pretty entertaining and more then I've run in a long time, but I somehow think we lack the motivation to do it without real impetus.

Our couchettes we better this time, if solely for us both being on the top bunk, being kinda high, and getting to watch our fellow cabin mates. There was a English guy below Lauren who was too determined to go to bed, goddamnit, that he couldn't be bothered to put on pants to go to the bathroom or find his ticket and deal with the conductor. Watching him try to understand and install his seamed sleeping-bag style chouchette sheet was like watching small children playing with those toys where you have to match differently shaped blocks with their corresponding cut-out shape. If I just push, and twist, push again, maybe. . um. . how about this?

Under him was a French women. She reminded me off one of those old Southern women I secretly want to be like: well dressed, well accessorized, completely competant and in charge of the situation, yet elegant. Somehow ruling over the entire situation, but with a certain grace. Only our woman out shown most Southern examples because she had a more style, a quieter more self-assured air. No need for matching brighton luggage here, I can choose quality better. She may be the only person I've seen who can wear a long sweater, skirt, and an over sized belt and make it look good, not moderately out of place.

After momentairly thinking we were on the wrong train as the conductor rattled on in German over the speakers. Then, eventually repeated himself in very polite and too the point English. It was endearing and I reflected on how I've really grown a soft place in my heart for Germany -- they're not as openly friendly as the French, walking just this of cold, but curtoiusly so.

I didn't fall directly in love with Berlin at large and Germans as Lauren did. The duck out of water feeling is always a bit unsettling for me. I abhor not being able to understand the ambient noise around me: random snatchs of conversation, automatically responding with the proper common curtisies, and the like. The most bizzare and unexpected little thing that I soon missed was compulsively reading everything.

I'm a compulsive reader. I read the book of "Soaptoothpasteointmenthaircolorfloss" whenever I'm in the bathroom. I read the book of "Ingredientsdirectionsrecipesservingspromotions" on food packaging. I love reading the advertisement, street signs, flyers, graffiti, ticket stubs, napkins, wrappers. Anything. If I can see text, I'm going to read it.

I couldn't do that in Germany. It's not as easy as I'd like sometimes in France -- I don't understand their written humor well, yet. But Duetch? I can't even pretend to know what's going on. I was happy to be returning to a place with readable ambivalent, text.

After settling in we decide to explore the train. I grab stuff to work on my paper with -- namely my Bag O' Life. I hope to one day complete the turtle hippie-kit, but this one pretty damn nifty, and above all sturdy and good for carrying around Europe.

We forged through sleeper cars. We trommped through suits, me secretly hoping to one day take one. We traversed the smoking are and emerged in -- low and behold! -- the bar.

Right on. We obtain some drinks, and chill out for a while, smoking too many cigarettes. It was rather rude: when Lauren wen to the restroom these two Germans leaned across her vacated space and made fun of us. I don't speak German, so I didn't know exactly what they said, but it seemed not overly friendly, mildly condescending. and involved several hand gestures specifically in our direction, but whatev.

Finishing our refreshing beverages, we festivused onward. Eventually we reach the end of the train and settle on going two cars back to the bike storage room.

Why? We could sprawl out on the floor, take naps if needed, and talk without waking up our delightful cabin companions. More importantly, a power plug. I only had two hours of charge on my computer. Hooray!

We settle and Lauren decides to journey back to the hither homeland to get more supplies: her computer, coffee, maybe a pillow, my jacket, etc. It was about 11:20 and it was going to be a long night. We had a paper to write.

Lauren leaves, I get started. After a little while a young German approaches and said something like:

"Germangerman gERMangerm. German geman german GERMAN GERMAN?
"Ich spreche kein Deutsch."
"Can I use the?" as he gestures to what must obviously be the only exposed, random plug in the train. Perfect for charging computers, one of which he carried


"What do the french say for camera?"
"Appariel photo."
"That's ridiculous. They litterally say photo device. That's likes saying, oh that photo doohickie," as she gestures disdainfully towards the chair. Very french, I must say. She looks the word up in the dictionary, attempts to pronounce it, disdaining my pronounciation, proceeds to ask me about shoes. Most of her music seems fleetingly sad, a tad meloncholy, but beautiful sung. At least the Sufjan Steven. I change the music.

Young German sits down, plugs in his computer, and low and behold, speaks English. We explain random bits of our lives to each other, the random trading of facts people tend to make in situations where you're sitting a little closer then personal bubbles like. Still an island in space, yet politiness demands that we interact in some fashion. So, huddled around the power source, separated by powercords, we swap idle chit chat. We were overly polite, carefully choosing our words, crossing the language barrier hesitantly. Luckily, his English is better then my French.

"Yea, I was in Berlin for the weekend, but I study in Paris."
"You were on Holiday?"
"Yes,my friend is here too, she should be coming back. Hence the stuff everywhere." I'm moderately embarassed so encamped without Lauren.
"She's coming back?"
"Yes, we have a sleeper car. She just went to get her computer, we have to be back in Paris tomorrow for class."
"How was Berlin?"
"It was great. But I don't speak German," as I make a face to show the difficulty of this. I think it looked kinda like I was unsure, and possibly nauseaus. I think he got the point. We type for a while.
"But where are you going now?"
"Oh,Paris. Lauren should be . . ." Young German just looks at me for a moment through the bars of a bike rack dividing line.
"No. No, you're not. This train is going to Zurick."

