Days One and Two

12 January 2011—Mainz, Hessen, Germany

 

When we landed in Frankfurt, the sun was only just beginning to rise.  Despite our long delay during departure, we were only five minutes behind the expected arrival.  I was shocked when the customs officer did not ask me a single question.  To be honest, I was kind of hoping for the opportunity to be slightly obnoxious.  Instead, he simply studied, stamped, and returned my passport in an eerie silence.  I suppose the name “Hoffman” alongside birth in Germany garners one a free pass.  Or they simply do not care as much as I had imagined. 

After a bit of aimless wandering, several failed attempts at attaining internet, one passport scare, and multiple mountings and dismountings of my pack (a serious feat at 58 pounds—I nearly topple over every time I hoist it onto my back), I finally settled into an little bistro.  After paying far more than desirable, I had internet, a croissant, nutella, and a delicious hot schokolade.

My circumstances upon arrival had been less than ideal.  I had about $60 in my bank account and $100 in cash.  Everything else was dependent on USPS, successful forgery by my mother, and a speedy transfer at the bank.  However, a bit of my luck changed when I found an email from Ingo, the son of my mother’s former landlord (and my former nanny) here in Germany.  I may not have had money, but at least I had a place to sleep.  Previously, I had seriously pondered living in the airport for a few days.

           

At the train station, I boarded the wrong train and ended up in Mainz instead of downtown Frankfurt.  A happy mistake, as I hoped to visit Mainz at some point anyways.  I shoved my pack into a locker and began exploring.  It was raining, but otherwise pleasant.  Mainz was freckled with bits of vibrant graffiti hidden in its crevices, which I found incredibly intriguing in contrast with the quaint architecture and age of the city.

It was not long until I found a used bookstore.  It was lovely.  The shelves were packed floor to ceiling with old German philosophy and literature texts.  Such bookstores are my greatest weakness in life.  I succumbed to my desire to indulge, but managed to indulge only moderately.  I purchased a copy of Goethe’s Faust and a book on Wittgenstein.  This was probably not the best idea for several reasons—I am carrying everything in a pack and books are heavy, I cannot read German well (yet), I’m broke—but I couldn’t resist.  Hopefully this will not become a habit.

I knew Mainz was on a river.  So my goal was to find it.  After a fair bit or wandering, intermittently entering shops to escape the rain, I stumbled upon the river.  It was flooded from the recent snows and rains.  The docks were partly submerged and a street sign protruded from the water’s surface.  The chill of the rain was beginning to seep into my bones.  While seeking suitable shelter, I grabbed a pretzel from a street vendor.  It seemed to be the cheapest food I could purchase.  Shortly after, I bought some gelato at a café.  I was shocked to find that neither the vendor nor the server at these locations spoke ample English.  In my previous travels it had seemed nearly everyone spoke enough English that I was spared embarrassment.  Alas, ordering consisted of severely butchered German accompanied by extravagant hand-gestures.  It seems you enjoy your gelato more when it is ordered in such a manner.

           
When I made it back to the train station, I still had plenty of time to waste.  I saw a ‘Hair Express’ with cuts for only 13 Euro.   It was cold outside, I had excess time, and I had intended to get a trim before leaving the states, so I walked into the salon.  No one spoke English except for one customer readying himself to leave.  Upon seeing the coinciding looks of confusion on the faces of myself and the two hairdressers, he proceeded to offer translation services.  He relayed that I wanted “a trim to keep my hair healthy” and the women nodded, shuffled me toward the sink, and the man left.  Intelligible communication ceased and my hair had been surrendered to a women with whom I could not clarify my desires.  About a half hour later she was finished.  I looked normal.  Success.  

I finally boarded a train to Ingo’s around 18:00.  Exhausted, I would intermittently wake from sleep, frantically attempt to figure out where we were, hopelessly try to read the rail map, doze off again, and repeat.  Once in Offenbach, I exited the train and emerged in a city larger than I had expected.  After spinning in circles while attempting to orient myself, a stranger approached me.  I looked lost—and I was.  When I asked him for directions he replied that he was not a local, but promptly herded several others on the street and offered my inquiry.  They directed me toward a map that eased my confusion only slightly.  While assured the street did exist, I still had no idea how to find it.  My pack began weighing on me heavily when I finally stumbled upon my destination.

            
Ingo has a son, Jonah.  Jonah is five and does not speak English.  He talks to me incessantly and stares at me, waiting for a reply.  I often fail to offer one.  He must think I am terribly dumb.  We struck an understanding, however, once he exclaimed 'kitzeln mich.'  Tickle me, simple enough.  As long as I was chasing or tickling him, I really didn’t need to struggle to understand his German.  Problem solved.

           

13 January 2011—Offenbach, Hessen, Germany

 

I set out the day with one goal—to find tomato soup.  I was successful, and encountered these added perks along the way:

...I saw Snookie, but she had bleached blonde hair and was speaking German.  While the former would make her even more ‘Jersey Shore,’ the latter cancels it out.  Therefore, I argue that she is Snookie’s exact equivalent.

...I saw a cute hairdresser through a window.  I seriously considered getting my hair cut again.

...I discovered that large-breasted, hard-nipped mannequins are a universal.

...Oh… and brace yourself… I ate meat.