I made it to Dublin by the early afternoon. I had a wee bit of trouble renting a car; it turns out they do not accept photo copies of your driver's license, even if it expired while you were abroad and the new one was stuck in America. Put on my most winning smile and ended up with an ugly little Toyota or Nissan. I assured the nice man behind the counter I was quite adept at driving a stick shift. I forgot about the whole "left side of the road" thing.
The stick shift on the left wasn't so bad. However, I was a little uncertain at first if the pedals were also backward. I was confident the brake was in the middle. I guessed wrong about the other two. Nothing quite like revving the engine right before pulling out of a rental agency to get their confidence in your abilities high.
Survived the roundabouts, the interstates, the sheep in the road, and my inclination to pull to the right on a narrow road. Crossing the border into Northern Ireland, I noted signs informing me that the speed limits were now in miles per hour. Too bad my speedometer only reported kilometers per hour. I guesstimated how fast I was going. I guesstimated poorly. I was either being passed or flying by other cars on a regular basis.
Otherwise uneventful drive to Northern Ireland, checked into B&B, showered, went into town for dinner. Met Larry, a dentist, at the pub. Drank and hashed out what was right and wrong with the world. I'm sure we came to some excellent conclusions, but I can't remember any of them.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
What's in a name?
I booked my flight to Ireland out of Frankfurt, Germany. S. was incredibly thoughtful, and booked me a flight from Nuremberg to Frankfurt. She said it would be easier to fly than to catch a train or for her to drive me.
I was looking over the tickets the night before and asked how to get from one Frankfurt terminal to the other. My Dublin flight left out of a Frankfurt 120 km south of the Frankfurt I was flying to from Nuremberg. I was unaware there are three Frankfurts in Germany, all with airports. Are you kidding me? Why on earth would you have three Frankfurts? When someone says they are flying out of Minneapolis, one assumes that it is the twin city, not a small northern suburb of Duluth. Why do they not post that in big flashing letters on websites?
S. was amazing - she scrambled and found me another flight from the second Frankfurt to Dublin. Crisis avoided. She took me to the airport the next morning, checked me in, and talked the attendant into checking my bags through to Dublin.
I had to recheck-in at Frankfurt because I was switching airlines and leaving the country. The new airline didn't open their ticket offices until two hours before boarding, so I waited. I checked in when they opened, but there was a small glitch. Even though I had a confirmation email with the ticket on it, they had no record in their system. I never wanted to speak German more. They told me I could buy another ticket if I wanted, but there was nothing they could do.
I used my last euros to call S. and then Expedia. Expedia told me there was no problem on their end and that the ticket was processed. They reissued me a ticket though in case it was a system glitch. I suspect they forgot to issue the ticket in the first place. Anyway, I went back to the counter in tears and they agreed to let me fly stand-by with my confirmation email. I also suspect they had found the ticket by this point and were covering up.
Still, I made the flight. Auf wiedersehen, Germany. I'll miss you and all your Frankfurters.
I was looking over the tickets the night before and asked how to get from one Frankfurt terminal to the other. My Dublin flight left out of a Frankfurt 120 km south of the Frankfurt I was flying to from Nuremberg. I was unaware there are three Frankfurts in Germany, all with airports. Are you kidding me? Why on earth would you have three Frankfurts? When someone says they are flying out of Minneapolis, one assumes that it is the twin city, not a small northern suburb of Duluth. Why do they not post that in big flashing letters on websites?
S. was amazing - she scrambled and found me another flight from the second Frankfurt to Dublin. Crisis avoided. She took me to the airport the next morning, checked me in, and talked the attendant into checking my bags through to Dublin.
I had to recheck-in at Frankfurt because I was switching airlines and leaving the country. The new airline didn't open their ticket offices until two hours before boarding, so I waited. I checked in when they opened, but there was a small glitch. Even though I had a confirmation email with the ticket on it, they had no record in their system. I never wanted to speak German more. They told me I could buy another ticket if I wanted, but there was nothing they could do.