My heart stops.
"Seriously?"
"Yes, um, I'm pretty sure they split at Hannover."
"SPLIT?"
"Um. . .yes. . .I. . "

I'm not listening as I cram our camp in to my Life, scrambling to my feet. Young German yells good luck, as I flee the way I came.

I haul ass through the cars, passing the dinning hall, then the train, just stops.

No couchettes.
No suites.
No Lauren.

I force the panic attack to resceed, at least momentairely and approach the nearest conductor. Hands shaking, I pull out a cigarette.

"Ich spreche kein Deutsch." as I point to Paris. I try French, it fails. I hand him my ticket, light a cigarette, grabbing the information booth to save me from dropping through the hole of the world. How did this happen? More importantly, why does this happen to me? Shit. I have a paper due in less then 12 hours. Shit.

No, I will not have a nutty for the entertainment of my fellow passengers. I excuse myself, deciding to let the nice Germans decide my fate and high tail it to the nearest bathroom, which proves just big enough me for me, my bag (barely), and the pieces that I soon become.

I emerge 20 minutes later, face washed, hair pulled back, hands shaking, go straight to the smoking car, get a cup of coffee and let my mind reel. I've become quite Zooey -esque: cigarettes providing much ballast.

I've also not slept properly in going on three days.

Not only do I not know where I'm going, I have no idea where I am. If you handed me a map, I'd be at a loss.

"Umm, I think I'm somewhere. . . well, maybe . . . " as I swirl my finger in even broadening circles in the general vicinity of Europe.

To distract my mind I "read" French poetry. Not really concentrating, all it gives off is profound insight, but so coupled with much despairing sadness that soon I can't deal. Back to task one: smoking cigarettes hoping someone will eventually tell me where THE HELL ON THE FUCKING EUROPEAN CONTINENT I'M CURRENTLY SPEEDING TO?!?

And while I'm at it WHERE THE FUCK WERE THE SIGNS? TRAINS SHOULD JUST SPLIT. THEY SHOULD NOT DO THAT.

After mentally yelling for a while, a conductor comes and offers several ways for me to make it back to Paris - Oh! Paris! -- all with the magic of a small handheld miracle worker.

Plan A: Current train makes emergency stop. I take a taxi ride to GermangermanGERMangermanGERMAN. Do I have €40? GErmaNGerman.

I look confused, so we move on to Plan 2.

Plan 2 means I can sleep in coach for 2 hours, after which they're wake me. Then I get off the train, wait three hours to catch another 5 hours train to Paris. Hopefully.

The conductor checks his pocket sized magic machine, write some things in German on the back of my ticket, then sends me to bed. There, I sit up for another hour convinced that their not really going to wake me up, afraid to go to sleep and wake up in Australia. Obviously, I'm not writing a paper.


5:00 AM: Mannheim, Germany.

I'm not German, and I may be a little prejudiced by my less-then awesome evening. Mannhiem is about the equivalent of early-fuck nowhere. Only German. And it's cold. Canada cold -- they're pretty equivalent on latitude. At least I was wearing my favorite jeans and tee-shirt. And birks. I longingly thought of my favorite Texas hoodie.

Then! The young German who told me about the whole SNAFU gets of the trains and heads my direction. Keep in mind that in order to not freeze to death, I'm huddled with a peach pashimina thing wrapped around me in a hilarious (come on, say it with the British accent) fashion.

He matter of factly, offers me his coat, finds out when exactly me next train leaves, speaks lots of German, and invites me to spend the three hours at his house, which is conviently five minutes away from the station. He's my age, a computer scientist with long hair. I figure that since he's from Dussledorf, he's not likely to murder/rape/eat me.

So, off we go. His name is Mattieu. Then comes the nice part of the story: there was not romantic fling, no soul searching discoveries.

No, I sat on his futon, wrote my paper, emailed my husband! and was warm. Mattieu was a super guy, and we got along, but it was more of a human to human connection then anything.

Here is a person, having a problem, and I can help, so I shall.

At 8:00 am, he walks me to the train station, after buying me the most AMAZING GERMAN PASTRY THING EEEVVVVEEERRR. I get on the train, back off into the world. Mattieu showed me where Mannheim is on a map. I felt much more capable on this train.



After that, there was lots of sleeping akwardly for hour stints until my neck said NO. I meet a nice Texan who who traded playing cards -- since his had Texas flags -- with the most adorable French kids imaginable. They were brother and sister, going somewhere exciting. I wanted to go too.

I of course tell my fellow Texan of my origin, and we have a perfectly Southern conversation where I tell him about my heritage, upbringing, and what I plan to do with it in the span of 6.23 minutes. The generic display of pedigree, so to speak.

I stumble into Paris at 1:00 pm, tearing up as I get body slammed by gratitude at being able to speak the language, and happiness at my return. It was glorious.

On the way to the RER B, I bought some shoes. Then I found five Euros.