I used my last euros to call S. and then Expedia. Expedia told me there was no problem on their end and that the ticket was processed. They reissued me a ticket though in case it was a system glitch. I suspect they forgot to issue the ticket in the first place. Anyway, I went back to the counter in tears and they agreed to let me fly stand-by with my confirmation email. I also suspect they had found the ticket by this point and were covering up.
Still, I made the flight. Auf wiedersehen, Germany. I'll miss you and all your Frankfurters.
Yoga
The next day in Germany was fabulously relaxed. S. invited me to her yoga class. I have been doing yoga for about six years now, so I felt pretty confident that I wouldn't embarrass myself. Pride before a fall and all that.
Until this experience, I never realized how much yoga involves focusing on the directions from the instructor. She tells you when to breathe, where to focus your energy, how to balance your weight, and where your strength should be focused. She was a fantastic instructor - beautiful with a very smooth, soothing voice. Unfortunately for me, I still didn't speak German. I felt like such a novice. I had to look around to see where we were in the program. My sun salutations were off, I couldn't center myself, and my breathing exercises were crap. Completely humiliating.
S. made me an appointment with her stylist for later that afternoon. Eight weeks without a trim and my ends were looking a little rough. We stopped at a nursery first to pick up flowers for her garden. For some reason, I had this notion that Germany was cold like the upper Midwest. Nuremberg, however, is not. It has a very mild climate; they can even grow lemon trees and magnolias in the yards! I am so jealous. I miss warm climates. I have been trying (unsuccessfully) to grow a magnolia for the past four years. They have a variety that does better in cold climates, but I'm not interested in tiny pink flowers. I want the huge white blossoms and the dark glossy leaves. Someday. For now I comfort myself with jasmines and gardenias, much to DH's dismay.
We ran to the grocery store, grabbed goodies for a picnic lunch, and then picked up the girls from school. S.'s stylist was a doll. Thomas (or maybe Tomas) was a flamboyant artist with a closely shaven head and uber stylish glasses. His English was terrible but still far better than my German. I let him have free rein - always the best option when you can't tell someone what you want. Just go with it. Halfway through the cut, he started talking rapidly in German then disappeared around the corner. He came back wearing a wig that made him look far more emo and far less hipster. I want to import him to the States.
We went to dinner at an Italian place with a friend of S.'s that evening, an opera singer. She was also lovely. Really, I've been quite lucky in my travels to meet such fascinating, talented, friendly people.
Until this experience, I never realized how much yoga involves focusing on the directions from the instructor. She tells you when to breathe, where to focus your energy, how to balance your weight, and where your strength should be focused. She was a fantastic instructor - beautiful with a very smooth, soothing voice. Unfortunately for me, I still didn't speak German. I felt like such a novice. I had to look around to see where we were in the program. My sun salutations were off, I couldn't center myself, and my breathing exercises were crap. Completely humiliating.
S. made me an appointment with her stylist for later that afternoon. Eight weeks without a trim and my ends were looking a little rough. We stopped at a nursery first to pick up flowers for her garden. For some reason, I had this notion that Germany was cold like the upper Midwest. Nuremberg, however, is not. It has a very mild climate; they can even grow lemon trees and magnolias in the yards! I am so jealous. I miss warm climates. I have been trying (unsuccessfully) to grow a magnolia for the past four years. They have a variety that does better in cold climates, but I'm not interested in tiny pink flowers. I want the huge white blossoms and the dark glossy leaves. Someday. For now I comfort myself with jasmines and gardenias, much to DH's dismay.
We ran to the grocery store, grabbed goodies for a picnic lunch, and then picked up the girls from school. S.'s stylist was a doll. Thomas (or maybe Tomas) was a flamboyant artist with a closely shaven head and uber stylish glasses. His English was terrible but still far better than my German. I let him have free rein - always the best option when you can't tell someone what you want. Just go with it. Halfway through the cut, he started talking rapidly in German then disappeared around the corner. He came back wearing a wig that made him look far more emo and far less hipster. I want to import him to the States.
We went to dinner at an Italian place with a friend of S.'s that evening, an opera singer. She was also lovely. Really, I've been quite lucky in my travels to meet such fascinating, talented, friendly people.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Howdy Neighbor
Woke up at 6:00 this morning (hooray for sleeping in!) to take Pup outside. She did her business promptly, and we came back inside. I padded to the bathroom, and shed my pajama pants on the way in preparation for a nice hot shower.
So there I was at the sink. Barefoot. Tank top and panties. Glasses off - in their case in the bedroom. One contact in when pup starts whining. I close my contact-less eye and squint at her. She makes eye contact and then starts to pee. Crap!!!
I scoop her up and race down the stairs. Shove open the screen door, run outside, and dump her on the grass. She barks happily and finishes doing her thing. I praise her extravagantly, and we head back to the apartment.
It is at this point I note my next-door neighbor standing right outside his door. My male, very conservative, Muslim, interventional neurologist neighbor.
Pup runs to him and wags her tail. I walk by, head high, and say good morning.
We have to move.
So there I was at the sink. Barefoot. Tank top and panties. Glasses off - in their case in the bedroom. One contact in when pup starts whining. I close my contact-less eye and squint at her. She makes eye contact and then starts to pee. Crap!!!
I scoop her up and race down the stairs. Shove open the screen door, run outside, and dump her on the grass. She barks happily and finishes doing her thing. I praise her extravagantly, and we head back to the apartment.
It is at this point I note my next-door neighbor standing right outside his door. My male, very conservative, Muslim, interventional neurologist neighbor.
Pup runs to him and wags her tail. I walk by, head high, and say good morning.
We have to move.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Resilience
*as always, all names and identifying data have been changed to protect the privacy of my patients
Child psych is not the most uplifting of professions. The patients are heartbreaking -abused and abandoned five year olds, ten year olds contemplating suicide, seven year olds with post-traumatic stress disorder. The worst that humanity can do to itself is present in child psychiatry.
I had been warned about him in morning report. He had been in inpatient twice for suicide attempts. He had been kicked out of the halfway house for bad behavior and violence. He had failed residential treatment three times. He was in trouble with the law, with school, and with his doctors. No one would touch him. Dangerous. Gang-banger. Unreachable. Unsalvagable. This was his last chance.
DeShawn was a big guy, a boy trapped in a man's body. An African-American kid who walked with that arrogant swagger particular to those who have survived a rough neighborhood or a rough life. His cornrows braided tight against his skull, a clean white do-rag, an oversized sweatshirt, and baggy jeans gave him a "don't mess with me" air. He took a seat in the front of the room. The other teens eyed him cautiously. The interview began.
He was guarded at first. Slowly, he began to share his story.
"I got stuck in here after I tried to hang myself. Had the rope around my neck, felt it tight. Staff came in before I could get myself down. Then they were trippin' later, sayin' I was gonna drink the bathroom cleaner. I was just jokin' with my home-boy; he didn't think it was funny. Guess I ended up in there 'cause I was at the end. Death is just life man, just a phase, everyone dies, I was just choosin' my time. Felt bad though, real bad. Abandoning my sisters, good girls, can't protect 'em up here."
He told us he was from East St. Louis. Vastly different from St. Louis, Missouri, which he was quick to point out. He was raised by his mother.
"She done gave me up when I was eleven. Terminated all her rights. Didn't matter none to me. She lied. I was about ten when I found out my dad, Derrek, what did I used to call him... daddy. He wasn't my daddy. There was talk, and I heard. Then he'd raise his hand to me, knock me around some, I was like 'you ain't my daddy, why you layin' hands on me?'. So I left when I was ten, was at the courts, started kickin' it with this home-boy. He got me into some business. They were my family."
He went on to tell us that all of his friends had been murdered when he was ten. He had just left the house where the killings were to do a job. The rival gang set the house on fire after the shootings. He threw buckets of water on the fire waiting for firetrucks that never came.
"It was messed up. I lost my family again that night. I went a little wild. That's when she gave me up, my mom. Bounced around foster care awhile. Got in some trouble."
DeShawn went on to talk about his real father, an aberration in the scores of single fathers I had met. His mother lied to his father about his existence - told him that she had a daughter not a son. Swore he would never see his daughter. He had been searching for ten years for his child. He found him in foster care and then fought two states for three years to get custody of DeShawn.
"He's superman, the coolest man I ever met. He tells me to think before I act. Told me to hit Derrek where it hurt. I was gonna kill him. Make him pay for what he did. Then I got to thinkin' about what my dad said. I didn't want to go to penitentiary for him, and then my sisters, you know? Their older brother killed their dad? I can't do that to them. So I'm going to go to school, in the Air Force, gonna be in aeronautical engineering. I'll hit him there. He was wrong about me. I'm gonna be famous, be somebody. I've been working hard, you know? Following all the rules, 'cause I had to get home for my dad's birthday. I did it too. I don't want to disappoint him."
He wrapped up the interview shortly after that.
"I'm stronger now - in my head. I know we die; we all die. I ain't gonna die that way though; I ain't takin' it in my hands. I'm not religious or anything, don't make it to church most Sunday's. There's something though, some reason."
He paused. "I'm done now. Can we finish?"
He sat slumped in the chair across from the interviewer, his eyes downcast, the realization of how much he had shared becoming clear.
Connor, an artistic teen with a flair for the dramatic, spoke first.
"You're so optimistic. You had a terrible experience with your family, and yet you embraced your dad with open arms. You're looking to the future. I'm having some trouble with my family now, but hearing your story makes me want to work harder at getting through that. Thank you so much for sharing."
After a few more comments, the teens were invited to write a note to DeShawn if they desired about what his story had meant to them. Every single one stayed to write. DeShawn spent the next thirty minutes reading the notes, tears in his eyes. He told us that no one had ever asked him about his story. No one had ever listened to him except his dad. The exercise had brought him together with kids that in his mind were his complete opposite and allowed him to see how similar they actually were to him. It had given him support and acceptance for that brief period of time. He asked if he could take the notes home. I pictured him pulling them out and re-reading them when he was having a rough time.
Seeing this child society had labeled unsalvageable so vulnerable was one of the most touching experiences I have had. His story, one of death and rebirth, of a father searching for a lost son against all odds, struck me. It was symbolic to me of God searching for us, of our need to become dead to this world and reborn in Christ. His resilience, his optimism, his determination to succeed against all odds with the help of his loving father were inspiring.
DeShawn has a long way to go. I know the odds are against him, and I don't know how it will turn out for him. I do know that I am in his debt. He helped restore my faith when it was at a low. For that, I am grateful.
Child psych is not the most uplifting of professions. The patients are heartbreaking -abused and abandoned five year olds, ten year olds contemplating suicide, seven year olds with post-traumatic stress disorder. The worst that humanity can do to itself is present in child psychiatry.
I had been warned about him in morning report. He had been in inpatient twice for suicide attempts. He had been kicked out of the halfway house for bad behavior and violence. He had failed residential treatment three times. He was in trouble with the law, with school, and with his doctors. No one would touch him. Dangerous. Gang-banger. Unreachable. Unsalvagable. This was his last chance.
DeShawn was a big guy, a boy trapped in a man's body. An African-American kid who walked with that arrogant swagger particular to those who have survived a rough neighborhood or a rough life. His cornrows braided tight against his skull, a clean white do-rag, an oversized sweatshirt, and baggy jeans gave him a "don't mess with me" air. He took a seat in the front of the room. The other teens eyed him cautiously. The interview began.
He was guarded at first. Slowly, he began to share his story.
"I got stuck in here after I tried to hang myself. Had the rope around my neck, felt it tight. Staff came in before I could get myself down. Then they were trippin' later, sayin' I was gonna drink the bathroom cleaner. I was just jokin' with my home-boy; he didn't think it was funny. Guess I ended up in there 'cause I was at the end. Death is just life man, just a phase, everyone dies, I was just choosin' my time. Felt bad though, real bad. Abandoning my sisters, good girls, can't protect 'em up here."
He told us he was from East St. Louis. Vastly different from St. Louis, Missouri, which he was quick to point out. He was raised by his mother.
"She done gave me up when I was eleven. Terminated all her rights. Didn't matter none to me. She lied. I was about ten when I found out my dad, Derrek, what did I used to call him... daddy. He wasn't my daddy. There was talk, and I heard. Then he'd raise his hand to me, knock me around some, I was like 'you ain't my daddy, why you layin' hands on me?'. So I left when I was ten, was at the courts, started kickin' it with this home-boy. He got me into some business. They were my family."
He went on to tell us that all of his friends had been murdered when he was ten. He had just left the house where the killings were to do a job. The rival gang set the house on fire after the shootings. He threw buckets of water on the fire waiting for firetrucks that never came.
"It was messed up. I lost my family again that night. I went a little wild. That's when she gave me up, my mom. Bounced around foster care awhile. Got in some trouble."
DeShawn went on to talk about his real father, an aberration in the scores of single fathers I had met. His mother lied to his father about his existence - told him that she had a daughter not a son. Swore he would never see his daughter. He had been searching for ten years for his child. He found him in foster care and then fought two states for three years to get custody of DeShawn.
"He's superman, the coolest man I ever met. He tells me to think before I act. Told me to hit Derrek where it hurt. I was gonna kill him. Make him pay for what he did. Then I got to thinkin' about what my dad said. I didn't want to go to penitentiary for him, and then my sisters, you know? Their older brother killed their dad? I can't do that to them. So I'm going to go to school, in the Air Force, gonna be in aeronautical engineering. I'll hit him there. He was wrong about me. I'm gonna be famous, be somebody. I've been working hard, you know? Following all the rules, 'cause I had to get home for my dad's birthday. I did it too. I don't want to disappoint him."
He wrapped up the interview shortly after that.
"I'm stronger now - in my head. I know we die; we all die. I ain't gonna die that way though; I ain't takin' it in my hands. I'm not religious or anything, don't make it to church most Sunday's. There's something though, some reason."
He paused. "I'm done now. Can we finish?"
He sat slumped in the chair across from the interviewer, his eyes downcast, the realization of how much he had shared becoming clear.
Connor, an artistic teen with a flair for the dramatic, spoke first.
"You're so optimistic. You had a terrible experience with your family, and yet you embraced your dad with open arms. You're looking to the future. I'm having some trouble with my family now, but hearing your story makes me want to work harder at getting through that. Thank you so much for sharing."
After a few more comments, the teens were invited to write a note to DeShawn if they desired about what his story had meant to them. Every single one stayed to write. DeShawn spent the next thirty minutes reading the notes, tears in his eyes. He told us that no one had ever asked him about his story. No one had ever listened to him except his dad. The exercise had brought him together with kids that in his mind were his complete opposite and allowed him to see how similar they actually were to him. It had given him support and acceptance for that brief period of time. He asked if he could take the notes home. I pictured him pulling them out and re-reading them when he was having a rough time.
Seeing this child society had labeled unsalvageable so vulnerable was one of the most touching experiences I have had. His story, one of death and rebirth, of a father searching for a lost son against all odds, struck me. It was symbolic to me of God searching for us, of our need to become dead to this world and reborn in Christ. His resilience, his optimism, his determination to succeed against all odds with the help of his loving father were inspiring.
DeShawn has a long way to go. I know the odds are against him, and I don't know how it will turn out for him. I do know that I am in his debt. He helped restore my faith when it was at a low. For that, I am grateful.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Adventures in Puppydom
Our house became a little more crowded this week. No, I didn't buy more clothes (though that would also have been a lovely way to spend the weekend.) We have a new puppy ~ Artemis. Artemis was the Greek goddess of hunting. I'm beginning to think we should have called her Ate (ah-tay)- the goddess of mischief.
I have learned a very important lesson after five sleepless nights. I am not ready to have children.
Pup is a bit more than a handful. More like a ten gallon bucketful. Miller, my lab, was easier; he was dumb. I'm pretty sure pup has an IQ to rival most MENSA members. She has figured out how to open both of the childproof trash cans, can unravel a roll of toilet paper in the exact time it takes me to put in my contacts, and today discovered how to turn on the TV. The talking people scared her, so she immediately set to protecting us by barking her head off. She loves to steal my Coke but is less interested in DH's Mountain Dew. Good taste. She is now working on opening the fridge.
I give her three days.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Modern art and footwear
S. spoiled me terribly. My first night there she made an amazing pasta and incredible dessert. I hadn't eaten that well since I left the States. We stayed up way too late talking and drinking wine. It reminded me of when I stay with her sister. We do the same thing. I'm always tired the next day, but it's worth it.
She had parent-teacher conferences for her son V. the next day, so she arranged for me to tour a modern art exhibit with some friends of hers. The Neues Museum was wonderful - very sleek and minimalistic, and her friends were darling. The exhibit was Marcello Morandini, an immensely talented artist/architect/designer. The tour guide was very thorough; she talked for almost two hours.
Unfortunately, the tour was in German, and I tend to dislike modern art.
S. and V. picked me up from the museum, and we went for a walk in the old town. There's a fountain in the center, Schoner Brunnen, that has a lovely myth associated with it. The Glucksbringer (golden ring) set into the fence is supposed to grant your wishes or bring you love if you turn it 360 degrees. I'm always up for luck and love, so I gave it a spin. Based on the rest of my trip, I think I spun it the wrong direction.
We ate lunch at (I think) Zum Gulden Stern. They have the cutest little sausages with kraut. It's much like Prague in that you share a table with whomever is at the other end. V. had homework to finish, so S. called him a cab and sent him home after lunch. I thought this was fabulous. How fun to have your own driver! I would have pretended to be very famous and important.
S. and I continued the tour of the old town. As most all of you know, I have a distinct weakness for beautiful shoes (and clothes) that often outweighs the practicality issues I might face. I was wearing red crocodile skin open-toe heels. They are fabulous. They are not, however, all that appropriate for walking up a cobblestone path to an ancient castle as noted by the cute road worker as we passed by.
I did look cute though.
She had parent-teacher conferences for her son V. the next day, so she arranged for me to tour a modern art exhibit with some friends of hers. The Neues Museum was wonderful - very sleek and minimalistic, and her friends were darling. The exhibit was Marcello Morandini, an immensely talented artist/architect/designer. The tour guide was very thorough; she talked for almost two hours.
Unfortunately, the tour was in German, and I tend to dislike modern art.
S. and V. picked me up from the museum, and we went for a walk in the old town. There's a fountain in the center, Schoner Brunnen, that has a lovely myth associated with it. The Glucksbringer (golden ring) set into the fence is supposed to grant your wishes or bring you love if you turn it 360 degrees. I'm always up for luck and love, so I gave it a spin. Based on the rest of my trip, I think I spun it the wrong direction.
We ate lunch at (I think) Zum Gulden Stern. They have the cutest little sausages with kraut. It's much like Prague in that you share a table with whomever is at the other end. V. had homework to finish, so S. called him a cab and sent him home after lunch. I thought this was fabulous. How fun to have your own driver! I would have pretended to be very famous and important.
S. and I continued the tour of the old town. As most all of you know, I have a distinct weakness for beautiful shoes (and clothes) that often outweighs the practicality issues I might face. I was wearing red crocodile skin open-toe heels. They are fabulous. They are not, however, all that appropriate for walking up a cobblestone path to an ancient castle as noted by the cute road worker as we passed by.
I did look cute though.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Train stations
I am quite behind on my blogs, so forgive them for being out of order. The whole trip will make it up...eventually. Maybe.
Ah, Germany. The country of kraut, sausages, and beer. I never thought much about Germany before I went there on this trip. I now have fabulous memories of it.
I've a friend who lives in Nuremberg who graciously allowed me to stay with her for a few days before my partially ill-fated trip to Ireland. I dropped M. and DH off at the metro and headed to the train station in Prague. The train I was planning on taking left at one p.m. It was about nine a.m., so I thought I could buy my ticket, grab lunch with the sixty crowns I had left, and then catch the train. The ticket man had other ideas. He booked me on the morning departure, so I had just enough time to grab a Coke and jump on the train.
The trains are an interesting ordeal. Some of the seats are reserved. Some are first-come, first-serve. I have yet to figure out how one tells the difference. I chose poorly my first go around. I tucked my bags in the overhead compartment and settled in to listen to "Agreeing to Disagree". About twenty minutes later I was interrupted by a couple who had somehow magically reserved the seat I was occupying. I spent the next five minutes standing in limbo land between the train cars. Scary place, limbo. The old westerns had it wrong. It is not adventurous to jump over the speeding rails. It is idiotic.
Wandered down the aisle in the next car and found an open seat. Hooray! Border patrol came through and checked my passport, but didn't stamp it. I find this curious. I also did not get a stamp when I entered or left Czech. What if I was a spy or a fugitive? I could totally have hidden in Czech.
My Czech is bad. My German/Deutsch is non-existent. This did not stop me from trying. I made friends with the elderly German couple in my car despite the language barrier. Sign language and smiling covers all manner of sins. They took me under their wing and helped me with the transfer in Schwandorf. I'm sure that they announced the transfer, but announcements in German are not very helpful to me.
Arrived at the train station several hours early. No wifi. No cellphone. No Euros. Sigh. I found a bank of payphones with instructions - also in German. I really envied all of my multilingual friends at that moment. An hour or so later, I finally figured out how to work the phone and reached Shara. She picked me up at the train station and my German adventure began.
Ah, Germany. The country of kraut, sausages, and beer. I never thought much about Germany before I went there on this trip. I now have fabulous memories of it.
I've a friend who lives in Nuremberg who graciously allowed me to stay with her for a few days before my partially ill-fated trip to Ireland. I dropped M. and DH off at the metro and headed to the train station in Prague. The train I was planning on taking left at one p.m. It was about nine a.m., so I thought I could buy my ticket, grab lunch with the sixty crowns I had left, and then catch the train. The ticket man had other ideas. He booked me on the morning departure, so I had just enough time to grab a Coke and jump on the train.
The trains are an interesting ordeal. Some of the seats are reserved. Some are first-come, first-serve. I have yet to figure out how one tells the difference. I chose poorly my first go around. I tucked my bags in the overhead compartment and settled in to listen to "Agreeing to Disagree". About twenty minutes later I was interrupted by a couple who had somehow magically reserved the seat I was occupying. I spent the next five minutes standing in limbo land between the train cars. Scary place, limbo. The old westerns had it wrong. It is not adventurous to jump over the speeding rails. It is idiotic.
Wandered down the aisle in the next car and found an open seat. Hooray! Border patrol came through and checked my passport, but didn't stamp it. I find this curious. I also did not get a stamp when I entered or left Czech. What if I was a spy or a fugitive? I could totally have hidden in Czech.
My Czech is bad. My German/Deutsch is non-existent. This did not stop me from trying. I made friends with the elderly German couple in my car despite the language barrier. Sign language and smiling covers all manner of sins. They took me under their wing and helped me with the transfer in Schwandorf. I'm sure that they announced the transfer, but announcements in German are not very helpful to me.
Arrived at the train station several hours early. No wifi. No cellphone. No Euros. Sigh. I found a bank of payphones with instructions - also in German. I really envied all of my multilingual friends at that moment. An hour or so later, I finally figured out how to work the phone and reached Shara. She picked me up at the train station and my German adventure began.
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